You Won't Regret It - Tumblr Posts

STELLA ~!

little thunder lotus sunshine🌞

(i love spiritfarer pls go play this game + soundtrack is so good!)

hey hi emergency comms are still a thing for me sadly

need 558 before the 12th of april because that's when power gets shut off if we can't pay it before then, and if we can't pay the utilities we can't pay the rent

comms ref sheet is over here on toyhouse and over here on tumblr, writing commissions are also open with examples here, tentatively open for nsfw on writing commissions since I don't face burnout like I do with drawing nsfw. Same rules that apply to drawn commissions apply to writing commissions except for the nsfw ban

thinking a dollar per 100 words, so a 500 word thing would be 5 bucks

also have characters for sale still on my sales toyhouse over here. Pay what you want minimum 3 dollars

I accept paypal only

also maybe some rp icon border comms? $3 each?? examples below the cut

round 150 x 150

square 100 x 100

Hannibal cleared my skin, watered my crops, and paid off my debt.

my favorite thing about the sherlock aftermath is the fannibals sliding into the tag like “heyyyyy you want explicit queer couples, pretentiousness, crime-solving, with a dose of cannibalism? JOIN US.”

Hannibal cleared my skin, watered my crops, and paid off my debt.

my favorite thing about the sherlock aftermath is the fannibals sliding into the tag like “heyyyyy you want explicit queer couples, pretentiousness, crime-solving, with a dose of cannibalism? JOIN US.”

I highly suggest this series. It’s so incredibly well written and the dynamics are amazing. Tender and romantic with high stakes and drama.

In Limbo [Chapter 16]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

brick by brick

cw: mention of Simon's past (domestic violence, child abuse, attempted drowning), mention of Chip's discomfort with Marco

wc: 4.1k

“So… we talkin’ about Marco and Andrei or…?” 

Simon’s neck hurts. Painfully tense from spending the last handful of nights sleeping on the couch rather than in his bed. It’s a symptom of your skittish tendencies. You’re still keeping an awkward distance from him, which he knows he can’t entirely blame you for. It’s a lot to soak in. His job — the things he’s done. You’re still talkative — at least, not any less than usual — but you’re still hiding. Still making sense of this new mess you’ve found yourself in. So, he gives you the bed.

He rubs at the back of his neck with rigid fingers as he swivels in the computer chair next to Johnny. If he’s lucky, he can work the knots out before they root deep enough to form a migraine. Tight tendons pull at the base of his skull, and they don’t seem to want to relent. The dim incandescence of the security room helps stave off the beast, but the question posed to him only pokes the bear. 

“What’s there to talk about?” Simon’s playing dumb. Even the mere thought of Marco is enough to make his brain throb uncomfortably in his skull. He’d rather snuff this conversation out before it truly begins.

“Aye, I see,” Johnny hums. He eyes the handful of monitors in front of him before spinning around in his chair. “So we’re pretending I never saw anything on the cams?” 

“Would appreciate it,” Simon huffs. His hand falls away from his neck as he tilts his head to either side. There’s a sharp click that accompanies the movement, followed by a sigh. “Don’t need this getting out, yeah? I promised her that I’d keep it between us.” 

Johnny nods. “So, I suppose you wanna keep Price in the dark too?” 

The reply that burns the tip of Simon’s tongue hardly seems to come from a sound mind. Lie to John Price. The John Price. As if his family hasn’t been known for snuffing out undesirables for generations — for keeping the streets safe for those who would otherwise be crushed under steel toed boots. The same boot you’re currently pinned under. He thinks back to the other day and the tears that pooled in your eyes; the fracturing of your voice as you all but begged him not to tell John. 

Or worse; Row.

How did his allegiance switch so abruptly? So violently that an omission of truth suddenly becomes easy if he does it for you? 

“Don’t mention it to anyone. Price included,” Simon confirms. 

Johnny is a good man. An honest one. So much so that his discomfort manifests in the minute clenching of his jaw at the thought of telling such a lie. “Is she safe at least?” 

Safe. Simon thinks about it. You. Curled up in his bed wearing nothing but a plain t-shirt, burrowed beneath heaps of blankets. You’ve been sleeping non-stop lately, like you’ve got a deficit you’re attempting to catch up on. He lets you curl up like a cat and nap the days and nights away, because if you’re comfortable enough to sleep around him, then that must mean something. Something good. 

“She’s stayin’ with me,” Simon shares. “Probably will be for a while.” 

“Ah.” Johnny’s chair squeaks as he leans back. “So… you two official, then?” 

Simon pauses, head tilting to the side. “You’re a funny man.” 

A cheeky remark flits across Johnny’s tongue, but the words are lost on Simon’s ears. His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jeans, and his heart skips a beat. There’s no hesitation in retrieving his phone and allowing the screen to illuminate his face with a text message from you. 

i’m learning new tricks (: 

Your message is quickly followed by a picture. You’ve captured an image of the string you always play cat's cradle with, laid out flat on the coffee table in his living room. It’s in a design he doesn’t recognize. Form fuzzy without fingers holding it taut, but he’s still able to make out the lattice-like rectangle that swirls in the picture. 

it looks better when i’m actually holding it. fun to do!

Simon tries to hide his smile.

Looks great sweetheart.

A playful scoff pulls Simon’s attention away from his phone. He looks up just in time to catch the tail end of Johnny’s rolling eyes before he twists his chair back around to look at the monitors. 

“Aye, right. I’m the funny one,” he mutters, sarcasm dripping from his words. 

Another message from you has him ignoring the man. 

it’s called jacob’s ladder

Simon has to blink several times in order to clear his vision. He rereads your message, convinced he’s seeing it wrong, but nothing changes. Each word is still the same — all the way down to the name. 

Didn’t know they had string versions of that. 

It’s impossible to hide his mirth. That sly chuckle that seeps from his chest as he stares at the screen, waiting for your response. Simon is a simple man. He likes his jokes, no matter how debauched they are. 

i don’t get it

Somehow, he’s not surprised. His fingers hover over the screen as he contemplates his answer. 

I’ll tell you when you’re older. 

Muffled music swells to a crescendo, only to quickly diminish into a hush as the door opens and closes. John Price enters the room with broad shoulders swaying, but it’s impossible for him to hide his exhaustion. He’s jetlagged, and obviously so. Enervation gnaws at the heels of his feet as he strides into the room, bags pulling at his eyes. Still, he manages a smile as Johnny swivels around to greet the boss. 

“Evening boys.” Despite his weariness, his voice is as gruff and sonorous as usual. 

“Missed you, boss,” Johnny teases. “How was your holiday?” 

“Warm,” John chuckles. 

“Looks like you got a bit of color, too,” Simon notes. 

Laughing, John rubs the tip of his rosy nose. He pretends not to notice the slight peeling of his skin. “Like I said; warm. Warm, sunny, and a hell of a lot better than London in December.” 

For a short moment, his eyes flicker to the rows of monitors behind Johnny. Black and white footage of clubbers dancing illuminate the tight space of the room. The building is packed, almost alarmingly so. Full to the brim of tired uni students with nothing better to do over their break, they dance the night away as the New Year approaches.

“And you boys? Got some good R&R, I hope,” John asks, arms crossing over his chest. 

“Well, Lucy was stuck working again,” Johnny sighs. His fingers are buzzing; tapping his knees like he’d rather be clacking away at a keyboard than having this conversation. 

“Hospital hardly lets her catch a breather,” John notes. 

“Aye, but she likes it that way.”

“Course. And you, Simon?” 

His phone buzzes just as the attention is turned on him, but he doesn’t dare look down at his screen. Instead, he nods his head as he adjusts himself on the faux plastic leather seats of the office chair. 

“Yeah. Good. Manchester was cold as hell, but we survived,” he explains coolly. 

“Chip like it?” John continues.

“Her and Joey got along well,” Simon humors. 

“And your brother? Doing well?”

Simon nods. “Happiest I’ve ever seen ‘im.” 

This feels like an interrogation. An uncomfortable insight into his life that he usually doesn’t offer up willingly. For a moment, Simon’s guilty conscience gets the better of him. Has him feeling as thin as cellophane, and he nearly melts under the heat until he realizes John’s looking at him the same way he did all those years ago in that pool house. Hidden away in the locker room, offering him a job. Earnest and amicable.

This is the furthest thing from an interrogation. It’s rapport building. This is the man who has broken jaws to keep children safe and spilt blood over the smallest of cuts on women. John’s known you much longer than Simon has, and he’s simply checking in on the very man he helped save all those years ago. Muscles melting, Simon allows himself to take a proper breath. 

“Glad to hear he’s keepin’ clean,” John praises. “Either of you heard from Kyle?”

Johnny chuckles. “Nothin’ but moaning and groaning. Still hungover from mummy’s Christmas party. Fuckin’ lightweight.”

“I’d self medicate to get through that bureaucratic bullshit too,” Simon chuckles.

Halfway through his sentence, John’s phone begins to buzz. Loud; obnoxious; incessant — a phone call. His sigh is heavy and tense as he retrieves the item from his pocket. His thumb nearly goes to ignore the call until he reads the ID at the top of the screen. 

“Wife calling you home?” Johnny teases. 

“We’ll see,” he chuckles. 

His laughter dies in his throat the moment he answers the call and Row is sobbing on the other end. 

The world continues to rage around them as the room falls into silence. Row’s wailing cuts through the room; bounces off the walls like her voice is nothing more than a toy to be tossed around. Johnny and Simon share a look — wide eyes framed by furrowed brows — while John attempts to calm her. His head dips as his free hand rubs at the back of his neck; a stress response Simon has rarely seen in the man. 

There are a few words that cut through the static of the call, each of them framed by blood curdling cries:

John — please — I can’t do this — not again — I can’t.

There’s an attempt at diffusing the situation. Of gently cooing into the phone, of asking what’s wrong, but nothing calms her. It’s all tears and painful laments that he can’t seem to quell. John doesn’t bother to give either of the boys a second glance before he’s ducking back out the door. Music swells, then quickly dies. Neither of them speak. They just sit in their chairs with Row’s cries echoing in their minds. 

“The last time I heard her cry like that was when her ex-fiancé cheated on her,” Johnny mumbles to himself. He pauses as he looks at Simon; he’s still staring at the door. “Think everything’s alright?” 

“Yeah,” Simon responds after a pause. “If not, we’ll know soon.” 

His tone is even — strong and unwavering — but the truth is, Simon hates the sound of crying. It makes his teeth ache as if he’s scraped his fingernails on a chalkboard. He’s reminded of his mother. Even after all these years her screams haunt him as she braces for the unforgiving impact of a closed fist against her face. He sees her crumpled form on the kitchen floor. A trembling hand covering her eye. 

It reminds him of himself as a child. Pathetic pules and sputtering echoing off the bathroom walls as he begs and screams. High pitched and prepubescent. Water sloshing. Feet kicking. His father always hated the sound of him — every sniffle, every blubber, every cough — and he eventually grew to hate it too until even the sound of his own breathing infuriated him.

Worst of all, it reminds him of you. In the midst of your trashed apartment, hardly able to get a full breath in, tears streaming down your face — terrified. Prattling. Rambling. Hit with an unforgiving concoction of grief and fear; his stomach churns at the mere memory of you trembling against him. 

Pushing it out of his mind, Simon brings his attention back to his phone — back to you. Everything melts away — Row’s cries, the music pounding just beyond the door — and for a moment it’s just him and the notification flashing on his screen. 

i just googled it. the ribbon and woodblock toy, right? jacob’s ladder? i forgot those existed haha

It’s past three in the morning by the time he gets home. You’ve left the kitchen light on for him. He doesn’t know why, but that makes his heart wrench. 

You’re the first thing he checks on. He doesn’t even bother to take his shoes off at the door. The very moment the deadbolt latches behind him, he’s peeking into the bedroom through the gap in the door. Snug, you’re buried under his comforter, head hardly visible as you burrow your face into the pillow. For a moment, he stands there and watches you with nothing but a sliver of light seeping through the doorway to illuminate you. 

Safe. Comfortable. Sleeping. 

Retreating away from the door, Simon hides himself away in the living room. He’s forgotten to lay out clothes to change into, and he curses the idea of sleeping in his jeans as he sinks into the couch. The cushions are flattened. Morphed into the shape of his body after a near week of using it as a makeshift bed. A jolt of electricity shoots through his neck, like his body is already anticipating the ache.

He tosses his arm over the back of the couch as he mindlessly flips through programs on the television. Usually, he’s able to sleep without white noise, but these days it’s hard to get any rest at all. There’s money to save up, debts to pay. A sharp pang echoes throughout his knuckles. It throbs like a heart quivering with memory, and he attempts to quell it by flexing his fingers. It’s a symptom of a larger beast. Of something that demands blood — thirsty for penance.

An eye for an eye. 

He’s satiated this type of reprobate before, and he’ll do it again in due time.

Anything for you.

A nature documentary is Simon’s choice of white noise for the night. Auburn fur blurs on the screen as a red fox bounds along the environs of lush woodlands. Its thin snout pokes up in the air where a wet nose dances with short and sharp inhales. Simon smiles as the narrator — a man with an overly posh accent — drones on about the critter's life. 

As he goes to place the remote on the coffee table, he spots a piece of string. It’s tied in a circle, just about as long as his forearm. Worn fibers fray with years of use, yet it holds strong — well loved. Curious, he picks it up. He thinks about the pictures you sent him that evening. How proud you were of the new trick you learned. How your first instinct was to tell him about it. 

Careful fingers wrap the string around his own hands as he sets up a round of cat's cradle. It’s easy enough — a simple slip of his middle fingers — but he doesn't know how to continue. Hazy memories attempt to surface in his mind as he thinks of your hands. How your fingers moved and danced to manipulate the string so effortlessly. Practiced to the point you can do it without proper thought. 

He tries to move his thumbs. It’s what he recalls you doing, anyway. Weave them between thin lines of string until it feels firm and secure. 

When he drops his pinkies, he’s left with nothing but a knot. 

“Si?”

He doesn’t hear you approach. Doesn’t hear the squeak of the bedroom door or the creak of the floorboards — you appear like an angel swathed in the light of the TV. Freshly awoken and rubbing your eyes, he wants to lay you down. Needs to pull thick blankets over your body and let you get the rest you deserve. It’s an odd urge to feel; one he doesn’t quite understand. Instead, he pulls the string off of his fingers and places it back on the table where he found it. 

“Did I wake you?” he asks. 

Your prostration temporarily clouds your mind, forcing your brows to furrow at his question. He watches as you mull his words over in your mind, then shake your head. 

“No.” The fox on screen begins to cry out some melancholic tune neither of you can decipher, and still your eyes don’t leave Simon. In fact, you stare at him for so long he begins to question the state of your consciousness. “Will you come to bed with me?” 

Simon has to bite his tongue to keep his response from spewing out of his mouth too quickly. His hands reach for the remote where he kills power to the TV. A stillness stretches between the two of you — you swear you can hear him breathe. 

“‘Course.” 

Eager to get out of his jeans, Simon shucks them off in favor of sweatpants while you mindlessly climb back into bed. He’s hardly able to settle in next to you before you’re clamoring for him. Hands pawing at his chest as you nuzzle against his side — he would chuckle if it didn’t make his heart swell to the point of bursting. Arm wrapped around you, he holds you close as he drags the blankets up where he tucks them underneath your chin. 

As you mumble quiet goodnights to one another, and your body goes still, Simon can’t help but think he could die like this. With you in his arms. With you here at his house leaving lights on for him to come home to. Sending him texts while he’s at work. Pictures of things you’re proud of; of things that make you happy. Perhaps that’s what he’s been missing all these years. Someone to take care of. Or, maybe it’s just you. God, he could die like this—

—but really, he’d rather live like this. 

When morning dawns, and pale light seeps through the curtains, Simon is awoken by gentle fingers. Convinced he’s dreaming, he revels in the feeling. Nails carefully ghosting the line of stubble on his jaw, working up, up, up into his hair. Weaving between the short strands, rubbing into his scalp. He’s reminded of the way his mother used to wash him up as a child. Too scared to fit into the tub; leaning over the side instead as she rinses his hair clean of suds.

Refusing to stir, he lays there for a while longer. It would be a lie to say he hasn’t had an appetency for this; for you. Your warmth against his side and your head on his chest, just like things were back in Manchester. That strange longing still has a hold on him. This strange affliction that not even sleep can shake off. It haunts him. Curls up tight at the side of his feet and sits with him like a cat that’s suddenly decided that his body is its home now. 

“You’re awake,” you note. 

He allows his eyes to flutter open when you speak, and his chest expands with a tired sigh. “Am I?” 

Movement ceasing, your fingers leave his hair and Simon almost reaches for you to put them back. “Your heartbeat changed,” you explain. 

Even the mere mention of it has his heart racing. You’ve been listening to it for quite some time this morning, counting each slow and steady beat as it drums against your cheek. It quickened the moment you started to caress the side of his face, lulling him back into the waking world. For a moment, it made you feel powerful; being able to change the beating heart of another person. 

“What time is it?” Simon asks. You feel his legs shift, long limbs stretching the morning ache out. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Early.” 

“You’re not a very good watch,” he playfully grumbles. 

“Tick tock.” Things are quiet for a moment as you adjust yourself; head nuzzling further against his ribs as if you won’t be happy until you’re burrowed inside of his chest. “Were you playing with my string last night?” 

He’s glad you can’t see the odd smirk on his lips. “Was tryin’ to figure out how you play cat’s cradle by yourself.” 

You hum. “I meant what I said, you know. About teaching you.” 

Your words set off a reaction within him consisting of flexing arms and fluttering heart. He pulls you closer, and he swears his breathing nearly ceases when he feels you melt into him. 

“Think I’d just like to lay here for now, sweetheart.” 

So you do. Together. Bodies heavy on the mattress as it holds you in place, Simon’s warmth radiating into your bones until you’re sure you’ll dissolve. You stay there laying next to him until the sun’s light transforms from a pale yellow to a glorious gold. Manna hangs heavy in the air as Simon’s thumb begins to gently caress the side of your waist — absentmindedly and sweet. 

This quiet moment ends by the fault of your stomach. It churns and protests with a pathetic growl, and despite how muted it is, Simon still hears it. Staying as still as humanly possible, you pray he doesn’t mention it — that he can allow himself to rest for just a bit longer — but of course, he stirs. 

Simon cradles your head as he moves you to the side, torso leaving the bed as he sits up, and you whine. It’s an unfamiliar sound that leaves your lips; this pathetic whimpering. It’s enough to get him to pause for a moment, body twisting as he gives you his full attention. He rests your head down on the mattress, but he doesn’t retract his hand. 

“What?” he questions. 

There’s a tight pull at the corner of his lips, and you’re suddenly aware of just how close he is. Hovering over you, fingers pressed into the back of your skull, hips locked against yours. Staring up at him, your tongue goes dry as you try to think of a response. How are you supposed to tell him he’s the first comfort you’ve felt that didn’t suffocate you? That removing yourself from him is like tearing a bandaid from your skin — epidermis removing with it?

“Don’t go.” It’s hardly above a whisper. A susurrus that almost fails to drift through the air. 

He chuckles and it’s deep. His voice in the morning is always rough. “Gotta eat at some point today.” 

But he doesn’t move. 

Simon’s looking at you. Really looking at you. Not just into your eyes, but he’s soaking up the way the light filters through your eyelashes and the pressure indents on your cheek from sleeping. You find yourself doing the same thing. Tracing every single faded scar that decorates his face and the subtle curve of his nose. His lips press together just as his thumb brushes along the apple of your cheek. You’re frozen. Forever caught in this moment. 

“Gorgeous.” 

The word leaves Simon’s lips without permission, but he doesn’t retract it. Isn’t ashamed of it either. He refuses to play it off and be coy — he continues to caress your cheek, and you wonder if he can feel the heat brewing inside of you. Firing synapses, blood superheating to the point of sublimation — can he feel it? The way you crumble? How you melt beneath his touch? 

They say Rome was destroyed within a single day, but you know that’s not the case. Like all things, its destruction was systematic. Timed and viscerally demanded. Rome was destroyed the same way all things are — brick by brick. 

Simon takes you apart the same way with this kiss — brick by aching brick. His lips press against yours, setting you ablaze as if he’s lighting you for your immolation. Like he’s trying to burn you away until you’re nothing but ash and cinder. It’s heavy, but soft. A weight so unfamiliar yet it feels like home. It’s simple. Blithe. He neither gives nor takes with this kiss; he only speaks. 

You try to speak back as your lips perk against his, jaws gently moving in sync. It’s an insurmountable task. How are you supposed to pour out all the words you wish to speak into this single union? How can it be possible to convey to him that this is the first kiss that has not ripped you to shreds? How do you explain that you’re trembling out of ardor instead of fear? 

For once, love doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt, and it tastes like stale cigarettes. 

Simon’s shaped your lips into a smile by the time he pulls away. Still hovering over you, he brushes a kiss against your forehead. 

“Breakfast?” he asks, muttering the word into your skin. 

He kisses you, and instead of talking about money — like you’re so painfully used to — he speaks of food. Of sharing a quiet moment with you. You don’t know why, but you want to cry. The pressure builds behind your eyes, and instead of crying, you laugh.

For once, everything is quiet. There is nothing but Simon’s soft breath against your skin, and the pounding of your own heart. Your fingers do not twitch. They do not yearn for string. 

Only for him. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “Breakfast sounds good.”

follow @daughterofcore for notifs | early access found here

Chapter 9 of Dead Ringer is UP!

check it out here

or read from the beginning here

Look at this beautiful lot my wonderful and talented friend 💖 @miljamaison 💖 made for me! 

ANGEL HEIGHTS

Lot type: Apartment Lot size: 40 x 30 Floors: 2 Price for furnished lot: 306.918 § Price for unfurnished lot: 91.681 § Number of bedrooms: 2 Number of bathrooms: 5 Location: ‘Stargazer Lounge’ in the Uptown District, San Myshuno.

Requires The Sims 4 base game and the following game packs: Get Famous, Cats and Dogs, City Living, Get Together, Get to Work, Jungle Adventure, Parenthood, Dine Out, Spa Day, Laundry Day Stuff, Fitness Stuff, Vintage Glamour Stuff, Perfect Patio Stuff and Luxury Party Stuff.

- A custom lot for The Sims 4 by M I L J A | M A I S O N

I fell in love with the lovely @raufinarius ’ Rosa De Luca and decided to give her a modern home where she can enjoy her luxurious lifestyle. I had so much fun building it and I hope you all enjoy.

This modern and exquisite rooftop apartment reaches for the skies. Visitors best not suffer from vertigo. But then again, everything in this apartment is daunting to the eyes. You can only guess as to who owns this apartment but one thing is for certain, money must be plentiful.

The lot is furnished and move-in ready. I encourage you to change the paintings and the overall style of the home so it suits your household.

Need inspiration for the interior? See more images here.

DOWNLOAD: ❦  MediaFire (No AdFly)  ❦

Please read and respect my ‘Terms of Use’. The download link contains the tray files and most of the necessary custom content for the apartment to show up in-game as pictured. Some required and recommended custom content are listed below and are not included due to the individual creators’ ‘Terms of Use’. Clutter is not included due to most of the items are from various Patreon creators.

Required Custom Content (No AdFly): Floors Master Collection (you’ll need the: Marble Floor 2, Marble Floor 9, Modern Tiles 3, Modern Tiles 18, Modern Wood Floor and Praline Wood Floors 2) and Bricks 8 by Pralinesims. Marbella Teak Fireplace by PixelDreamworld. Laguna Tub by Severinka

Recommended Custom Content (No AdFly): Sheep Rug 10 and VEOX Rugs 9 by Pralinesims. Empire Bar, Smaller Sectional Table and Lux Radium Vertical Garden Planter by SIMcredibledesigns. Victoria Living Wallpanel by Buffsumm. Home Garden 2 Palm by Aifirsa. Table With Towel by Severinka.

Thank you Goddess, @sssvitlans <3

If you wish to support my work you can either Buy Me A Coffee or support me on Patreon. Thank you <3

I'M DOING COMISSIONS NOW!!!

Hey fellas who are gonna participate in Artfight, are you tired of prepping your ref sheets?

For $30 American Dollars I will make two fullbodies of your characters, on paper (sorry, I don't know how to draw digital yet), no background. If you throw in another $5 I will add their accessories and two extra headshots.

You provide me with art you already have of the character, or a very thorough description, and I draw their ref sheet for you.

I will draw anything so long as it abides to Art Fight rules.

3 SLOTS AVAILABLE!!!

Exemple below:

Regular men:

BTS: a whole FREAKING UNIVERSE!!!!!

forever our mikrokosmos~

Halsin listens to whatever the fantasy equivalent of dad rock is

mmmmmm I fuckinf lobe bread!