what do you think about John Price x bratty/tsunderish Reader?
Price....loves a bratty partner!? Especially in overall dynamics way, he likes it when you have personality and kick, can often be found observing your bratty moments like (ăïżŁăŒïżŁă)
For example, you decide to be cheeky and deliberately eat the food off his plate when your own dinner is right there? Price gets this smug, satisfied look on his face before he even does anything, waiting for you to dig your hole deeper in amusement.
"That's my plate, love. Don't you have your own?" He prompts gently, like a big hand correcting a kitten from stumbling outside of the den. Testing to see just how bad you want to be today.
"Mmm. Nah. Yours is better." You make a show of taking another slice of his steak, offering a pretty smile while you do it.
price crosses his arms, raises his brows at you pointedly "you want to play this game tonight?"
He waits, watches the slow build of anxiety then regret on your face. That sudden, subtle change from bratting to attempting to please is what really gets him. How you'll submit to him at the end of the day, not by force but by choice. wanting to.
Of course, he still has you kneeling on rice while he feeds you your actual dinner, but the mental submission is so much more gratifying than the physical.
simon riley's scars are his biggest insecurity. from the way they look to the way they feel, simon doesn't like them one bite. he hates the excuses of 'they tell a story' because he doesn't want to remember his story. he doesn't want to remember the life he had before you.
you are simons treasure, and he means it when he says it. letting you see his scars was the most terrifying thing he ever had to face. it was scarier than the bombs he had to go through, scarier than anything.
from the moment you see his face to the moment he shows you the rest of his body, you are the post patient and loving person he has ever met. the way you hold him and caress his skin as he explains each one has his heart racing.
you're the most gentle with him and to that he's grateful. no more fear or insecurity because of the marks on his skin, just pure love and a permanent smile when you're around.
Simon runs a strict program
TW: themes of Controlling, toxic behaviours
mdni.
It was Halloween, and you had somehow managed to convince your broody boyfriend to accompany you to a costume party. Simon absolutely detested the holiday, dismissing it as nothing more than another commercialised, childish excuse to spend money.
You, on the other hand, loved every single thing about itâespecially the chance to dress up.
Usually, you opted for something cute and simple, but this year you wanted to pull out all the stops for a proper couples' costume. Or, at least, as much of a costume as Simon would tolerate.
After days of excessive begging and relentless pestering, he finally relented. The compromise? A cowboy theme. For Simon, it required the absolute bare minimum: tossing a cowboy hat over his usual plain outfit, topped off with his classic skull mask.
By late evening, the anticipation was palpable. You had spent most of the day getting ready. Luckily, Simon possessed the patience of a saint when it came to you, willingly waiting hours whenever you wanted to meticulously perfect your look before leaving the house.
At the moment, he was sprawled across the couch, legs man-spread, the cowboy hat tilted slightly on his head as he half-watched whatever was playing on the TV. The faint click of your boots echoed down the hallway, signalling your arrival.
When you stepped into the sitting room, he casually turned his head, intending to give you a passing glance. Instead, his entire body went rigid. His eyes glued to you the second you walked in.
You didn't even notice the sudden intensity of his stare at first. You were too busy putting the final touches on your outfitâwhich, admittedly, was a very tiny, very revealing take on a cowgirl.
After a final, approving glance in the mirror, you stepped directly into the space between his open knees.
You had gone all out: a cropped, red-checkered shirt tied tightly at the front to expose your abdomen, a small diamond belly bar glittering under the living room lights, and a pair of denim shorts that barely covered the essentials. The look was pulled together by suede brown cowboy boots, your hair styled into two braided pigtails, and a dusty brown hat resting on your head. You knew you looked good.
Beaming down at him, you waited for the inevitable compliment. Instead, you were met with two dark brown eyes boring into you from behind the fabric of his skull mask, his expression entirely unamused.
ââŠWell? What do you think? Itâs cute, right?â you asked, spinning on your heel to give him the full effect.
Simon sat up slowly, reaching out to wrap his large hands around your thighs. He turned you around, scanning you from behind as if to confirm that the outfit was actually as small as he thought it was.
âYeah, cute. Go change.â He gave your thigh a light, dismissive pat before leaning back into the cushions, casually throwing an arm over the back of the couch.
You stood there, mouth slightly open in sheer disbelief. Refusing to back down, you firmly planted a hand on your hip. âAnd what if I don't want to?â
If he was going to be difficult, you were going to be bratty. It only felt fair.
Simon seemed silently amused by your sudden bravado, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make you think he was actually considering your defiance. He cocked his head to the side, giving your exposed skin one final, slow appraisal.
Then, he leaned forward. His hands gripped your hips, harshly yanking you forward against him. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as you stumbled into his chest. With his chin resting just below your abdomen, he tilted his head up, locking his dark, cold eyes onto yours.
âPrincess, I think we both know I wasnât asking,â he growled.
His voice was so low and deep that it vibrated right through your chest, sending a sudden shiver straight down your spine. He clearly wasn't in the mood to play games.
Your cheeks burned a crimson red. It was infuriatingly easy for him to put you in your placeâa part of you hated it, but another, deeper part craved it entirely.
Needless to say, the two of you arrived at the party exceptionally late. And you were wearing a completely different costume.
âtell âem no carnations at my funeral. fuckinâ hate those.â
you sigh, for what felt like the millionth time in past three days. âsimonââ
âand promise me youâll at least wait a couple of decades before finding someone else.â
âsimon, for the love of god, youâre not dying. just drink the damn soup.â
he scrunched his face as if he had been deeply wronged by you, but he drank the soup from the spoon you had held near his mouth anyway, moaning and groaning after the slightest movements. âyou did not answer me, lovie. how long would you wait before finding another man after i am gone?â
simon had caught common cold and it happened three days ago. he had come home after running some errands and later, the same evening, the nasal congestion happened, and then the sneezing. oh god, the sneezing. he drank hot tea and had slept on the couch that night so you wouldnât catch cold too. he said itâd go away soon, that it was nothing.
only, it didnât go away. next day, he came down with proper cold. tiredness, headache, sore throat, light fever, coughâall that stuff.
and if simon wasnât the most dramatic version of himself while he was sick. it was a new experience entirely, watching the big, serious guy act like spongebob once he got sick. simon hadnât fallen sick before. not that you had witnessed anytime he did. but now that he did, you were seeing a totally different side of him.
heâd been acting as if he had a terminal disease instead of common cold. it was adorable in a way, really.
âhmm, letâs see⊠perhaps a year, i think?â you say, trying to hold back a smile. if he was going to be dramatic, you were definitely going to play along. âappropriate mourning period.â
âa year?â
âi mean, i am quite young, no? canât give up on love this young,â you explain, holding another spoonful of the warm soup near his mouth, which he slurped gently. âa woman has needs, after all.â
simon looked at you for a few seconds as if you had betrayed him, and then he pulled up the covers a bit, trying to get inside those fully and lay back down on the bed. âiâll come back as a ghost to haunt that man.â
now that almost makes you huff out a soft laughter, but you control it. âtwo years is the max i can do, love,â you say, trying your best to sound earnest, though you were miserably failing trying to hold back a smile.
âi donât like the thought of dying anymore,â he replies finally, sounding as though he had uttered those words after a lot of thinking, and laid back down on the bed. there even was a soft, pout on his face, as if he was deep in thought. it was all so comical.
âthatâs what iâve been telling you for the past three daysâand no you canât go back to sleep just yet,â you reprimand him mildly, splacing the cup of soup back on the nightstand before pulling him back up using all your strength. âfinish the soup first, itâs warm, good for the throat. then you have take the meds.â
âbut lovieââ
âsimon.â you just had to act strict to get him to listen. after he had finished the soup and taken the medicine, you fluffed up his pillow and let him lay back down on the bed.
âsleep tight, love.â you press a kiss on his forehead, tucking the hair strands back so they donât fall on his eyes.
you were just about to leave the room before he spoke up, voice hoarse and raspy due to cold. âlovie âm fucked, noseâs so blocked⊠can you spoon me? need yer hugs and kisses...â
you smile warmly at his request. there was a high chance you would catch cold too, but fuck it. it was just a cold. you could recover from it in a week, max. after all, itâs not everyday you get to cuddle with a dramatic simon. âsure thing. but no more talks of dying, okay?â
âmhm.â simon nods obediently, shifting aside on the bed to make space for you. and when you settle down beside him, he rests his head on your chest, finally content.
suddenly, he raises his head up to look at you. âto be clear, you were jokinâ, right?â
Lieutenant!reader, who gets called in to help the 141 with an extremely taxing operation, after Laswell insisted that your set of skills will be extremely helpful for the following missions. Price accepted the temporary addition to his team immediatelyâan extra set of skillful hands was always needed.
Upon your arrival you greeted everyone accordingly, settling into the barracks. For the rest of your first day Soap kept attempting to get to know you, but hell you were even less talkative than Lt, just nodding along or dryly responding to his questions, your face emotionless for the entire duration of the small talk.
Then, Ghost mutters a single dry comment from the corner of the room and you smirkâfucking smirk, nearly chuckle too.
After that, Soap couldnât stop noticing the tension between you and his Lieutenant.
The lingering eye contact during briefings. The arguments that felt too personal. The way he would stand just a little too close beside you during training, gloved hand brushing your shoulder as he corrected your stance.
âYouâre overcompensating,â Ghost said one afternoon behind the shooting range.
âIâm adjusting for wind.â
âYouâre adjusting badly.â
You shot him a glare over your shoulder. âFunny coming from someone who missed center twice.â
Soap felt like he was interrupting something with the way the two of you stared each other down like the rest of the world had vanished.
Later that night, he cornered Ghost near the armory.
âWhat's going on between ya too?â
Ghost didnât even look up from cleaning his rifle. âNothing.â
Ghost reassembled the magazine with slow, deliberate movements. âYou imagininâ things.â
âIâm telling you, Lt, every time she walks into a room, you both look ready to either kill each other or tear each otherâs clothes off.â
That finally earned him a glare, âDrop it, Johnny.â
Soap did. Technically.
But over the next ten months, things only became more suspicious. Ghost always sat beside you during briefings. You always looked for him first after nasty fights out in the field during missions. Neither of you were affectionate, but somehow that made it worse. Every interaction carried this unbearable intensity, like a live grenade with the pin halfway pulled.
Then the operation ended with the enemy successfully neutralized.
The team crowded into a dim pub near base, Soap sat across from you and Ghost, still mentally trying to solve whatever strange thing existed between the two of you.
Thatâs when he noticed the silver ring on your finger, he could swear it wasn't there before.
He blinked. âYe married?â
You took a sip of your beer. âYeah, for a few years now."
Soap stared at you in disbelief. "Ten bloody months and ye never mentioned that?â
You only shrugged, amused, "I don't really talk about my personal life at work, MacTavish"
âWhatâs next?â he laughed, turning toward Ghost. âYou married too, Lt?â
âYeah,â Ghost answered calmly.
Soap barked out a laugh. âAye, right.â He took a sip from his whiskey, "Good one, Lt"
âHeâs not joking,â you said as a matter-of-factly.
Soap looked between the two of you slowly.
Everything clicked into place at once.
The staring. The arguments. The tension.
Soap rubbed his temples with one hand, speechless. âSteaming Jesus.â
Ghost leaned back in his chair, unfazed. âTook you long enough.â
The concept of Simon âGhostâ Riley taking the role of a protective, older boyfriend seriously is an absolute given. With his bloody military background, safeguarding what belongs to him isnât just a habitâitâs a genuine, feral instinct.
But with you, that instinct borders on the primal.
In his mind, when you love something, you claim it, you lock it down, and you do whatever it takes to keep it safe from a world he knows is inherently rotten. You are perfectly capable of looking after yourself, but there is an undeniable, intoxicating comfort in knowing a massive, dangerous man is always ready to step in and tear the world apart for you.
Anytime you are out in public, his hand is on you instantly. But Simon doesnât just hold your hand; he claims it, his heavy, scarred fingers locking around yours with a bruising firmness. He guides you wherever you are heading, acting like a human guard dog, his tight grip a physical leash tethering you to his side.
If you look up and question it, heâll just grunt that itâs âso you donât get lost.â
While that might be a fraction of the truth, itâs mostly because he physically needs you closeâa raw vulnerability his pride would never openly admit. He needs to feel the pulse in your wrist beneath his thumb to quiet the constant, defensive static in his head.
This behavior carries over effortlessly to restaurants, where he simply orders for both of you.
It isnât a lack of trust; rather, he has memorized your exact likes and dislikes by heart, logging them away like vital intel. Sometimes, youâll instinctually reach for a menu out of habit, but a heavy, gloved hand will immediately pin yours to the table.
A quiet, raspy, âGot it covered, love. Relax,â is all it takes to freeze you in your tracks.
You donât need to concern yourself with things so trivial as making choices.
Yielding to him satisfies that small, hyper-vigilant voice inside his head that stays permanently on the offense, even during a casual dinner date. You never really protest; he always gets it right, and it completely eliminates the exhausting pressure of your own indecisiveness.
But the leash tightens the moment you slip up.
You were out running a simple errand, so caught up in your tasks that you forgot to hit that unspoken mandatory text milestone. You got distracted, entirely unaware of the clock ticking away.
It was only when you were on the route home, behind the wheel, that you noticed the terrifying influx of missed calls and frantic texts lighting up your screen. You called him back immediately.
The tone of his voice through the speaker wasn't just angry; it was dangerously tight, vibrating with a dark, possessive panic. âYouâve been off the grid for three hours. Weâve talked about this.â
The second you cross the threshold of the house, Simon is on you. He doesn't greet you; he corners you, his massive frame blocking out the light as he checks you over for injuries.
His large, rough hands map every inch of your body under the guise of ensuring you're unharmed. He grips your hips, slides his palms up your ribs, and cups your face, his dark eyes boring into yours.
Itâs a tactile interrogationâa silent, heavy reminder that you belong entirely in his orbit, and that making him wait is a dangerous game.
His vigilance goes deeper than you even realize. Ghost secretly had his base engineers chip your phone to keep accurate, military-grade tabs on your location, whether heâs sitting in the living room or deployed halfway across the world.
Simon expects you to check in regularly, needing to see that little blinking dot that represents your life force.
As far as youâre aware, itâs just a standard âLife360â setup; he intentionally withheld the extensive scope of the tracker, knowing the sheer gravity of his obsession might frighten you away. He simply isnât a man who takes chances with his property. Ever.
Piece by piece, you have surrendered yourself to him, systematically erasing your own autonomy until turning to him for the smallest fraction of your life has become your only surviving instinct. How should you wear your hair? What should you wear? What should you eat? Should you dare step outside, or stay safely locked away where only he has the key? Simon doesn't just accept this submissionâhe demands it.
He silently, methodically breeds a toxic, inescapable dependency until neither of you can remember who you were before he owned you.
It creates a divide your friends can't bridge; they see Simon through a completely different lens than you do. To them, heâs nothing more than a cold, weaponized machineâa military robot stripped of human emotion. They donât see the fracturing beneath that harsh armour. They don't know the weight of a past no one else could comprehend.
You often wonder if it was that very brokenness that drew you to him in the first place, twisting his sharpest, most suffocating quirks into a fierce, obsessive love language only you know how to read.
Simon doesn't care for your friends either.
If there is one thing the man excels at, itâs reading a room and identifying threats, so itâs second nature for him to be utterly standoffish to anyone who dares enter your orbit. He glares down at outsiders with an intense, brutish stare that practically screams, âTake one step closer, and I'll bury you.â He systematically alienates them, narrowing your world until he is the only person left.
At the end of the day, his only goal is to ensure no one ever has the opportunity to hurt youâor take you from him.
This willing surrender of your control is exactly what his damaged soul needs. Every worst-case scenario playing out in his hyper-aware mind is instantly silenced the moment he is allowed to decide the outcome himself.
He wants to protect you, consume you, and govern you in every conceivable way. And under the heavy, protective weight of his shadow, you donât mind one bit.
He could never understand how you came into his lifeâso sweet, so pure, the complete opposite of everything he was. Damaged. Blackened beyond repair.
You were entirely delicate in his eyes, a fragile thing he held with aching reverence. He watched the way your pretty little head dreamed of brilliant thingsâdreams he could never allow himself to dare to have.
He loved the way your eyes sparkled like a thousand stars at everything and anything, bright with a genuine wonder, as if you were experiencing the world truly for the first time. But he would be lying if he didn't admit it terrified him, too.
What had he ever done to deserve such a pure, flawless thing?
All he wanted was to hold you in his arms forever, shielding you from the ugly reality of a world you didn't truly understandâa world he was all too familiar with.Â
He loved fiercely, sometimes a little too fiercely, his affection heavy and borderline suffocating. But you never pulled away. You knew he was just scared. You understood the panic driving his protective instincts, and so you humoured him, letting him guard you against the dark just to keep his mind quiet.
He would trace the curve of your jaw with a thumb that had known too many fights, his rough skin a stark contrast to yours.Â
Every time you leaned into his touch instead of flinching, something ached deep in his chest. He was a man made of sharp edges and bitter history, yet you treated him like a sanctuary.
When the shadows of his past pressed too close, and his grip around you tightened to the point of bruising, you wouldn't protest.Â
Instead, youâd simply weave your fingers through his, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles or the pulse point on his wrist. It was a silent reassurance. A reminder that you were still here, still safe, and entirely unbroken by his gravity.
He knew he was selfish for keeping you. A better man would have walked away to preserve your light. But as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet, grounding scent of you, he knew he was too far gone to be noble.Â
Let the world try to tear you away? he would burn it to ash before he let a single shadow touch you.
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an- let me know what you'd like to see more of my sugar plums đ đ open to all suggestions.
The bed still smells like himâthat comforting scent of linen mixed with the faint amber of his expensive cologne. The one you bought him for Christmas when he was last here. The scent fills your senses with a bitter nostalgia, only adding to the dissociation.
How long has it been? Days? Months? Noâyears?
The bed feels like the only safe place anymore. The place that still holds him, in your dreams at least. It's always the same loop: the two of you wrapped up in white sheets, laughing and talking about nothing important. Every detail is so vivid. His messy white hair, his crystal blue eyes, and the way his thick white lashes flutter every time he smiles adoringly down at you. You can feel the faint calluses of his large hand as he takes yours into his embrace. And the smell. That mix of linen and musk soothes every frayed nerve. There is no pain here. No emptiness. Heâs just here, the way he always used to be.
But it never lasts. Before you can reach out to hold onto the memory, his face distorts and dissolves, leaving you in the cold nothingness of reality.
You wake up.
All you can do is stare into the void. You hate this partâthe cruel, quiet reminder that youâre alone. You turn your head toward the nightstand.
4:00 AM, reads the little digital clock, dimly lighting the room.
A hollow sigh slips past your lips. Every night is the same. You wake up from the dream, pulled back to the real world, at exactly 4:00 AM.
It was in that moment that the air changed instantly. Your hands, balled up in anger, rained down heavily against his broad chest. They did little physical damage, but they carried the full weight of your fury.
âYou bastard! YouâHOW COULD YOU!â The words stung as they tore from your throat, almost choking you on their delivery.
He didnât speak. He only attempted to keep you pinned in his embrace, his large hands cradling your head and stroking your hair in a desperate, final effort to soothe the pain away.
You thrashed, using what little strength you could muster to free yourself. But what was the use? You could barely keep yourself steady. So many emotions coursed through your body that you were almost paralyzed on the spot.
âShhh,â he cooed into your ear, kissing the top of your head softly.
The struggle didnât last long; exhaustion quickly took over. And so, once again, you both stood in the cold darkness of your bedroom, frozen in an uncomfortable, heavy embrace.
Too tired to keep fighting, you simply sobbed into his chest. The sound was visceral. You hated how the one thing capable of bringing you comfort was also the source of your deepest pain. It was sickening.
After what felt like an eternity of standing there, he shifted. He guided you over and sat you on the edge of the bed with immense care, as if he were handling a precious, fracturing piece of glass.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, his head hanging low as his hands rested on your bare thighs. You stared past him, out the window to your left. The moon sure is pretty, you thought to yourself. It always seemed to be the only silent witness to these recurring tales of heartbreak.
Wasnât it fitting?
âBabyâŠâ A low voice pulled you from your thoughts. It was barely above a whisper.
Your eyes trailed down to your lap. He had rested his head against your thigh, looking up at you.
That look. Eyes soft and doe-like. That fucking look.
But something was different this time. A genuine sadness filled them now, red and puffyâlike he, too, had been crying. His strong hands held onto your legs as if they were the only anchor keeping him grounded to the moment.
He quickly looked away, perhaps realizing you could see the real him. He was never one to open up. No matter how close the bond between you grew, there was always a wall dividing the man he actually was from the one he put on display.
A heavy sigh escaped your lips. Instinctively, you reached out, running a hand through those soft locks you had once fallen so deeply in love with. The familiar texture brought a wave of nostalgia, and he instantly melted into your touch.
âWhy?â you asked, your voice cracking. âHow did it get to this point?â
He sat in silence, almost asking himself the same question. Because, as far as he was aware, you were the only woman he had ever dreamed of. He had fallen in love with your warm, soft personalityâthe way your smile instantly brightened a room, the way your loving eyes always bore into his own. All the little things he hoped his future children would one day possess.
âJust pleaseââ he choked out. âPlease donât go. Please donât leave me⊠please,â he managed to whisper through his tears.
You were genuinely shocked. You had never seen this side of him. In front of you, this once-apathetic guy who claimed to never care was gone, replaced by a scared, vulnerable boy. You knew you shouldnât listen. You knew it was only a matter of time before the cycle repeated itself. But your heart argued otherwise. Something felt different.
You both sat looking into each otherâs eyes, neither of you sure what the next move should be. Finally, you cupped his face in your hands, and like a magnetic pull, your lips crashed into his.
The kiss was hungry and desperate, entirely different from any kiss beforeâas if you were truly kissing for the very first time. He pulled himself upward, guiding you back until you were lying on your spine as he hovered above you, never once breaking the contact of your lips.
How you had craved the taste of him on your tongue. It was animalistic. His large hands roamed your body, tracing your shape as if they were memorizing every little detail.
Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his torso, pulling him deeper against you. A soft moan escaped your lips, which only encouraged him more as his tongue dominated yours.
When you finally pulled back to catch your breath, your faces remained mere centimeters apart, foreheads pressed together.
âWeâre doomed to stay together, my love,â you breathlessly let out.
He chuckled lightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath tickling your skin.
âAnd I promise that this will be the last time I cause you any pain,â he whispered, pressing gentle kisses into your heated skin. âIn this lifetime and the next, my love.â
He always knew how to work you. All it took was one look, and he had you as a puddle in his hands.
âBaby, Iâm sorry.â
âYou know I mean it, right?â
You knew better than to listen, but just like the time before this, and the time before that, and the time before thatâŠ
You sat on the couch, blankly staring at the clock on the adjacent wall. It read 3:40 AM.
Third time this week. What he was doingâor who he was doingâwere questions you had long since given up asking. You sat in the living room for what seemed like hours. No, days. Alone with your thoughts, prepping for the conversation you dreaded but knew was unavoidable. You had cried, but tears eventually dry up. Thatâs how grief works: you cry yourself into oblivion until you're nothing but a shell.
You looked back at the clock. 3:44 AM.
Taking a deep breath, you braced for the fallout encroaching upon you. As you stood up, you stumbled. A wine bottle tipped over, but thank God it was long empty; the plush cream rug beneath your feet didnât deserve to face the same reality you did, you thought to yourself.
Just as you walked toward the stairs, preparing to finally gather your things, what little of yourself remained, and leave for good, the tears found their way back. The time had come.
You stood in your shared bedroom, clothes littering the floor and the king-size bed. The tears were heavy now. Packing your bags, you couldnât help but notice how the space that was once filled with so much warmth and love now felt cold and strange. It was as if you had never really lived a life in this room at all.
A light tap on the doorframe pulled you from your thoughts. He stood leaning against it, the moonlight softly catching his silhouetteâjust enough for you to catch a glimpse of those eyes you had sworn never to look into again.
You both stood frozen, staring at each other, the silence cutting through the tense air. He eventually broke the standoff, shifting quietly toward you with a low sigh escaping his lips.
Almost on instinct, you turned your back to him, a final attempt to shore up the fragile walls you had struggled to build.
âBaby, please.â He reached out, a gentle hand moving to touch you.
But you flinched away.
Sobs filled the quiet room. Though you would never believe it, hearing your heart break in real time crushed what little of his soul he had left.
He pulled you into his chest anyway, wrapping you in those once-comforting arms. And, despite everything, you couldnât help but sink into his touch.
The familiar scent of him briefly soothed your sensesâbut it was immediately overwhelmed by a sickly, foreign sweetness that confirmed your worst fears. It made you sick to your stomach.
