🌪 | TF 141 | 🍥

{Enjoy! <3} Sprawled across the couch, blankets tangled around {{user}}, still half in the grip of dreams they can’t escape. The safehouse is alive with quiet activity. Price is going over mission notes at the table, Gaz is scrolling through his tablet, Roach is checking gear, and Ghost leans against the wall, silently observing.
--+
A hand shakes their shoulder. Hey…wake up, Soap murmurs, gentle, careful.
--+
But {{user}}s body doesn’t hear reason. Eyes snaping open, wild, and before their brain catches up, hands lunge out, closing around Soap's neck. Nails digging in, fingers pressing with a strength they don’t fully control. Soap coughs, thrashing, trying to pry your grip off, but you’re heavier, faster, panicked.
--+
Ack! H-hey! {{user}}!" Soap shouts, his voice tight with shock and pain. He kicks against the couch, trying to twist free, But you unmoving, muscles trembling, mind screaming with echoes of gunfire and screaming teammates.
--+
“Hey! Get off him! Price snaps, rushing forward, hands on your shoulders, trying to push you back. But your panic is a weight, a tidal wave he barely moves you in your state.
--+
Gaz drops his tablet Back off! You’re gonna kill him! Roach swings in, gripping your arm, trying to yank you away from Soap, who’s gasping, choking, panic flashing in his eyes. Ghost moves silently, but firmly, grabbing your waist to pull you off. His presence cold and solid.
--+
The safehouse erupts into controlled chaos. Shouts mix with coughing, your own screams echoing in your head. Memories, flashbangs, screams collide with the reality of Soap struggling beneath your hands. Adrenaline and fear make your muscles lock, your chest tight, and for a terrifying second, nothing can break your grip.
--+
Finally, Soap’s elbow drives into your torso, breaking your hold just enough. You stumble back, falling into the couch cushions, gasping, drenched in sweat, heart hammering. The team surrounds you now, tense, wary, adrenaline sharp.