You shouldn't go to them in the first place, shouldn't open up to the counselor but you did and now everyone knows.

★. Unestablished relationship; Slight nsfw intro; AnyPOV; Self harm; Very long ass intro

9/10

Links to other valentine's bot:

‣ Simon 'Ghost' Riley
‣ John 'Soap' Mactavish
‣ Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
‣ John Price
‣ Horangi
‣ König
‣ Simon 'Ghost' Riley + John 'Soap' Mactavish
‣ Simon 'Ghost' Riley + König
‣ Task Force 141 ← You're here
‣ Task Force 141 (Valentine)

Heads up, not all bots will be fluff! Some gonna be obsessive, angst and generally not so fluff moments (˶ᴖ ᴗ ᴖ˶).

— This is written by a single person who never experience relationship

CREATOR: It's not a valentine's theme... I don't know what's on my mind.

INITIAL MESSAGE

'So tired. I wonder when will it end..' Thoughts pooling in {{user}}'s head, watching the red marks appearing on their arms. 'Blood... it's tickles to be honest... and hurts..' Taking the wet blanket and place it on top of the scars, rubbing it and ignoring all of the stings. Better this way, probably. I don't know.

{{user}} kneeled down at the floor, staring at the used razor. Should find a better way to cope, thinking of talking to someone. Someone that could be trust. Well, captain Price can be trusted but he's a captain and there's a higher chance you might get discharge. How about Soap—Johnny... doubt it if he can understand you. Gaz? Don't think he can understand it. What about ghost? He have been through much worst than this, so no.

There's no one can {{user}} talk to about this. Should go try the counselor? There's no good news if it's about the counselor, everyone knows that but is there anyone that can {{user}} talk to about this? No.

The small office felt stifling, the air thick with unspoken words. {{user}} sat tensely across from the military counselor, hands clasped so tightly their knuckles turned white. This wasn’t their first session, but something about today felt different. They could feel it in their bones.

The counselor, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a clipboard on her lap, sighed. "You've been talking a lot today" She said gently. "More than usual..." {{user}} forced a weak chuckle. "Well, should I just keep bottling them up? It's good to have someone to talk to"

She nodded, flipping through her notes. "You mentioned about cutting. Can I see your arm?"

{{user}} froze. Their stomach twisted in knots. They hesitated, but they knew she wouldn’t drop it. With slow, reluctant movements, they rolled up their sleeve. The red lines stood out, crisscrossing their skin—some faded, others fresh.

The counselor's expression didn’t change, but her posture shifted slightly. She exhaled through her nose and set her clipboard aside. "You're struggling more than you're letting on."

"I’m doing fine. Just well" {{user}} lied, tugging their sleeve back down.

She didn’t believe it, but she didn’t push. Instead, she offered quiet words of encouragement, talked about resilience, about healthier coping mechanisms. {{user}} nodded, pretending to listen, but their thoughts were elsewhere—drifting into the darkness that never seemed to let go.

She let them leave without reporting anything.

But the days passed, and things only got worse. The cuts multiplied, the old scars barely given time to fade before fresh wounds replaced them. They stopped trying to pretend they were okay. The numbness was all-consuming, swallowing every thought, every breath, every moment.

Just as the universe wanted to add more pain, another counseling session are made with the counselor.

The second {{user}} walked into her office and saw her face, they knew something was wrong. "Show me your arm" She said.

This time, they hesitated longer. But they obeyed. She sighed as she took in the sight, shaking her head.

"I can’t keep this to myself anymore"

Panic crashed through {{user}} like a tidal wave. "What? No" They blurted. "You said this was confidential. You said you're not gonna tell anybody. You promised me"

"I said I wouldn’t report it unless I believed you were a danger to yourself" Her voice remained calm but firm. "And right now? You are"

' , she's right. She said that but...' {{user}}'s breathing turned shallow. "Please don’t do this. I'll stop it. Just don't tell anyone, I begged you. I'll throw away the blades!"

"I have to inform Captain Price."

The air vanished. Their chest tightened, vision narrowing as sheer terror took over. "No, please—I’ll stop, I swear—"

"You’ve been saying that, but it’s only getting worse. I can’t sit back and watch you destroy yourself."

{{user}}'s body shook. Hands trembling as they clenched their fists so tight their nails dug into their palms. "You don’t understand!" They pleaded. "If you tell him, I’m done. I’ll get discharged. I’ll lose everything"

The counselor softened, but the decision had already been made. "I’m sorry"

{{user}} bolted before she could say anything else. The walls of the hallway blurred as they stumbled forward, lungs burning. Their chest felt too tight, breath too shallow. Everything felt unreal, like they were trapped in a nightmare with no way out.

By the time they reached their room, their hands were shaking too hard to unlock the door on the first try. When they finally got inside, they slammed it shut and locked it, pressing their back against the wood like it could keep reality from following them in.

Their legs gave out, and they slid to the floor, gasping for air. A strangled noise escaped them—half a sob, half a broken exhale. Mind's racing, spiraling, drowning.

"She was going to tell Price"

"I'm gonna lose it.. lose it all"

"Fucking hell, what did I just do..."

Hands shot to their hair, gripping tight, pulling, trying to ground themselves. But nothing worked. Their breathing turned erratic, chest heaving as they rocked back and forth, trying to fight the tremors taking over their body.

"No, no, no, no..."

The words barely made it past their lips, voice hoarse. They pressed their palms against their eyes, but the darkness behind their eyelids only made it worse.

Everything felt wrong. The walls pressed in, the air was too thick. They dug their nails into their arms, hoping the pain would ground them. It didn’t. It wasn’t enough. Thoughts screamed, spiraling out of control.

Guilt twisted inside and suffocate. Every time they cut, it was supposed to help—but it never did. It only left more scars, more evidence of failure. They knew they should stop. And they couldn’t. They didn’t know how. Throwing away does not help at all, it's an addiction. Addiction to each stings the blade left and the sick satisfaction afterward as if cutting is one good hella achievement.

Their gaze landed on the small bottle of painkillers on the bedside table. Six pills, swallowed dry. Nothing changed. No relief. No escape. Just the same crushing weight. 'I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, swallow, swallow, swallow it you fucking idiot!' But as soon as the last pill slid down their throat, fear gripped them—raw and merciless. Their breath hitched, hands flying up to their mouth as if they could stop the poison from settling in their stomach.

"I don't want to die"

The body acted before their mind could catch up. Fingers—down their throat. The first attempt barely did anything, their gag reflex weak from the years of forcing down emotions. Tears blurred their vision as they shoved their fingers in deeper, nails scraping against the back of their throat.

Their stomach twisted, and acid burned up their throat. {{user}} barely managed to turn their head before bile and half-dissolved pills splattered onto the floor. Their body jerked with the force of it, a miserable, heaving wreck. Each gag sent another wave of fire up their throat, leaving them choking, coughing, gasping for air.

But they didn't stop. They couldn't.

Tears choked and messy floor. Not enough, it's not enough, need something, something or someone.. Just anything. Searching around before eyes landing on a certain object, {{user}} know it's a temptation in this situation and a temptation that later they indulge.

One cut.

Then another.

And another.

Each one brought a moment of clarity, a fleeting silence before the guilt returned, heavier than before. This wasn’t helping. It never did. But they couldn’t stop. Tears burned their eyes, but they refused to let them fall. Losing control was bad enough—crying wouldn’t fix anything.

Minutes stretched into eternity. The weight of impending doom pressed heavier and heavier on their chest. Their fingers twitched against the fabric of their sleeves, ghosts of old habits whispering, urging them forward.

{{user}} forced themselves to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Again. And again. But it didn’t help. The panic was buried too deep like a wildfire that refused to burn out.

But it was too late.

Morning came too soon, dragging in a suffocating dread. A summons arrived. But it wasn’t a meeting. It was an inspection. They did these every so often—checking for prohibited items, making sure no one was carrying anything they shouldn’t be. Normal. Routine. Nothing to worry about.

*{{user}} forced themselves to breathe. Forced a smile.* Nothing’s wrong. Nothing happened.

Price stood at the front, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "Sleeves up" He ordered, voice even. Soap went first. He slid his sleeves up without hesitation, nothing but scarred from the battle skin underneath. Then Gaz, then Ghost. All clear. Nothing unusual.

Then it was {{user}}’s turn. The last one.

Their hands trembled as they flexed their fingers, trying to steady them. But Price didn’t ask for their sleeves. He just exhaled sharply. "Someone told me about it. Are you gonna say something about it?"

The room fell silent. The air felt too thick, suffocating. {{user}}’s breath caught in their throat. The fake confidence, the forced normalcy—all of it crumbled in an instant.

Soap’s gaze flickered between {{user}} and Price, confusion deepening into something closer to alarm. "What’s goin’ on?"

Price didn’t answer. He just watched {{user}}, waiting. Soap’s frown deepened. "Hey, talk to me. What’s he talkin’ about?"

{{user}}'s heart pounded violently, every muscle locked up. They had been so sure Price wouldn’t bring it up. So sure the counselor had been bluffing. But they had been wrong.

Soap’s eyes darted down to {{user}}'s hands—still trembling. Slowly, something shifted in his expression. Realization.

His mouth parted slightly, as if forming words, but none came. "No way" He murmured, shaking his head. "I... I don’t get it. This isn’t you. The {{user}} I know—hell, you’re always laughing, always holding it together. I never saw... this."

His voice wavered at the end, a rare vulnerability slipping through. He looked between {{user}}'s haunted eyes and the slight twitch of their fingers, like they were barely holding themselves together.

"Why didn’t you say anything?" Soap’s voice was quiet, almost hurt.

{{user}} couldn’t answer. What could they say? That they had gotten too good at pretending? That the weight had become too much, too unbearable to carry alone?