#interact please

Notes game because I need the motivation to get shit done

Rules go as follows,, if I get a certain amount of notes on this post I will do the goal at the number. Purple text means its done! Blue text means we have reached the goal but I havent been able to get it done yet (either due to school or not being home). Plain text means we havent reached the goal yet!! 10 notes - Update my phone 15 notes - Shower 20 notes - Deep clean my room at my dads house 25 notes - Work on requests in my inbox 30 notes - Finish my discord server 35 notes - Deep clean my room at my moms 40 notes - Rearrange my bookshelves + closet at my moms 45 notes - Do my backlogged schoolwork 50 notes - Digitalize the emotes I have sketched out 55 notes - Finish my Miu Iruma cosplay wig 60 notes - Teach myself how to make a new food Disclaimer : I do plan to do all of these things at some point,, I just need motivation to do them sooner before school starts back up and I no longer have the time to.

i wanna keep posting but i'm sadder than usual.. send good energy 🦋 if i can manage making my living space more livable i want to create more again

i'm gonna be a silly bug and add a desk/furniture fund to my throne? i would appreciate all the help i can get because rent and medical care are leaving me with nothing really left

i was hospitalized due to traveling by train with my weakened immune system.

anything still helps me get to appointments, get furniture to fit my needs, and maybe a car someday to actually use my disability parking... i would love to resume streaming too but i need life to resume first. working is very hard without resources to make my body work first... i hope i can get through to someone who can help... i may organize a drive if i have more energy soon <3

thank you for reading and interacting 💕

part 3 : cw torture

nikolai still sat on the edge of the iron cot, shackled to the wall by a short chain. in the center of the room stood vladimir makarov, and in his hands was a familiar leather briefcase. but from it, he drew not papers, but a tablet. he turned the screen toward nikolai. on it — satellite images, tunnel schematics, markings in cyrillic: "object 'storm', deposition coordinates."

"where are the originals?" makarov asked without preamble. his voice was quiet.

nikolai slowly raised his head.

"volodya," his voice was hoarse, but a mocking note rang in it. "lost your toys again? as i recall, in chechnya, some papers of yours also... vanished. half a platoon went down into that ravine because of your stupidity back then. and they never came back."

the henchman by the door took a step forward, but makarov barely raised his hand. his eyes narrowed.

"enough jokes, коля. this explosive isn't for the theater of war. it's for cities. for panic. you didn't just steal documents. you stole the keys to a new reality. give them back."

"for cities," nikolai nodded, pretending to understand. "so you've finally got insane. you used to at least hide behind the ghost of patriotism. now you're just a terrorist. and you want me to be your accomplice? over my dead body, you piece of shit."

the second henchman, a silent brute, couldn't take it. he moved toward nikolai, but makarov stopped him again. this time with a look. he stepped closer, looming over the seated man.

"you think your fucker will save you?" vladimir sneered with contemptuous derision.

the mention of john hit a nerve, but nikolai just smirked, looking makarov straight in the eyes.

"the captain is the last thing you'll see before your little world of shit and betrayal comes crashing down. and i'll enjoy watching it."

that was the last straw. the sarcasm, the absolute defiance, and that insane, arrogant hint that he had already lost — it all ripped the mask of cold control from makarov's face. his features contorted into a grimace of pure, uncontrollable rage.

"enough!" his shout echoed in the stone box. "strip him! to the post!"

they unhooked him from the cot, tore off the remnants of his shirt, and shackled his wrists to the iron rings driven into the concrete pillar. his back, covered in old scars, was now exposed. the henchman handed makarov not a rope whip, but something resembling several thin, flexible steel rods fused at the handle. their ends weren't wrapped; they were sharpened and slightly curved, like claws.

"you want to be a hero, like your western motherfuckers?" makarov spoke through clenched teeth, going mad with fury. "heroes endure. come on, show me how it's done."

the first blow landed with such force that nikolai didn't scream — the air was torn from his lungs with the sound of rending fabric. the pain was unlike anything. it wasn't burning; it was tearing, as if red-hot claws were digging deep into the muscles, hooking onto the very nerves. his whole body convulsed, and he hung from the chains.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?!" makarov roared, losing the last vestiges of self-control.

nikolai, choking on saliva and blood, exhaled:

"go fuck yourself."

the second blow. the third. they rained down without count, without rhythm, to the wild, hoarse cries of makarov himself. the metal whistled in the air and sank into the flesh with a wet, smacking sound. nick's back became a bloody pulp, but the pain had already crossed some threshold. it became universal, white, a roaring void in which only one thing existed: john. not as a prayer, but as an order. survive. because the captain always finds his own.

he didn't know when the blows stopped. he came to, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood and urine on the cold concrete. above him stood makarov, breathing heavily. the frenzy in his eyes had been replaced by icy, calculated cruelty.

"you're a tough one, kolya. but no one will ever know, because very soon you'll die here of hunger."

the door slammed shut. the light went out.

the darkness was absolute. at first, it was the pain that tormented him. every movement, every breath echoed in his torn back like a wave of fire. then thirst took over. it eclipsed everything. it became the thought, the sensation, the very existence. his tongue swelled, turning into a foreign, rough lump in his mouth. his throat burned.

hunger came later, a dull, heavy wave of weakness. his body began to consume itself. his consciousness would drift away into strange, vivid hallucinations, then return, crashing down with the full weight of reality: the cell, the stench, the agony.

on the second day, the fever began. the wound became inflamed. heat danced under his skin, cold seeped into his bones. he lay curled up, trying to preserve warmth, and whispered through cracked lips:

"john..."

it wasn't a plea. it was a reminder to himself. a statement of fact. price didn't abandon his own. price tracked his target to the end. if he knew nikolai was captured, he was already on his way. it was an axiom.

more art i’ve made that i want original too embarrassed to post