#i have late work to be doing but fuck that i wanna draw vore i’m so normal

[cyncerity]

Any AU

Someone- "Tubbo where's Tommy?"

Tubbo who making Tommy rest- "No idea :D"

Tommy who is resting peacefully- "Zzz"

-Plant

HI PLANT TY

man it’s been a while since i posted anything about the Sizeshifter Tommy au, but i checked and I have literally no other aus where Tubbo can nom Tommy cause this is the only one where he’s not a tiny. Wild. Anyway-

i almost never draw big prey for how much i like the overstuffed pred trope, so here’s some big prey Tommy cause he’s got a bad habit of shifting in his sleep lol

[wonderful-bellies]

Alright. Honestly hour time.

Warning for those that wanna avoid this sorta thing: This is gonna be a post about depression shit so if you can't handle that atm please keep scrolling. I'll be fine if you don't check in on me ❤️

I know I haven't been active as much lately. My posting has kinda staggered, my art even moreso. And firstly I wanna say I am not giving up. Never through any of this have I once thought about just quitting this blog and abandoning my art and this community cause it has brought me so much happiness and become a little home for me.

Secondly I wanna thank everyone for still sticking around, and welcome to those of you that just followed. I also apologize to you for the lack of content.

Everything really comes down to my life kinda changing and fucking up my depression addled brain immensely. I started this blog in highschool, I was welcomed into an amazing friendly talented community that I adored and I somehow started getting more followers abd attention for my art than I ever dreamed I'd have anytime soon. I was motivated as all hell, I had a stable life structure. Friends I saw nearly everyday, I knew to an extent what the future held. I was content to draw my heart out and go about life as I always had with a lil flash of happiness in the form of a dumb vore and gt blog I'd made on a whim. I even started an ask blog, it wasn't even supposed to be an aso blog. It was supposed to be a seperate blog for same size bellies that just turned into an ask blog. Unfortunately, I haven't posted there in a long time. But I adored every second of it and I hope to one day resurrect it too.

And then highschool neared its end. I was nervous but confident, I had gone through highlschool with depression and anxiety and adhd and I'd convinced myself that once I got into college, everything would be great. I'd be studying on my own terms about topics I loved. But as it turns out, college wasn't exactly like that. I got lonely, I struggled to make friends. My first roommate hated me. I didn't know anyone there, I spent every night falling asleep jext to someone who got pissed at me for stsying in the bathroom to cry for too long. This is when productivity on the blog started to get a liiittle bit wobbly.

After some time I just couldn't take it and I begged to come home. I left that school and enrolled in a local community college while living at home. I found the classes there to be more challenging for me. I failed in more than one course, got bad grades in an art class for the first time in my life. I was costing my family money and I still couldn't seem to make friends. After a long time of trying and just not working, I was put on academic probation. And I made a decision to not come back. This is where my productivity and mental health and the blog itself flopped I think.

I started living at home, simply going about life every day getting up, playing some games, talking to some friends online, and that's about it. I tried to force myself to get a job, a driver's license, an internship, anything to make up for my lack of productivity. But a horrible combination of unpreparedness, depression, and major anxiety made doing those things impossible. I had a job briefly, one that I wasn't told was a holiday job only and I was let go without being told. Simply never scheduled again. It made my anxiety on the matter worse. And on top of it all, it turned out that a stable life structure was a major motivator for my art. I doodled a TON at school. Daydreamed and came up with ideas, had my mind going. It's why I did so much on my blog at that time. But now, with a lack of structure for going on 3 years now, I seem to have lost a lot of that drive. I still love art, I still wouldn't dream of giving it up. But it's so difficult for me to get myself to do it anymore. I've fallen deeper into depression, I've slowly been losing contact with my in person friends, I've started comparing myself harshly and getting pissed at myself for wasting my life and doing nothing. I try to do commissions A: for money and B: because it makes me feel like I'm trying, like I'm worth something. But even that now has come with its issues. I'm finding my lack of motivation is making getting commissions done very difficult for me lately. And in my mind I'm constantly hearing my own voice screaming at me to get shit done. Cause people have been waiting. They're still waiting. They've been waiting longer than anyone should have to wait for art. Especially art like mine.

And with the lack of motivation, comes a lack of practice. And I start to get more pissed at myself. I haven't been happy or prpud of my own art in a long time. And I've started comparing myaelf ruthlessly. I've gotten so bad that sometimes, even thinking about the concept of other artists makes me feel worthless. I can barely look at a piece of someone's art without twisting it to make me feel like I'm not good at art. And it isn't fair to the artists. Because they've done nothing to deserve that form if thinking. I've started avoiding looking at other's art because of it. Because I just don't want to feel bad about myself. And tgat just sends me into fits of guilt. I should be proud of them, I should take their wonderful skill as motivation for myself as well as celebrate their accomplishments. But I can't stop analyzing and hating myself. That's why I haven't been reblogging much, why I'm not online often. And it's bullshit and I'm so very sorry.

Overall, I'm just in a terrible spot in life right now. I don't know how I'm gonna get out of it, if I even ever will, where my life will go from there. I'm tired of feeling this way, I miss my life in highschool so very much. and I'm so sorry my friends. You've all been so supportive and believing and kind and encouraging. And every day that passes I can't help but feel like I've failed you. Every single person I've talked to on this blog or haven't, every other artist in the community, every person I've promised a commission or request or art trade to and still haven't delivered. I'm sorry. I'm trying so hard to find that spark of happiness again, I've taken the steps. But I'm not sure if I'll find it, and if I do it probably won't be anytime soon. I'm sorry. I hope you all know how very much I love you. And thank you for veing here with me.

[bemorechillifries]

dreams

Fire.

He wonders if everyone will make it out safely.

Well, other than him, he supposes. He'll burn to ash and even his soul won't make it out okay, not after everything he's done, and then he'll never stop burning and burning and burning andburningandburningandburningandburningand--

Rich's eyes snap open, jolting upright and kicking himself free of the sheets, a scream perched on the edge of his lips. Awake, he's awake, he supposes, but if he's awake then why can he still feel flames licking scalding tongues across his skin, why can he taste the smoke clogging his lungs, why can he still smell himself burning, why is he still burningburningburning--

Cold.

Cold water against hot, clammy skin. Shower. He's in the shower, icy water making the tile slick under his hands. How did he get here? He doesn't remember anything, only fire.

He doesn't move, doesn't do any of the normal shower procedures. He just stands there, staring blankly down at the faucet, letting the freezing water soothe his skin while the sound soothes his mind. He pretends it's rain, his own personal thunderstorm to settle his thoughts, put out the fire in his head.

He chuckles bitterly under his breath. He may be out of the fire, but the fire's sure as fuck not out of him. It's trapped beneath his skin, smoke stuck in the slight rasp of his voice.

When he finally starts to register how fucking cold the water actually is, he shuts it off, drying himself quickly so he can sprint back to bed in his boxers. He's not settled enough to actually go back to sleep yet, so he just tucks himself in and picks up his phone to scroll through Instagram.

420 gay: 1 missed call (23 minutes ago)

The part of his brain that equates late night phone calls to emergency has him dialling back before he really realizes it. But then again, this is Michael, who usually sends memes to the chat at 3 in the morning, Michael whose sleep schedule can only be considered that by the vaguest definition. Michael picks up on the third ring, a conversation already sliding from his lips before he even takes his finger off the answer button.

"--ey, you are awake! Dude, I just saw this thing and I figured you'd wanna hear about it, 'cause you like, like, true crime stuff, right?"

"Are you saying you called me at 2:04 AM to tell me about an unsolved murder case?" Rich raises an eyebrow, even though Michael won't be able to see it, amusement lacing his voice.

"Yes. Although I actually called you at like...1 something. 1:40? I dunno. A while ago."

"Michael."

"Richard."

"I'm pretty sure you're my soulmate."

Michael laughs. "Because I'm about to tell you about an unsolved murder case from 50 years ago?"

"Absolutely. But if you don't hurry up and tell me about the case, I'll have to take that back. You'll be downgraded to Regular Friend again."

Michael gasps dramatically. "Fine, fine! Okay, so. There's this guy, right?"

"Let me guess. He gets murdered."

"Are you gonna let me tell you or are you gonna interrupt every two seconds?"

"Depends on how interesting this case is." Of course, he thinks everything that comes out of Michael's mouth is interesting, but whatever.

Michael scoffs. "Why would I call you at 2 AM if it wasn't interesting?"

"Because you wanted to hear my voi-- I can hear you rolling your eyes already, at least let me finish the sentence!"

"Shut up and let me tell you about the case!" They're both laughing quietly at this point.

Michael continues excitedy telling him about the case. Rich listens with the same amount of enthusiasm. The case really is interesting, but he still interrupts every so often with his own little comments. He wouldn't be Richard Goranski if he didn't. He forgets about smoke covered dreams and fire eating him alive. His thoughts are red and warm and no longer scalding, consuming him.

Eventually they fall into comfortable silence. His eyelids start to grow heavy again and he nestles more deeply into his pillows.

"D'you have, like," he interrupts himself with a yawn, "some kinda sensor or something?"

"Huh?" Michael sounds sleepier himself. Or maybe he's just confused. Rich can't tell. Brain's not on.

"Y'know, like -- like some kinda sixth sense or something? For when I'm not doin' so hot?" Hehe. Hot. Fire. Burning. Hot. He was hilarious and he didn't even have to try.

"What?" Now Michael definitely sounds confused. Rich can hear the little crease forming between his eyebrows as they draw together in his "I am confusion" face.

"'Cause you always seem to find me when I'm havin' a shit time. Can't think how else you'd do it," Rich mumbles. He isn't even sure if Michael can hear him, much less understand what he's going on about. He himself isn't even sure what he's saying anymore.

"I do?" Michael sounds surprised, maybe a little amused at Rich's late night (early morning?) ramblings. "Is that-- does it-- Huh. I didn't know." A pause. "...Are you okay?"

"Mm? Yeah, I'm good, dude." Rich shaked himself awake, rubbing his eyes. "Just kinda...like I'm gonna fall asleep soon. What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, are you okay?"

Michael chuckles softly into the receiver. "Yeah, I'm fine. Less high, more tired." He pauses again. He's doing that a lot, Rich thinks. He only does that when he has something he wants to say but isn't really sure how to say it, or even if he should. "...I was asking because, you know, you said I always find you when you're having a shit time and, like. That implies that you were having a shit time earlier? But you said you're good now so I guess it doesn't matter now, right? Oh God, I mean, not that it doesn't matter but just--"

Ah. There it is.

"Whoa, Mikey, breathe." Rich figures it's okay to cut him off this time. "I just had a nightmare earlier is all. PTSD bullshit or somethin'. Fire and all that. And I was too worked up to even try sleeping after." He picks at a loose thread on his pillowcase, focusing on that instead of wondering what Michael's expression might be, or if he's saying too much. "But talking about a bloody hotel murder from the 50s really calmed me the fuck down."

Humor and swearing. The best defense mechanisms.

Michael snorts at that, but Rich feels the weird, heavy atmosphere lift. "I mean. Who wouldn't calm down after that?"

"That's what I'm saying!"

There's another pause before Michael takes a breath and says, "Just call me next time, okay? I mean, I'm always up anyway, so, like. Might as well, y'know?"

"'S long as you tell me about another murder," Rich mumbles, stretching and rolling onto his side.

"You still sound like you're about to fall asleep." Michael is smirking. Rich can tell.

"Nahhhh."

"Dude, go to bed. Only I am allowed to be up at ungodly hours of the night."

"Okay, Daddy. Goodnight."

Michael makes a gagging noise. "Gross."

"Don't kinkshame me! I don't kinkshame you for your vore shit!"

"You're right. We must band together against the true evil. Jeremy and his fursuit."

Rich cackles unattractively, Michael's laugh mixing in to create the best melody Rich has ever heard.

Okay, damn, that was cheesy, Goranski. Wow.

Rich is asleep before the call ended screen fades away. He dreams of gentle fingers against rough scars, of guiding a hand slowly to his cheek and chocolate eyes widening under thick lashes and even thicker lens, red cheeks and red hoodies and red slushies. He still wakes up burning, but this one whispers love instead of war.