=)

Hi, I don’t usually do this (and tbh I never expected to share my other media here) but I’m currently in need of funds for my university fees and daily expenses (such as my buses, meals and overdue bills //looks up//). The reason why I haven’t been online as of late is actually due to getting busy with my studies so apologies!

It’d be an honour if any of you commissioned me and feel free to DM me for interest as well! You can find my commissions website with examples

Here!

Every second beat of Megalovania, by Toby Fox.

                 “IF YOU STUMBLE -                                                  MAKE IT PART OF THE DANCE!”

!!!

Cheeky scrambles backwards, all awkward, gangly limbs and sharp angles, gasping. Seems they had been lost in thought – or, at the very least, not expecting company. Their heart pounds in their chest, blood rushing in their ears as they draw their knife, holding it in front of them in trembling hands, blinded by adrenaline. 

They didn’t stay in their original timeline too often, and welcomed visitors to it even less. It was, after all, a world full of nothing but bad memories; a silent Underground with the faintest hint of dust on the breeze, so they only really found themself here when they wanted to feel closer to Frisk be alone.  * D-don’t come any closer, or I s-swear you’ll be sorry!

They say weakly, too startled to commit to raising their voice. It dips and peaks, as unsteady as it is unstable, a clear indication of their anxiety. The threat sounds empty as soon as it leaves their lips, and their elbows are bent so harshly that they’re almost pointing their weapon at themself. It’s obvious that they’re more afraid than murderous; it would seem they don’t do too well with surprises.

…Oh. So he must’ve still spooked them.

Jazz tilts his head to a side and feels his tail sag sadly. People being afraid of you is not the best thing to experience ten seconds after your arrival. Or, frankly speaking, it is not the best thing to experience at all. But it’s not about him, now. It’s about that tiny being with a knife in their hands and fear in their voice. He knows why they could be scared; he is mostly horns and claws and fangs and sharp edges no amount of clothing can mask. He is tall, too, even when sitted, and even his warmest smiles look dangerous.

So Jazz looks the small creature in the eyes and slowly sinks down, lying on his stomach. He fidgets for a moment, trying to get himself comfortable, rests his chin on his folded hands and stares up at his new acquaintance.

“THERE! SEE? I AM NOT GETTING CLOSER! SO THERE IS NO NEED FOR ME TO BE SORRY! THE ONLY THING I AM SORRY FOR IS STARTLING YOU. SO, SORRY! I DID NOT MEAN TO!” He idly scratches a horn and allows his mouth to widen a little in a smile once again. “NOW! I KNOW SHARP THINGS ARE DANGEROUS! YOU CAN HURT YOURSELF, AND THIS IS NOT GOOD. MAYBE YOU SHOULD PUT IT AWAY? OR AT LEAST DON’T POINT IT AT YOURSELF OR AT OTHER PEOPLE? NAMELY ME! PLEASE DON’T POINT SHARP OBJECTS AT ME THANKYOUVERYMUCH.”

He stretches completely, rolling to his side and watching the being - a child, he guesses - before him. His tail, tired of lack of movement, starts wagging again: a steady, confident thump-thump-thump. He is… a little too chill about the whole knife-being-pointed-at-him thing. Or maybe he can keep an incredible straight face.

Oh.

So this... thing. It’s a Papyrus, then.

The revelation is enough to make them feel a bit silly, although the adrenaline coursing through them is still enough to make their visible eye wide and movements jerky. They take a deep breath and hold it in, drawing away.

They don’t want to do something they’ll regret later.

Granted, they have good reason to be so jumpy. They’re used to their body being someone else’s of considerable stature, causing them to feel much more dangerous and powerful than they actually were. But now, for reasons they can’t quite recall ( and likely due to timeline shenanigans ) they’re themself again -- Chara, small, diminutive, weak, half-blind, and useless, useless, useless. The spell is broken, their bravado come and gone, the comfort of their larger-than-life persona that they’ve so carefully built forgotten assuming it even existed in the first place.

Sinking into the collar of their too-large sweater, they mumble something unintelligible even to themself as they try to hide in the soft green fabric. A luminous blush spreads across the bridge of their nose and they tuck their knife back into the waistline of their shorts carefully, deliberately.

* You. Um. Did not do anything wrong.

They watch his tail wag, brow furrowing. And then gently, gingerly, like a butterfly landing on someone’s outstreched fingers, they extend a hand that’s buried in an oversized sleeve, patting him once, twice on the skull.

Old habits die hard, they guess.

Seemingly realizing how awkward the motion is, they desperately try to recover by taking his bony... paw? Claw? Hand. Into their own.

* I... Am the one who is sorry. Jazz? Jazz. You have been nothing but kind and patient. You must think me to be. A terrible host. Having embarrassed myself so thoroughly. But. With that being said. Greetings. My name is Chara. But I have come to be known as Cheeky. Sometimes.

They shrug, the motion revealing how tiny their shoulders really are despite their fabric-clad camouflage.

* Welcome. I suppose. There is not. A lot to see here. Given that everyone who once lived here is --

They trail off, voice barely rising above a whisper. Everything about them is... quiet. Unassuming. As if their primary concern is taking up the least about of space possible. And now that they’re not in a blind panic, they seem to wish they could disappear. They attempt a watery smile, but it wavers despite their best efforts.

Glitchy gave up on wiping the bloody mess on the back of his pants, trying to ignore it instead. Didn’t help that the stranger brought attention to the mess surrounding the two once more.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever. Really, from personal experience, genecide timelines can be quite enjoyable. They are quite…quiet. Which is always nice.” Glitchy shrugged, pulling out a couple bars of chocolate, seemingly from thin air as they simply came from inside one of his sleeves. He offered on to Cheeky as a sort of test, you could say.

“The name’s Chara as you could probably guess, but I also go by Glitchy. As for my voice, I would honestly rather not do it. It may seem like a neat trick to you, but that’s only because you haven’t been in my state. No one has.” The child shrugged again, devouring the other bar in a few bites, wrapper and all. Should Cheeky take and attempt to bite into the other, however, it would simply seem to crumble into dust and vanish.

“So, buddy.” The boy did not hide the sheer amount of sarcasm in this way of addressing the other. “Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere else? Maybe all that’d still wash off. No bloodstain a hot bath in lava couldn’t fix. And your mug in particular looks like it could benefit from getting burned off. I bet it looks better underneath all that…whatever is making your face so ugly. And I don’t mean the blood. You already got most of that off.” He indulged in a loud mocking laugh at the other’s expense.

They frown childishly, almost pouting but not quite. Before they reply, they take the ( peace? ) offering. Sure, it could be poisoned or worse, but, well. Cold-blooded murder has a way of working up their appetite. Gingerly, they pick at the corner of the wrapper, raising the chocolate to their mouth in an attempt to take a bite. Because apparently this is an absurdist comedy, though, it crumbles to dust before they can taste its sweet, creamy goodness.

Life can be like that sometimes. They don’t break their stride, trying to play it cool and hide their disappointment.

* I totally. Knew it was going to do that.

They say unconvincingly. Their gaze sidelines as their eyebrows furrow together, showing their discomfort.

* Well. It is nice to meet you. Chara. Or. That is what I would say. If you did not seem determined to make me think the worst of you. Within the thirty or so seconds that this conversation has taken place over. Goodness. And here I was worried about my choice of activities ruining what could have been. A beautiful friendship. But your unpleasantness has beaten me soundly. In the clearly-has-issues department. I would congratulate you. If your victory was anything to celebrate. Which it is not. Clearly.

They’re smiling again, but it is clearly an unfriendly gesture, more of a grimace than anything else. The effect is, as usual. Rather creepy. But they’re trying, and that’s what matters.

Right?

They say curiosity killed the cat, which is just fine, but unfortunately, no one thought to warn the dogs.

Interworld travelling had always been wonky; it left Jazz nauseous every time, despite him having no internal organs to even get nausea. He stumbled forward, stepping through a rip through the spacetime (which looked precisely like a rip on a worn coat, dark and quite boring). His legs felt like jelly and his senses were thrown into overload for a few seconds, so he slid down without much grace, blinking. The teleporter - a heavy bracelet on his hand, hidden under the fabric of the arm-bands - beeped once, and the rip behind his back reluctantly mended itself.

(If only old coats could do the same.)

Jazz rubbed his forehead, wincing. The world around him, an overwhelming buzzing mass of foreign sensations, slowly sorted itself into distinct familiar smells, shapes and sounds. A few moments later he even managed to stand upright! And it probably shouldn’t have felt like an accomplishment, but it did.

He stretched, letting out a quiet groan, and immediately started getting acquainted with the world he was visiting. He sniffed the air and carefully probed the ground with a toe and turned around to take more of it in…

And he saw them. And squatted down immediately, sitting a bit dog-like, because, whoever they were, they were not so tall - and he did not want them to look up too far, of course! Or to get intimidated, because big things could be intimidating to small people.

Cheeky scrambles backwards, all awkward, gangly limbs and sharp angles, gasping. Seems they had been lost in thought -- or, at the very least, not expecting company. Their heart pounds in their chest, blood rushing in their ears as they draw their knife, holding it in front of them in trembling hands, blinded by adrenaline. 

They didn’t stay in their original timeline too often, and welcomed visitors to it even less. It was, after all, a world full of nothing but bad memories; a silent Underground with the faintest hint of dust on the breeze, so they only really found themself here when they wanted to feel closer to Frisk be alone.  * D-don’t come any closer, or I s-swear you’ll be sorry!