Celestriakle

The steady weight of the rain outside pressed on Cyrus as he laid curled up in bed. There was no reason for him to be this upset. It was just a stupid bit of fabric, brought to life with with a little magic. Neither of them were even alive, not really. Tick had thousands of them, several that looked exactly the same. They were replaceable. So then why did the thought of replacing Newt and Olive hurt so badly? Why had he cried at all when he lost them? It was so, so stupid. He should be glad they saved those kittens instead, the mewling babies the whole house had already fallen for—everyone but him, wasn’t it funny—and yet

“No! Work, dammit, work! Pleeeeease!” Crumbling hands shake the vessel. “It’s too soon! If I just had mo-ore time… Nngh! Please…” The soul has been accepted. Project ‘Gaster’ is functional. They open their eyes. Dust falls into their eye socket. Kneeling above them is a monster, insubstantial, colours bleeding, face dripping, a terror to behold; it grabs their shoulders, heaving them up and pressing them to the wall. “Fiiiinish my work, Gaster. This is your purpose,” it says, dust falling with every word. “Do you understa-and?” Not knowing what else to do, Gas