#ego fall | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kxsagi · 11 days ago

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𝟎𝟓. 𝐢'𝐦 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲

you wake up tangled in the sheets, hair a mess, sleep still heavy in your eyes. the sunlight bleeding through the curtains is gentle, like it knows you're not ready for a full hit of reality yet. you reach over for your laptop on the nightstand, still warm from where you left it charging overnight.

the notifications are already waiting – emails, youtube alerts, a few too many messages in the group chat. but you ignore them all at first and go straight to the comments.

episode two of the saint ego doc dropped last night. the one with the behind-the-scenes chaos. the one with yukimiya’s SILK + STATIC shoot, all red velvet and champagne silk and that eerie kind of calm he carries like armor.

you scroll through the comments, blinking sleep away as you read:

@iheartsaintchaos: “saint ego behind the scenes is better than half the shows on netflix rn i’m so serious”

@rinblockedmeagain: “yukimiya??? on that throne??? yeah i ascended actually”

@freaklikeme: “this ep was so funny like the way bachira keeps appearing in the background?? little gremlin energy i love him”

your lips twitch into a smile.

the fans noticed the things you wanted them to – the warmth, the weirdness, the realness. the moments no PR campaign could ever stage. for a second, you let yourself enjoy it. you curl into the blankets a little tighter and read another five, ten, maybe fifteen comments. some of them mention you, too.

@kaiserthighsappreciator: “whoever’s editing these deserves a raise the pacing is so good???”

@saesb!tch: “you can tell someone who GETS them made this”

you sit with that one for a bit longer.

but the internet is the internet, and eventually the tone shifts.

@mywalletcried4ego: “wish the doc showed more of the actual creative process. not just them goofing off”

@karasucrowcore: “this feels like a PR move to make them look relatable lol”

@tearsonlyyy: “idk the aesthetic’s nice but it’s all a little too polished for a ‘raw’ doc”

you stop scrolling. inhale slowly. then exhale.

okay. not everyone’s going to love everything. you knew that going in. you tell yourself the same thing you’ve had to repeat since day one: constructive criticism sharpens the work. haters sharpen nothing.

you close the comments tab, resisting the urge to check again. it’s too early in the day to spiral. instead, you open your to-do list. a new post for the main account. promo for the next teaser. team call at noon.

you crack your neck, stretch, and finally leave the warmth of your bed. outside the screen, the world is still quiet. but inside it? people are watching. talking. feeling.

and that, at the very least, means you’re doing something right.

you yawn, still half in bed when you finally open the group chat.

saint ego 🖤 (182 unread)

… great. here we go.

you scroll up to the beginning of last night’s descent into madness.

it’s the next day and you were supposed to have the day off.

but instead of sleeping in, doing a face mask, and romanticizing your life in bed with a matcha latte and silence, you woke up thinking about work. about tomorrow’s teaser post. about saint ego’s pop-up rehearsal. about how kaiser called you “wife” in the group chat and no one has addressed it since.

your brain is a loading screen and your phone is still buzzing. so you do what any stressed-out girl with no self-preservation instinct does: you text a certain someone.

now texting: reo 💴

you stare at your phone. you stare at the window. sure enough. black luxury car. reo in the front seat. aviators on. sipping something with a gold straw. like this is a vogue shoot and not your residential street at 10 AM.

you sigh, protest about wanting to stay home and rot in peace, and he threatens to “swipe your debit card on something irresponsible” if you don’t get in his car within five minutes.

so you never really had a choice.

the café is so fancy you half-expect a cherub to float by offering you artisanal bottled air. a harpist in the corner plays an acoustic version of lana del rey. the table has three forks per person. there are plants in tiny crystal vases that probably cost more than your rent.

“why are we here,” you hiss as reo orders for you without looking at the menu.

“because you were spiraling, your pores are too good to be sad, and i needed an excuse to not answer emails for two hours,” he says, removing his sunglasses dramatically.

you poke your drink – some lavender glitter foam monstrosity. “this looks like a bath bomb.”

“and you look like therapy’s calling your name.”

you stick your tongue out at him. he flicks your forehead with a manicured finger. “so. how’s the circus? and by circus i mean your gremlin band of semi-feral boy toys.”

you choke on your drink. “reo–”

“nope. not changing the subject. i want gossip. specifically: which one are you gonna let ruin your life first? isagi or kaiser?”

you groan so loud the old lady at the next table flinches. “absolutely none of them. i don’t want a boyfriend.”

reo lifts one perfectly groomed brow. “mm. you sure about that? because kaiser practically bit yukimiya’s head off just for breathing near you the other day.”

you bury your face in your hands. “god, that– and don’t even get me started on isagi. we had this whole dumb kitchen moment the other night. he basically admitted to thinking about kissing me.”

reo looks delighted. “kitchen moment? i need details.”

“he– i don’t know. he came in all sleepy and soft after rehearsal and just… just said it. said he’s thought about it. thought about kissing me and then,” you flap your hands helplessly, “wondered out loud how much of me he’d ruin if he actually did it.”

reo covers his mouth to muffle a scream. “shut up. shut up. that’s so disgustingly hot i hate men.”

“yeah, well, congrats to him. i still don’t want a boyfriend.”

reo tilts his head, suddenly quieter. “yeah, but… you like the idea.”

you fiddle with your straw. the harpist transitions to sza and you think you might disintegrate from secondhand embarrassment and your own honesty.

“it’s not that i don’t like them,” you mumble. “it’s… i don’t know. i don’t want to belong to someone. or have someone belong to me. i don’t want someone expecting things from me all the time. i can barely handle me.”

reo hums. not judging. just listening, spoon twirling in his stupid expensive ahh latte. “so you’re scared they’ll want too much.”

“or worse,” you sigh, “i’ll give too much.”

reo’s eyes soften. then he flicks whipped cream at your forehead.

“hey!”

“sorry,” he grins, “emotions make me itchy. anyway. look at you, main character energy with two certified hot idiots fighting over you. my baby’s living the dream.”

“my nightmare.”

“same thing,” he shrugs. “just don’t forget: you owe them nothing. boyfriend or not. you’re the prize.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. because he’s right. and because the stupid glitter drink really does taste like sunshine.

“also,” he adds, dead serious, “if either of them makes you cry, i will drain their bank accounts, frame them for tax fraud, and leave them broke on a beach in malibu. i promise.”

“you’re so scary.”

“i’m so rich. did you forget i own their record label? mikage records, baby.”

you both dissolve into giggles so loud the harpist side-eyes you mid-good days. and for a moment, the band, the doc, the tangled feelings – none of it matters. just brunch. just reo. just you, letting yourself breathe.

the studio is a mess (as usual).

someone’s guitar pick is in your coffee. bachira is dangling upside down off the couch like a bat. shidou is playing obnoxious synth riffs at full volume even though rehearsal ended twenty minutes ago. karasu and sae are arguing about who breathes louder. rin is ignoring everyone, headphones on, face buried in the couch cushions.

and you, you’re hunched over your laptop, triple-checking the teaser post for the pop-up show that’s happening way sooner than your anxiety agrees with.

“you’re overthinking it again,” kaiser says from behind you.

you jump so hard you nearly fling your fist into him. “don’t sneak up on me, someone else already did that in the kitch–” your eyes go wide as you catch yourself.

kaiser being unaware, just laughs. the kind of laugh that makes your ears hot. the kind of laugh that probably makes your life more complicated than necessary.

“it’s perfect,” he says, tapping your screen like he owns it – and you. “we’ll sell out in five seconds. relax, schatz.”

“schatz?”

“means treasure. in german.”

you roll your eyes, ignoring the schatz part the same way you pretend to ignore wife in the group chat. “it’s literally my job to overthink it.”

kaiser leans closer. you can feel him grinning. “speaking of your job… tonight. let me take you home after. on my bike.”

you pause. slowly look up at him.

he looks too pretty for this question to be innocent. blond hair half-tied, chain necklace peeking under his shirt collar, the kind of stupidly confident smirk that makes you want to throw your phone at him and also, annoyingly, say yes to everything he asks.

“… fine,” you mutter. “only because i hate taking the train at night.”

“whatever you say, prinzessin.” he winks. your soul short-circuits.

but you catch it in your peripheral.

isagi.

standing by the mic stand, pretending to untangle the cord. eyes locked on you like he’s trying to burn a hole straight through your skull.

he doesn’t even look away when you meet his eyes. no smile. no teasing. just this low, steady glare that makes your chest tighten because you know exactly what he’s thinking, and you hate how much of you wonders if he’d say it out loud again.

how much of you he’d ruin if he tried.

you blink, tearing your gaze away first. shove your laptop into your bag like your life depends on it.

“don’t be late,” kaiser purrs at your ear.

you mumble something that might be a curse or might be your heart, and leave the studio pretending you can’t feel isagi’s stare scorching your back all the way out the door.

it’s stupid how warm the night feels.

you stand on the curb outside the studio, bag slung over your shoulder, pretending you’re not checking your phone every ten seconds. pretending you don’t care that you look nervous. pretending you can’t feel isagi’s silent glare from somewhere behind the tinted windows.

then you hear it – the low, rumbling purr that makes your chest flutter and your brain stop all at once.

kaiser pulls up like he owns the street. helmet in one hand, hair a little messy from the wind, smile that’s all trouble and honey.

“miss me?” he says, voice soft but eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

you roll your eyes so hard you see your past life. “just give me the damn helmet.”

he laughs – god, it’s so boyish when he really laughs. he slips the helmet onto you himself, fingertips brushing your jaw, adjusting the strap slow like he’s buying time.

“tight enough?” he murmurs, so close you taste his cologne.

“perfect,” you breathe. not looking at him. can’t look at him.

he swings onto the bike first, then pats the seat behind him. “get on, schatz.”

you do. carefully. awkwardly. legs bracketing his hips, arms hesitating, until he reaches back, grabs your wrists, and drags them around his waist himself.

“hold tight,” he says, voice lower than it should be. “don’t want you flying off when i make you scream.”

“kaiser–!”

the engine cuts off your protest. he laughs, you feel it in your chest where you’re pressed to his back. then you’re moving: fast, weightless, city lights blurring by in a stream of gold and blue.

you bury your face in his shoulder to keep the wind from stealing your breath. you think you feel him squeeze your hand where it’s locked around him. you think you hear him hum something under his breath, but the wind steals it before you catch the words.

it’s reckless. it’s stupid. it’s him.

and for a moment, it’s so easy to forget the doc, the drama, the stares, the way isagi’s voice in your head says he’ll ruin you first. right now, you just feel free.

he drops you off at your apartment building. the bike idling, his fingers brushing the hair from your cheek as he takes the helmet back, eyes flicking down to your mouth for a second too long.

“good girl,” he murmurs. “you didn’t scream once.”

“i hate you,” you lie.

he smirks. “you will. gute nacht.”

he’s gone before you can shove him off the bike like you want to. engine roaring down your street, taking your peace of mind with it.

you’re halfway through brushing your teeth at 1 in the morning when your phone buzzes.

now texting: kaiser 👎

your heart slams against your ribs before another buzz –

masterlist | ch. 04 | ch. 06 (coming soon)

taglist (closed): @nensi @ro4love @avaxoxo13 @levisgoonerr @jnkosstuff @simpingmyassoff @sunsettsguitar @trinkets-of-time @cinneorolls @silverwings920 @mymeloreo @satorella @gkattdoesstuff @lovingmayday @pixelpancakes @vverie @nicfics @nevvynev @astro-3000 @mihyas-dieehefrau @i-eve-i @ohagiyoo @aadahyax @yumerinns @rie-cecooker @neeeooon @laylaandsstuff @irethepotato @byzantiumhollow @luvsymai @blu3-l0v3r @kiritokunuwu @anaxugoras @yxnnu @academiq @jaeyuuns @x3nafix @sukunaspillow @sasukevrz @anyaslittlepeanut @yunsspace @gurehai @chiieni @6riix @miiyabi @2ukika @ventivente @heartsforfeitan @kai-wavesii-blog @iqxatlantic

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dark-lord-of-awesomeness · 2 months ago

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I should work on the next Cat Stan Short! (makes this instead)

Anyway.

Bill doesn't know how long he's in the theraprism. Seconds blend into minutes into hours into days into weeks into years into centuries into millennia on and on until time becomes a blur and feelings fade away with memories. Voices he once knew are hazier then the faces they belonged to, and those faces are smudges with sounds instead of names.

Who was that human he was so obsessed with again? There was one, but perhaps the other....?

Whatever. It doesn't matter anymore.

Not the smudges or sounds or voices. Not time or who he was or where he wanted to go.

It took millennia upon millennia to the edge of time and back, but he's ready.

He's going to be reborn.

A different time.

A different place.

As someone new.

Free from everything he was or did.

A fresh start.

With a final bow, Bill Cipher closes his eye one last time-

-And Stanford Filbrick Pines opens his.

The person Stanford used to be is a distant thought in the back of his mind. Like a dream he can't quite remember. He doesn't pay it too much attention, because he's got much more important things to worry about.

Like his freakish hands, the scorn of his peers, the coldness of the hospital, and the fact he can't tear all of it to pieces and burn it to the ground. Whoever he used to be, as distant and smudged as they were, used to wield powers beyond his wildest dreams.

Leaving him with nothing but the desire to see the playground burn to the ground, and nothing to show for it but his brother poking him in the forehead and laughing at his pouty expression.

His brother.

Thats the one part in his new life he knows he lucked out on. As terrifying and haunting as the dreams of who he was are, there's one solid fact that stands out and burns across his heart whenever he tries to sneak a peek. That person, as dead and dust as they are, was alone. They didn't have anyone truly on their side, and they kept burning and burning and tearing things apart to fill that empty void inside of them.

Stanford doesnt need to do that, because he has Stanley. Stanley, his twin brother, who stuck with him through thick and thin, stood up for him when the shame of his hands became to much (Even now, even here, he was always a freak), was his loyal partner in crime and the person he could count on to soothe the raging flames that hungered and cried for him to launch himself at Crampelter and tear his face off.

Stanley doesn't have a person who he was, not like Stanford. (he'd asked once, long ago, about the memories that whispered in his mind. Stanley had just given him an odd look, then told him to get more sleep). He was normal, with regular hands, regular brains, and an understanding of people Stanford knows he used to have (or thought he had) but now lacks.

He lacks a lot of things in his new life, but that's fine. This is a fresh start.

And Stanley was the worlds gift to him. Finally, someone who'd never leave his side. His own person, who's loyalty would never waver, who'd never scheme against him, who is his in every sense of the word.

(That piece of who he was screams and cackles and cries at this. It is the best outcome. It is the worst outcome. It is exactly as it should be).

But there is one thing that bothers him about his brother. One piece that tickles the back of his mind whenever they run and play and cause chaos across this tiny pathetic town they called home.

Stanley did not have memories of who he was, but the person he was right now was.. oddly familiar. Whenever they roam the beach and find something washed ashore in the distance, Stanley's first words are always "I wonder if its a dead body!" Whenever they find rats, twisted and dead along the pier, either from poison or some other means, he always shouts "this is the greatest thing i've ever seen!" When the bullies get too much, and Stanford shoves his hands somewhere no one can see them, Stanley throws his arm around Stanfords shoulders and always says "Someday we'll show them, we'll leave this town in the dust and they'll all be sorry."

Which wouldn't be strange, but as they grow and grow and get older and Stanford learns how to hear the whispers of Before, he finds that Stanley's words echo and harmonize with the voice of Who He Was more and more, until they almost seem to speak together more than apart. Whoever Stanford used to be, Stanley is them in miniature. Stanley's smaller, of course, and less grand and powerful, but there's a thread there that Stanford can't ignore. Something inside him screams that there's a connection, and he just doesnt know how to find it.

It pokes at his thoughts more and more as they get older, go to high school, and Stanley keeps being the echo chamber and shadow of Stanfords previous self. Stanford has grown far beyond that part of him, is different in ways they couldn't hope to achieve, has found new passions in showing off with his mind instead of his might. None of these small minded humans have even a fraction of the knowledge he was born with or devoured growing up. None of them understand the music of the universe or how to twist physics. Stanfords powers are gone, but his mind is still here, and he uses it to excel more and more, dragging Stanley with him as he reaches higher and higher.

Stanley is his brother after all, his eternal companion. If Stanfords going towards the top, then Stanley will too. Even if every day Stanford gets more and more frustrated with his inability to apply himself. He knows his brother can excel if he wants to (maybe not as well as Stanford, but better than he currently is) and doesnt understand why he doesnt.

But its fine. Stanford's going places, and Stanley will follow.

And then its their final year, once high school is done he'll go to college, get a degree, then become world famous. Stanley will be by his side, cheering him on as the embers of what he was finally fade in the light of his soon to be fame.

And then its the science fair.

Then West Coast Tech.

Then the presentation.

And Stanford's fury reignites those embers into an inferno, and he is so full of rage the gaping void that he'd spent seventeen years filling bursts open.

Betrayal.

From the one who was his.

Its terrible in its familiarity.

He watches from the window as the person who was supposed to be his partner, who was supposed to be by his side and help put the terrible specter that screeched in the back of his mind to rest, gets tossed out. Tries to figure out what his purpose was, if all he was going to do was push Stanford to be his best self, then pull the rug out from beneath him and leave him floundering.

Why even have a twin, if all he was going to do was make Stanford feel worse than before. How could he, who in another life reigned terror the likes his current one couldn't comprehend, get saddled with some tiny speck of a human who selfishly-

and then he sees it.

As Pa slams the door, and Stanley tightens his fists, there is a spark.

Blue flames, dancing across his fingers as his brother looks up at Stanford in the window. For the first time in their lives Stanley is facing dire consequences for his actions. For the first time in his life, Stanley is shaken to the core as he looks up at Stanford, face full of desperation. For the first time in their lives, Stanley might lose Stanford forever.

And suddenly the connection that has been poking at the back of Stanfords mind his entire life blazes.

He was powerful, once, an eternity ago. More powerful than anything here or anywhere could imagine. The reasons and whys and hows escape him, but he knows power like that can't be destroyed. Stanford didn't have a drop of it, so it must have gone somewhere.

Into another vessel, the unexpected child, when every doctor swore up and down Ma was only going to have one. A funny story to tell relatives, another reason to distrust hospitals, an odd thing, that every test showed one babe, and then there were two.

Unless whatever process turned who they were into Stanford couldn't handle what he was bringing with him. Unless the excess, the raw power and the personality imprinted on it, was given a hastily made last minute form. Unless they were split in two, so that they'd never be alone again.

Not just his partner.

Not just his twin.

Not just his human, to drag and keep and be his.

His literal other half, who held all of their power and not a thought on how to use it.

A part of him wants to shove the curtain closed. To turn his back on the part of himself that couldn't handle his success. To go on and grow up and finally be his own separate person. To maybe watch from afar as the power he knows is hungrily sitting inside of his brother explode and tear the world asunder.

It would be.... hilarious, to watch Stanley fall apart and not understand why.

But not as hilarious if he accidentally incinerated Stanford, the only one who could help him manage their flames.

And whatever else was bubbling deep inside Stanley's soul.

Stanford raises his hand, watches the tentative smile spread across Stanley's face, and bursts into action. He is furious, but more than that he's curios.

and hungry.

What else can Stanley do, what else carried over to their new lives. He pokes and prods at the pieces of who they were, watches hazy visions of fire, of Sight, of bending the rules of the universe until they broke, even as he flings things into bags and chucks them out of the window down below.

How much is there still, and how much can Stanley use before their meager human vessels fall apart.

Not that Stanford would let that happen.

Stanley owes him after all, and he's going to make sure Stanley pays up until their both standing on top of the world.

Together.

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