teapartyprincess4two

[teapartyprincess4two]

Richie Jeromovich might just have the best character arc in The Bear, and I’ll die on that hill. Like, season one Richie? That man was a mess. Loud, defensive, constantly posturing like he had everything figured out when, in reality, he was barely holding it together. And the thing is, you can tell he’s not a bad guy—he’s just stuck. Stuck in the past, stuck in his grief over Mikey, stuck in his idea of who he’s supposed to be. Stuck in his "Delicate fuckin' ecosystem"

It’s frustrating because you see the potential, but he’s his own worst enemy at first. All the way up until the season one finale, and even into season two he's slow to his journey of self actualization. He's slow to growth.

Then we get Forks. Oh my god. Watching Richie get thrown into that fine-dining hellscape and, instead of fighting it like you’d expect and like he initially does, actually leaning in? That’s growth. That’s what self-improvement actually looks like—getting uncomfortable, learning from people who know more than you, and deciding to take yourself seriously.

He thought- and somehow still while being there in that environment - that Carmen sent him there to fuck him over, but eventually he realized that wow, this place actually made him. And it can make Richie too

Him clocking how much care and pride those chefs put into every single task? Watching him learn how to be of service rather than just taking up space? And let’s be real, he looked good as hell in that suit.

But what really kills me about Richie’s arc is how he doesn’t just grow—he actively seeks out ways to keep growing. He starts throwing out words like actionable when he’s writing down his non-negotiables in season three because this man is not just thinking about what he wants—he’s thinking about how to make it happen. Even if it's bothersome to Carmy, but let's be for real, Carmen had his regression all of season three (but that's a rant for another time.)

Richie, of all people, talking about actionable goals? The same dude who used to spend his days ranting about kids not respecting Al Capone? That’s insane growth.

And peep how he STAYS calling Carmen out on his toxicity too? Although they both said shitty things in their season two finale fight in the fridge, Richie knows Carmen's on edge and even being indirectly aware of Carmen's repeating trauma and abusive cycles.

And then there’s the way he handles Carmy. He could have gone back to their usual screaming matches(which hey, they still kinda do because they still be "fuck you"-ing each other) , but no—Richie actually calls him out. He tells Carmy the truth, tells him he’s hurting people, tells him to stop acting like he’s alone in everything. And that’s the Richie we saw glimpses of all along—the one who gives a shit. He doesn’t just want to be better for himself; he wants to be better for the people around him.

Richie’s growth isn’t linear, and that’s what makes it so damn good. He backslides, he gets in his own way sometimes, but he keeps pushing forward. He keeps choosing to be better. And that? That’s everything.

Season one Richie would look at season three Richie in pure shock. N' probably make fun of his suit too.

Point is, Richie is a character I really can't wait to see in his continued growth.

[teapartyprincess4two]

THE BEAR 03.09 ― "Apologies"

[teapartyprincess4two]

Family’s up.

[teapartyprincess4two]

standing infront of my mirror with the lights out saying "norman reedus in a cowboy hat norman reedus in a cowboy hat norman reedus in a cowboy hat" just incase it works

[teapartyprincess4two]

5x06 | Consumed

[teapartyprincess4two]

cute as fuck. what the fuck.

[teapartyprincess4two]

Anora (2024)

Director: Sean Baker

Cinematographer: Drew Daniels

Tech Specs:

— Aspect Ratio: 2.39:1

— Cameras: Arricam LT, Atlas Orion, Lomo Round Front, Square Front Zoom, and Angenieux Optimo Ultra Lenses

— Negative Format:  35 mm (Kodak Vision3 200T 5213, Vision3 500T 5219)

— Cinematographic Process:

Atlas Scope (anamorphic, source format, some scenes)

Lomoscope (anamorphic, source format)

[teapartyprincess4two]

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 | 𝐂.𝐒 ― 𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒃

▶︎ ၊၊||၊ MANCHILD , SABRINA CARPENTER

chris sturniolo! x f!reader

requested by : anon🫧⋆˚𖥔 ꨄ︎

WARNINGS : none! fluff, goofy chris who forgets plans & is a bit immature but at the end of the day, he would do anything for you <3

Chris is at your door again.

It’s nearly midnight, you’re in pajamas, and he’s standing there like he didn’t ghost your texts for five hours with that same stupid, sheepish half-smile he always wears when he knows he’s in trouble.

“I forgot to charge my phone,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

You blink.

“You have a car charger.”

“I don’t trust car chargers.”

You step aside anyway.

He walks in like it’s his place, drops his bag on your floor with a thud, and immediately starts pulling things from it like he didn’t just ignore you all afternoon.

A t-shirt with holes in it. One sock. An unopened bottle of BodyArmor. A gold chain that looks fake. And, weirdly, a potato.

You stare at him.

“I thought I’d stay here tonight,” he says, sitting on your couch like the conversation isn’t already five steps behind him. “I was gonna ask, but, y’know.” He holds up his dead phone like it's some kind of permission slip.

You fold your arms. “We never even made plans, Chris.”

He squints. “Didn’t we?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Well… we should’ve.”

You exhale — long and slow, like a woman about to be canonized for her patience.

And then you get a better look at what he’s wearing.

“Is that…” You gesture vaguely. “Is that what you chose to wear?”

He looks down. Baggy gym shorts, mismatched hoodie, slippers that are definitely two different brands. He’s also wearing sunglasses — on his head. At night.

“Oh,” he says again. “Yeah. This was kind of ironic.”

You stare. “That’s not ironic. That’s criminal.”

Chris grins, wide and unbothered. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

You roll your eyes and turn back toward the kitchen. You’re not mad, not really — you’re just used to this.

Used to Chris showing up unannounced. Used to him treating your apartment like a safe house. Used to being his backup plan, his comfort zone, his girl-shaped emergency contact.

You're halfway to the fridge when he calls out, “Wait—did you say we never made plans?”

“Correct.”

“But I told Matt I was hanging with you tonight.”

“So you lied to him.”

Chris frowns, visibly confused. “Huh. Didn’t know I did that.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

You grab him a drink anyway, because you know he won’t ask — just sigh and sulk until you do it for him. He’s sitting sideways on your couch now, legs stretched across the cushions like he’s posing for a Renaissance painting. His phone is charging on the windowsill. He’s flipping through your TV with the confidence of someone who doesn’t pay rent.

You hand him the drink. He lights up.

“Aw, you do love me.”

“You are the bane of my existence.”

“Bane of your bed, too,” he says, winking. “Eventually.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, tucks it behind his head, and leans back like he’s just won an argument he never actually started. You want to scream. You want to kiss him. You want to put him in a cardboard box labeled free to chaotic home.

You can’t even stay mad when he smiles like that, with his stupid curls and his stupid perfect teeth and his stupid voice that always gets low when he says your name.

Chris is the kind of sexy that should come with a warning label: Caution: may be allergic to accountability. Do not operate heavy machinery or romantic expectations around him.

He’s the kind of guy who’d forget your anniversary but cry over your chipped nail polish. Who doesn’t know where Idaho is on a map but somehow knows every lyric to early 2000s Justin Bieber. The kind of boy who thinks 2% milk means it’s “just mostly water,” who’ll drop thirty dollars on an Uber across the city but refuse to pay for extra guac because “that’s where they get you.”

And still—still—he’s the first person you’d call if you had a bad day. Or a good one. Or any reason to want to feel understood without needing to explain yourself.

Because Chris, for all his chaos, sees you. Always has.

Even if he can’t remember where he put his keys. Or his charger. Or the perfectly reasonable boundaries you set three conversations ago.

He’ll wrap his arms around you in public without thinking twice. He’ll get mad when you don’t tell him you’re sad. He’ll steal your Chapstick and keep it in his pocket like it’s sacred. He’ll refer to your cat as your shared child in casual conversation.

And yeah—he’s a disaster. But he’s your disaster.

Beautiful, ridiculous, clingy. Incapable of proper communication but somehow still the only person who makes you feel like the world isn’t completely awful.

You want to strangle him half the time.

The other half?

You want to marry him.

Because you’re stupid. Or in love. Or both.

You feel him stir from his current position, he’s lying across your lap like a lazy golden retriever in a tattered hoodie, chewing on a Sour Patch Kid and using your thigh as a pillow. He looks up at you with half-lidded eyes, curls a mess, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room.

“You’re staring,” he mumbles.

You ignore that. Instead, you start combing your fingers through his hair, mostly to annoy him. “How have you survived this long without me?”

Chris shrugs. “Matt. Sometimes Nick.”

“That’s terrifying.”

He hums. “I’m a simple guy.”

“You’re a man-child.”

He snorts. “Thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

“I know,” he says, eyes opening again, lazy and sincere all at once. “But you said man. I’m focusing on the positive.”

You roll your eyes and press a soft kiss to his temple.

He stays the night, of course.

He falls asleep by 12:43 a.m. with a bag of Sour Patch in his hand, his head still resting on your chest. His phone buzzes around one, the screen lighting up with a missed call from Matt, but it’s already slid off the windowsill. You plug it in again, without a word.

At some point, in that space between dreaming and waking, he shifts closer and whispers, “Don’t leave me.”

And you just sigh — exhausted but full — and murmur, “Who else is gonna make sure you eat vegetables?”

He hums at that, half-asleep, half-smiling, and wraps an arm around your waist with the ease of someone who’s never questioned where he belongs.

“My baby,” he breathes. “Love you.”

You don’t even think he means to say it — he’s always too honest when he’s tired.

Your chest still aches a little, soft and stupid. But you cant help but smile, because no matter how many times he forgets to text back or leaves you to pick up the pieces, he always comes home to you.

ugh I love writing fluff god it's so cute

🐚 - @chriss-slutt @55sturn @chrysiie @il0vey0um0st @trustinsturniolos @ivydre4ms @raes-library @mattsplaything @emely9274 @pip4444chris @whore4mattsturniolo @sweetshuga @courta13 @divinesturn @aaliyahsturniolo @chris-hallelujah @mi-co-uk @ivysturnss @sweetpeabreezyree @christophersgf @bluestriips @angelic-sturniolos111 @shadowthesim237 @moond0llie @eeyoresturnz @ellssturn @fratbrochrisgf @teddystvrns @pvssychicken @ribbonlovergirl @chrisspussygang @vanteguccir @tits4matt @bambisturns @luvs4matt @delilahsturniolo @fadedstvrn @ariieeesworld @oopsiedaisydeer @rubyychriss @babyt0matoes @kenah-sturniolo @desturns @ifwdominicfike @sturns-mermaid @pair-of-pantaloons @bbgirlmatt @backwardshatnick @gregs-child @sturnlovematt22 <3

[teapartyprincess4two]

Credit: @vxnitra

[teapartyprincess4two]

[teapartyprincess4two]

I have no outline tho, just vibes

[teapartyprincess4two]

taglist: @starlace111 @chr0mehrts @liveforthechxse13 @evyilikeart @meatballlover10 @mainlyoutsiders @sofieeeeex @khalei-20 @edmundspevensiewifey

Patience - C. Sturniolo

pairing: RockStar!Chris x PopStar!reader

classification: MAJOR angst, RockStarAU

warnings: established relationship, cursing, mention of drug abuse, overdose mentioned, mention of alcohol use, set in the 80’s

inspiration: Patience by Guns N’ Roses & Mr. Brownstone by Guns N’ Roses

summary: Chris is a train wreck, his glamorous rockstar life coming to a full stop when his choices finally catch up to him. The whole world turned their back on him and he didn’t expect you to stay.

—

Recovery was never easy. Especially not when it ran as deep as this.

Chris sat slouched on the floor of his home studio. Hoodie up, eyes sunken, jaw unshaven, and hands trembling, not from withdrawal, but from the weight of it all.

He’s only been sober for thirty eight days.

Thirty eight days since his overdose. Thirty eight days since his pain became a public spectacle. Thirty eight days since his name was followed by “death scare” and “cancelled tour” on all media platforms.

Thirty eight days since he’s seen you.

The media did a good job of tearing Chris apart. The headlines were brutal, but the photos were worse. Every tv flashed photos of him being carried out on a stretcher, replayed videos of him slurring words on stage, and clipped his interviews out of context.

The story of his crash was hot off the press. Every major magazine was digging up as much dirt on him as they could, pictures of past lovers, grainy pictures of backstage after parties, rumors that were no longer relevant. Anything to get a piece of this train wreck of a man.

All of it hurt, sure. But none of it stung as much as the rumor that you were leaving him.

They said you were ashamed. Claimed your label was pressuring you to distance yourself, even going as far as creating fake statements on your behalf. They pulled strings, cut and paste things together to create the perfect lie. Said you were already spotted with some shiny new rising star, one who was clean, sparkly eyed, safe. Sober.

Chris tried to believed none of it. He tried to believe that what you had was real, that it’d survive even as he was actively hitting rock bottom.

But when his own mind was his enemy, it was hard to believe anything.

And then… you walked in.

No announcement. No theatrics. No paparazzi.

Just you in an old hoodie of his, baggy sweatpants, and those fuzzy socks he always teased you about.

You didn’t ask if he was okay.

You didn’t mention the headlines.

All you did was kneel down beside him on the cold hardwood floor, hand on his chest and head on his shoulder.

“You’re here,” he croaked, voice barely audible.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

He broke.

It wasn’t pretty. Chris cried like someone who hadn’t let themselves feel anything in years. His hands gripped onto you like a lifeline as ugly, choking sobs tore through his throat. You pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around him and pressing your lips to the top of his head while he gasped for air.

“I hate that you have to see me like this,” he said, voice breaking as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Baby,” you whispered, forcing him to look at you. “I’d rather see you like this than not at all.”

Tears were streaming down your face too, every image of Chris unconscious on that stretcher replaying in your mind.

You knew his addiction was bad, there was no hiding it. The sleepless nights, the blown pupils, and especially the powdery residue he never bothered hiding. But he told you he was doing better, that he had it under control, and you believed him.

But the second you got that call, your heart stopped. You thought you’d lost the only person worth caring about.

He kept repeating, “I’m sorry,” like a confession. Like a punishment.

You didn’t tell him to stop. You just let him say it, let him cry it out. Until finally, he calmed down and just held you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“I thought you left,” he mumbled. “They said you woke up and realized I’m too fucked up to love.”

“No, no, no. Hey,” you grab his face again, “look at me.”

“I did wake up,” you said softly, a heartbroken smile forming on your face as more tears spilled. “And I realized how much the thought of losing you hurt.”

You kiss him softly. Like he was fragile and if you moved too fast he’d break.

When you pull away, your eyes don’t move. You want him to feel what you’re about to say next.

“I love you, Chris. Through every single thing. Everything.”

He nods his head frantically, pulling you in for the tightest hug possible. “I love you.”

—

Chris hadn’t spoken in over an hour.

You didn’t push him, you just cozied up on the frayed couch of the rented cabin. A warm mug of tea sat in your hands, your eyes watching the snowfall outside.

He was on the floor surrounded by open boxes. The floor was littered with old tour merch, faded Polaroids, tattered t-shirts, and about a dozen notebooks filled to the brim with lyrics. Some of those lyrics hit the stage, others went unheard.

A speaker buzzed softly as he played demo after demo, all songs that he remembered performing but barely remembered writing. His voice from 3 years ago echoed faintly through the cabin, cracked and hungry and high. So high.

The song faded out, and a heavy, sinister riff took its place. The drumbeat felt like footsteps and then Chris’s voice crept in, a slurred drawl dragging itself across the lyrics like it was too exhausted to care.

You recognized the song instantly. Mr. Brownstone.

You felt it in your stomach. That song always made you feel like you were helpless. Like you were watching someone you loved through a pane of glass as they drowned.

Chris didn’t look at you. He went rigid.

“Wrote this shit during a blackout,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t even remember until the producer replayed it. Called it genius.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it, just bitterness.

“They called it ‘dangerous.’ ‘Raw.’ Said I was the voice of a new generation.” He ran his hands over his face, jaw clenched. “You know what that means? It means no one helped me, just passed me the mic.”

You placed your mug down gently, quietly stepping off the couch and kneeling beside him. Your body instinctively found his again, and still he didn’t have the courage to look at you.

“I don’t remember writing the bridge,” he continued. “I only remember playing it live one night and thinking, God, I sound like I wanna die and everyone’s cheering.”

He hit pause and the room went silent. You two felt frozen, like even the snow outside paused to listen.

“I don’t know how to live without this version of me,” he admitted. “The messy, chaotic, drunk genius everyone loved. I’m not that guy anymore and I’m scared you won’t like what’s left of me.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, tentative hand reaching up to touch his cheek.

“I love you, Chris,” you pause, “but I never liked that version of you. I survived him.”

He let out a strangled sound, half-sob and half-laugh. It was like something cracked open in his chest. Those words hurt.

“I was a fucking monster,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know why you stayed.”

You shook your head. “Because the monster wasn’t real. The monster was the drugs and the fear. The monster was the pain you never told anyone about. But I saw you, the real you. I still see you.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“What if I can’t come back from this?” he asked, voice broken. “I don’t know how to write anymore. I try and it’s just… empty. Like the part of me that bled music is just gone.”

“He’s still there, baby. He’s just recovering. We’re gonna find him again, okay?” You murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m scared of this version of me being boring,” he whispered.

You smiled even though your eyes burned, a small laugh escaping your throat. “Then be boring. Be slow. Be quiet. Be you. I’ll still be here.”

He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. The boxes stayed open, old ghosts still lingering with the version of Chris he was trying so hard to let go of. But in the middle of it all, he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

Because you were and that was enough.

—

The snow had stopped overnight. The trees looked like they were dipped in sugar, soft and still as fuzzy animals chittered on the branches. Sunlight crept through the sheer curtains of the cabin, laying golden stripes across the floor.

You woke up to the sound of soft strumming, a faint whistle traveling through the bedroom.

The strumming was different than you were used to. It wasn’t the desperate kind, the kind he used to do at 3am when the demons wouldn’t let him sleep. It wasn’t loud or erratic or commanding. It was slow and careful, almost hesitant like the guitar might break if he pressed too hard.

Chris sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie still on, curls messy, and bare feet planted on the floor. He was so lost in the chords that he didn’t notice you were awake.

You didn’t pry, you just smiled and listened.

The melody was gentle, a little rough around the edges, but there was hope tucked in it. It sounded like he didn’t know where it was going, but for once he was being patient with the not knowing.

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “That’s new.”

He startled slightly. Gave a small smile over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he murmured, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

He nodded toward the notebook on the dresser. “I’ve had this song in my head all morning. The chords came easy, but the words…”

He trailed off. He wasn’t used to music being hard, usually he didn’t have to work for it.

You reached for the notebook, flipping through the pages. Most of them were blank. There was one line written on the first sheet, you read it out loud.

“Shed a tear cause I’m missing you.”

Your chest tightened.

“It’s beautiful,” you said. “Simple… Honest.”

Chris rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t want this one to be about what I’ve lost. I want it to be about what’s left. About waking up next to you.”

You smiled and slid off the bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

“What if it’s not a song of regret?” you offered. “What if it’s just about two people trying?”

He stared at you, then back at his guitar and nodded once.

You hummed a few bars, following the tune he whispered earlier. Then you sang, “I’m still alright to smile. I think about you everyday now.”

He continued plucking at the guitar as you found the words. “All we need is just a little patience.”

His eyes lit up. “Say that again?” You repeated it with a smile.

He grinned, barely, but it was real. “That’s it! That’s our song, baby.”

Chris strummed again, you watched his hands move with a steadier, more confident rhythm. He sang this time too, voice raspy, still healing from the countless shows, but he sounded vulnerable in a way you had never heard.

You both wrote the song slowly, line by line. There was no pressure, no deadline, no producers telling you it was “missing something.”

It was just you and Chris. Just two souls rebuilding something from the wreckage.

You wrote the word Patience across the top page when it was finally done, underlining it twice.

Chris stared at it and then at you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever written anything while sober. Not until now at least.”

“We created something real. It’s beautiful and if nobody hears it, that’s okay,” you reply, getting up from your spot on the floor.

He places the guitar on the bed, opening his legs to make room for you in his lap. You take a seat, loosely wrapping an arm around his neck.

“I told you we’d find him,” you murmured.

His hands find your waist and he kisses you softly, like a thank you he didn’t know how to say.

—

MASTERLIST

A/n: wowowowow long time no fanfic!!! I’m re-entering my GNR era and these songs just bring out the angsty side in me. I’ve had this story/ AU brewing in my mind for a while and I thought I’d finally get these fingers to typing and bring it to life for you guy to enjoy too :P I know it’s angsty and it deals with a lot of hard topics, but I think it’s a beautiful story.

Also, i obviously don’t own these songs, but you guys knew that already.

- L.A.M.B🪽🖤

—

taglist: @nickgetsmewetter @sturniololovers @raysmayhem-72 @worldlxvlys @gnxosblog @meg-sturniolo @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattnchrisworld @sanyi5 @lustfulslxt @whicked-hazlatwhore @tworosesblackthorn @mxqdii @fawned01 @junnniiieee07 @sturniolololover @missriddle03 @k-l-a-w-s @maryx2xx @biggesthat3r @herxyzblog @getosuckers @sturnioloarchive @tillies33ssss @fratbrochrisgf @rxeae @riasturns @sturnikitty @sturnrc @sturtriple16 @sillyfreakfanparty @imwetforyourmom @mattslovelygf @certifiednatelover @cartiiwannagotoplutoo @luvr4miya @somegirlfromasgard @l0vergrlll @pepsicolapussy333 @unbruisable @sugrhigh @khxna @wh0resstuff @jnkvivi @callsignwidow @sturnstvr @inkyray @stasiesturn @poopiepantsworld @cvnt4matty @eleanore2204 @fratbrochrisgf @jhutchismyl0verb0y

note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐 if your user is striked through, I wasn’t able to tag you :(

[teapartyprincess4two]

Patience - C. Sturniolo

pairing: RockStar!Chris x PopStar!reader

classification: MAJOR angst, RockStarAU

warnings: established relationship, cursing, mention of drug abuse, overdose mentioned, mention of alcohol use, set in the 80’s

inspiration: Patience by Guns N’ Roses & Mr. Brownstone by Guns N’ Roses

summary: Chris is a train wreck, his glamorous rockstar life coming to a full stop when his choices finally catch up to him. The whole world turned their back on him and he didn’t expect you to stay.

—

Recovery was never easy. Especially not when it ran as deep as this.

Chris sat slouched on the floor of his home studio. Hoodie up, eyes sunken, jaw unshaven, and hands trembling, not from withdrawal, but from the weight of it all.

He’s only been sober for thirty eight days.

Thirty eight days since his overdose. Thirty eight days since his pain became a public spectacle. Thirty eight days since his name was followed by “death scare” and “cancelled tour” on all media platforms.

Thirty eight days since he’s seen you.

The media did a good job of tearing Chris apart. The headlines were brutal, but the photos were worse. Every tv flashed photos of him being carried out on a stretcher, replayed videos of him slurring words on stage, and clipped his interviews out of context.

The story of his crash was hot off the press. Every major magazine was digging up as much dirt on him as they could, pictures of past lovers, grainy pictures of backstage after parties, rumors that were no longer relevant. Anything to get a piece of this train wreck of a man.

All of it hurt, sure. But none of it stung as much as the rumor that you were leaving him.

They said you were ashamed. Claimed your label was pressuring you to distance yourself, even going as far as creating fake statements on your behalf. They pulled strings, cut and paste things together to create the perfect lie. Said you were already spotted with some shiny new rising star, one who was clean, sparkly eyed, safe. Sober.

Chris tried to believed none of it. He tried to believe that what you had was real, that it’d survive even as he was actively hitting rock bottom.

But when his own mind was his enemy, it was hard to believe anything.

And then… you walked in.

No announcement. No theatrics. No paparazzi.

Just you in an old hoodie of his, baggy sweatpants, and those fuzzy socks he always teased you about.

You didn’t ask if he was okay.

You didn’t mention the headlines.

All you did was kneel down beside him on the cold hardwood floor, hand on his chest and head on his shoulder.

“You’re here,” he croaked, voice barely audible.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

He broke.

It wasn’t pretty. Chris cried like someone who hadn’t let themselves feel anything in years. His hands gripped onto you like a lifeline as ugly, choking sobs tore through his throat. You pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around him and pressing your lips to the top of his head while he gasped for air.

“I hate that you have to see me like this,” he said, voice breaking as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Baby,” you whispered, forcing him to look at you. “I’d rather see you like this than not at all.”

Tears were streaming down your face too, every image of Chris unconscious on that stretcher replaying in your mind.

You knew his addiction was bad, there was no hiding it. The sleepless nights, the blown pupils, and especially the powdery residue he never bothered hiding. But he told you he was doing better, that he had it under control, and you believed him.

But the second you got that call, your heart stopped. You thought you’d lost the only person worth caring about.

He kept repeating, “I’m sorry,” like a confession. Like a punishment.

You didn’t tell him to stop. You just let him say it, let him cry it out. Until finally, he calmed down and just held you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“I thought you left,” he mumbled. “They said you woke up and realized I’m too fucked up to love.”

“No, no, no. Hey,” you grab his face again, “look at me.”

“I did wake up,” you said softly, a heartbroken smile forming on your face as more tears spilled. “And I realized how much the thought of losing you hurt.”

You kiss him softly. Like he was fragile and if you moved too fast he’d break.

When you pull away, your eyes don’t move. You want him to feel what you’re about to say next.

“I love you, Chris. Through every single thing. Everything.”

He nods his head frantically, pulling you in for the tightest hug possible. “I love you.”

—

Chris hadn’t spoken in over an hour.

You didn’t push him, you just cozied up on the frayed couch of the rented cabin. A warm mug of tea sat in your hands, your eyes watching the snowfall outside.

He was on the floor surrounded by open boxes. The floor was littered with old tour merch, faded Polaroids, tattered t-shirts, and about a dozen notebooks filled to the brim with lyrics. Some of those lyrics hit the stage, others went unheard.

A speaker buzzed softly as he played demo after demo, all songs that he remembered performing but barely remembered writing. His voice from 3 years ago echoed faintly through the cabin, cracked and hungry and high. So high.

The song faded out, and a heavy, sinister riff took its place. The drumbeat felt like footsteps and then Chris’s voice crept in, a slurred drawl dragging itself across the lyrics like it was too exhausted to care.

You recognized the song instantly. Mr. Brownstone.

You felt it in your stomach. That song always made you feel like you were helpless. Like you were watching someone you loved through a pane of glass as they drowned.

Chris didn’t look at you. He went rigid.

“Wrote this shit during a blackout,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t even remember until the producer replayed it. Called it genius.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it, just bitterness.

“They called it ‘dangerous.’ ‘Raw.’ Said I was the voice of a new generation.” He ran his hands over his face, jaw clenched. “You know what that means? It means no one helped me, just passed me the mic.”

You placed your mug down gently, quietly stepping off the couch and kneeling beside him. Your body instinctively found his again, and still he didn’t have the courage to look at you.

“I don’t remember writing the bridge,” he continued. “I only remember playing it live one night and thinking, God, I sound like I wanna die and everyone’s cheering.”

He hit pause and the room went silent. You two felt frozen, like even the snow outside paused to listen.

“I don’t know how to live without this version of me,” he admitted. “The messy, chaotic, drunk genius everyone loved. I’m not that guy anymore and I’m scared you won’t like what’s left of me.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, tentative hand reaching up to touch his cheek.

“I love you, Chris,” you pause, “but I never liked that version of you. I survived him.”

He let out a strangled sound, half-sob and half-laugh. It was like something cracked open in his chest. Those words hurt.

“I was a fucking monster,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know why you stayed.”

You shook your head. “Because the monster wasn’t real. The monster was the drugs and the fear. The monster was the pain you never told anyone about. But I saw you, the real you. I still see you.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“What if I can’t come back from this?” he asked, voice broken. “I don’t know how to write anymore. I try and it’s just… empty. Like the part of me that bled music is just gone.”

“He’s still there, baby. He’s just recovering. We’re gonna find him again, okay?” You murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m scared of this version of me being boring,” he whispered.

You smiled even though your eyes burned, a small laugh escaping your throat. “Then be boring. Be slow. Be quiet. Be you. I’ll still be here.”

He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. The boxes stayed open, old ghosts still lingering with the version of Chris he was trying so hard to let go of. But in the middle of it all, he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

Because you were and that was enough.

—

The snow had stopped overnight. The trees looked like they were dipped in sugar, soft and still as fuzzy animals chittered on the branches. Sunlight crept through the sheer curtains of the cabin, laying golden stripes across the floor.

You woke up to the sound of soft strumming, a faint whistle traveling through the bedroom.

The strumming was different than you were used to. It wasn’t the desperate kind, the kind he used to do at 3am when the demons wouldn’t let him sleep. It wasn’t loud or erratic or commanding. It was slow and careful, almost hesitant like the guitar might break if he pressed too hard.

Chris sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie still on, curls messy, and bare feet planted on the floor. He was so lost in the chords that he didn’t notice you were awake.

You didn’t pry, you just smiled and listened.

The melody was gentle, a little rough around the edges, but there was hope tucked in it. It sounded like he didn’t know where it was going, but for once he was being patient with the not knowing.

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “That’s new.”

He startled slightly. Gave a small smile over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he murmured, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

He nodded toward the notebook on the dresser. “I’ve had this song in my head all morning. The chords came easy, but the words…”

He trailed off. He wasn’t used to music being hard, usually he didn’t have to work for it.

You reached for the notebook, flipping through the pages. Most of them were blank. There was one line written on the first sheet, you read it out loud.

“Shed a tear cause I’m missing you.”

Your chest tightened.

“It’s beautiful,” you said. “Simple… Honest.”

Chris rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t want this one to be about what I’ve lost. I want it to be about what’s left. About waking up next to you.”

You smiled and slid off the bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

“What if it’s not a song of regret?” you offered. “What if it’s just about two people trying?”

He stared at you, then back at his guitar and nodded once.

You hummed a few bars, following the tune he whispered earlier. Then you sang, “I’m still alright to smile. I think about you everyday now.”

He continued plucking at the guitar as you found the words. “All we need is just a little patience.”

His eyes lit up. “Say that again?” You repeated it with a smile.

He grinned, barely, but it was real. “That’s it! That’s our song, baby.”

Chris strummed again, you watched his hands move with a steadier, more confident rhythm. He sang this time too, voice raspy, still healing from the countless shows, but he sounded vulnerable in a way you had never heard.

You both wrote the song slowly, line by line. There was no pressure, no deadline, no producers telling you it was “missing something.”

It was just you and Chris. Just two souls rebuilding something from the wreckage.

You wrote the word Patience across the top page when it was finally done, underlining it twice.

Chris stared at it and then at you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever written anything while sober. Not until now at least.”

“We created something real. It’s beautiful and if nobody hears it, that’s okay,” you reply, getting up from your spot on the floor.

He places the guitar on the bed, opening his legs to make room for you in his lap. You take a seat, loosely wrapping an arm around his neck.

“I told you we’d find him,” you murmured.

His hands find your waist and he kisses you softly, like a thank you he didn’t know how to say.

—

MASTERLIST

A/n: wowowowow long time no fanfic!!! I’m re-entering my GNR era and these songs just bring out the angsty side in me. I’ve had this story/ AU brewing in my mind for a while and I thought I’d finally get these fingers to typing and bring it to life for you guy to enjoy too :P I know it’s angsty and it deals with a lot of hard topics, but I think it’s a beautiful story.

Also, i obviously don’t own these songs, but you guys knew that already.

- L.A.M.B🪽🖤

—

taglist: @nickgetsmewetter @sturniololovers @raysmayhem-72 @worldlxvlys @gnxosblog @meg-sturniolo @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattnchrisworld @sanyi5 @lustfulslxt @whicked-hazlatwhore @tworosesblackthorn @mxqdii @fawned01 @junnniiieee07 @sturniolololover @missriddle03 @k-l-a-w-s @maryx2xx @biggesthat3r @herxyzblog @getosuckers @sturnioloarchive @tillies33ssss @fratbrochrisgf @rxeae @riasturns @sturnikitty @sturnrc @sturtriple16 @sillyfreakfanparty @imwetforyourmom @mattslovelygf @certifiednatelover @cartiiwannagotoplutoo @luvr4miya @somegirlfromasgard @l0vergrlll @pepsicolapussy333 @unbruisable @sugrhigh @khxna @wh0resstuff @jnkvivi @callsignwidow @sturnstvr @inkyray @stasiesturn @poopiepantsworld @cvnt4matty @eleanore2204 @fratbrochrisgf @jhutchismyl0verb0y

note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐 if your user is striked through, I wasn’t able to tag you :(

[teapartyprincess4two]

SINNERS (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

[teapartyprincess4two]

CRYING why is he so dumb and pathetic

[teapartyprincess4two]

[teapartyprincess4two]

"This film was an incredible opportunity for me. And more than anything, I thought it was an opportunity for me to write a love letter to cinema, to all the things I love about going to the movies. [...] In many ways it's most important movie I've made, straight for me to all of you." - Ryan Coogler

SINNERS (2025) BEHIND THE SCENES (1/2) Dir. Ryan Coogler