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Introducing…. rapper!chris

21, stoner, upcoming rapper, late night drives, spraypaint, smoke machines, playboy, hook ups, pepsi, parties, money money money.

Pairing with…. singer!reader

21, shopaholic, glitter, paparazzi, life of the party, discoballs, songwriting, poems, guitar, tequilla, perfectionist, sold out stadiums, world tour.

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probably gonna make some fanfics bout these two! Send i requests if you have any ideas!

current taglist! comment if you want to be added!

@bernardsbendystraws @joanakaulitz @aurascherry @h3arts4harry @leoslaboratory

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HIII I LOVE YOUR THEME OMGGGG

HEYYAA🤍 thank youu! love yours too, its like weirdly nostalgic in the best way possible its so cutee

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art classꨄ

matt sturniolo ~ blurb

warnings - none!

You were the kind of person who always moved aside on the sidewalk, even when you didn’t have to. Who whispered “bless you” in the softest voice imaginable. Who smiled at cats like they were old friends and got flustered when someone said your name out loud.

Matt was the kind of person who apologized when someone stepped on his foot, who fumbled his words when ordering coffee and always tipped too much out of guilt. He carried sketchbooks full of half-finished drawings and avoided eye contact like it might catch fire.

So naturally, when the two of you ended up as the only students in the quiet art classroom that afternoon—seated side by side—it was a recipe for shy silence and gentle panic.

He gave a tiny nod when you sat down, eyes flicking to you for barely a second before dropping back to the page in front of him. You nodded back, swallowing a nervous lump in your throat, and started unpacking your pencils with trembling fingers that made too much noise.

Fifteen minutes passed in silence. Your hands were sweating. His pencil had been on the same corner of his paper for five minutes.

You peeked over once—just once—and saw he was drawing a tree. Soft, delicate strokes. You liked it. You didn’t know how to say so.

And then, as if sensing you looking, Matt glanced your way and caught your eyes for a heartbeat too long.

His face turned a deep, rosy red. He dropped his pencil. It rolled across the table like it had somewhere urgent to be.

“S-sorry,” he stammered, grabbing it clumsily.

You shook your head quickly. “No, no, it’s—um, it’s okay. I was just—your tree looks really nice.”

His ears turned even redder somehow. “Oh. Th-thank you. Yours… yours is nice too. I mean, I didn’t mean to—like, I wasn’t watching you or anything.”

You both laughed. Awkward. Breathless. A little too loud for how quiet the room was.

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this is also a c.ai bot if you wanna check it out!

current taglist! comment if you want to be added!

@bernardsbendystraws @joanakaulitz @aurascherry

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yall im making a taglist! comment of you wanna be on it!!

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Firelines-Matt sturniolo

Warnings! war,blood,shooting,cussing(like twice),bombs,thats it ig??

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When you first met Matt, you didn’t expect to care. It was the military—there wasn’t room for that. You were trained to keep your head down, follow orders, and carry your weight. And that’s exactly what you did. No distractions. No connections. Just the job. But somehow, Matt slipped past your walls like smoke under a door.

He wasn’t supposed to be funny, but he was. In a place where humor usually died, he kept it alive with some crooked smile and dry sarcasm that always landed at the wrong time—and yet, it worked. You’d be tightening your boots, checking your gear, and he’d mutter something that made you bite back a laugh.

“You’re the quiet type, huh?” he said once, during a night watch.

You didn’t answer.

He smiled anyway. “I’ll break that.”

And he did. Little by little. The quiet talks during late shifts. The subtle glances across the mess hall. The way he always made sure you had water first. The way your name sounded different when it came from him.

You got close. Too close. Everyone noticed, but no one said anything. In a place like this, the silence said it all.

Then the war broke out. Like a switch flipped, everything went dark.

You were in a hideout—half a crumbled building, dust thick in your lungs. The enemy had swarmed faster than expected, and chaos followed. Bullets whizzed past, the thunder of bombs shook the walls, and commands screamed over the comms got lost in the noise.

You, Matt, and a handful of others held your ground, guns hot, hearts racing.

Then it happened.

One second you were yelling for cover. The next, a shot rang out—close. Too close. You didn’t feel it right away. You just dropped.

Your body hit the floor, limp.

Matt saw the blood before he saw your face.

“No,” he breathed, eyes wide, knees buckling.

You were barely moving. Maybe you weren’t moving at all.

He dropped beside you, hands shaking, eyes wild. “No—no, no, fuck!, no—please—stay with me, stay with me—” His voice cracked, turned to a sob. He pressed his hands over your wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was bad. Too bad. His breath came in gasps, panic clawing at his chest.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he whispered like a prayer. “You don’t get to do this. Not to me.”

The other soldiers kept shooting. Shouting. The world was falling apart. But for Matt, the only thing that mattered was the broken body in his arms.

He begged. Out loud. To you. To God. To whoever was listening.

“It can’t end like this,” he choked, tears falling. “You can’t leave me like this.”

And for a terrifying moment, everything stood still.

The world outside still screamed—gunfire, explosions, men yelling orders—but Matt couldn’t hear any of it. All he could hear was the wet, ragged sound of your breathing slowing down. All he could see was the blood on his hands, pooling around your body, soaking into your uniform.

He was shaking. Hard. His grip on you was desperate, like if he just held on tight enough, he could anchor your soul to your body.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” he whispered frantically, cupping your cheek with one hand, the other still trying to keep pressure on the wound. “You’re still here. You hear me? You’re still with me.”

Your eyes fluttered, unfocused. You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Just a faint noise, like a breath trying to become words. That was enough for Matt. That was hope.

“Medic!” he screamed over his shoulder. “Goddammit, MEDIC!”

There was a pause. Then heavy footsteps, someone shouting back, but it felt miles away.

Matt leaned in close again, forehead nearly touching yours. “You remember that time you said I was annoying as hell? You said if I died, it’d be peaceful.” He tried to laugh, but it broke into a sob. “Well, you don’t get that peace, not yet. You don’t get to go before me.”

You blinked slowly. Barely there. But your fingers twitched. Matt grabbed them instantly, lacing his with yours.

The medic finally slid in beside him, eyes scanning the situation, already barking out instructions. “We need to move now. I need help, now.”

Matt didn’t let go of your hand. Not for a second. They moved you together, lifting you onto a stretcher, bullets still flying. Matt stayed by your side the whole time, one hand still pressed against your wound, the other gripping yours like it was the only thing holding him together.

He kept whispering to you the whole way out.

“You’re not done yet. You’re not leaving me like that. You still owe me a beer, remember?”

And under the blood, under the pain, just before your eyes closed from the weight of it all—you squeezed his hand back.

It was weak.

But it was real.

They got you to the evac point fast—too fast and not fast enough all at once. Matt stayed beside the stretcher, shouting over the chaos, refusing to let go even as the medics tried to shove him back.

“You don’t understand,” he barked at them, voice cracked and wild, “I have to be with her.”

“You’re not a medic—”

“I don’t give a fuck!, I’m not leaving.”

And they let him stay. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like if they pulled him away, you’d die. Maybe it was because they saw enough of this war to know love when it bled out in front of them.

The transport rattled like hell. The medic kept checking your pulse. Matt sat beside you, knuckles white from how hard he gripped the rail, eyes never leaving your face.

You drifted in and out. At some point, you started murmuring things—half-dreamed words, memories blurred with pain. Matt leaned closer, catching pieces of your voice.

“Still…here,” you whispered. “I’m…still here.”

The base hospital was chaos when you arrived—dozens of injured, triage lines out the doors. But somehow, they rushed you through. Matt followed as far as they’d let him before slamming the doors in his face.

He stood there, chest heaving, covered in your blood. Time stopped meaning anything. Minutes, hours—it all blurred together. He sat on the floor, hands locked together, head against the wall.

He didn’t cry this time. He’d cried enough. Now he just waited.

When the door finally opened, a nurse stepped out. Matt stood up so fast he almost tripped.

“They stabilized her,” she said. “She lost a lot of blood, but she’s strong. She’ll pulled through.”

Matt didn’t hear anything else after that. He just leaned back against the wall, sliding down slowly, finally breathing again.

When he saw you again, hours later, you looked pale. Bruised. Alive.

He sat beside the bed, reached for your hand, held it gently.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking again. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You opened your eyes just barely. A slow smile tugged at the edge of your lips.

“Still… annoying,” you rasped.

Matt let out a broken laugh, pressing your hand to his cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “You’re stuck with me.”

And this time, when you squeezed his hand back, it wasn’t weak.

It was strong.

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authors note- first fanfic! now idea how i feel about this, kinda ass, let me know if it was good! feel free to give requests