#steph summers

[darkened-storm]

[hellovivirose]

Dump of random old OC doodles, memes, and wips I probably won’t finish…

Context might be helpful 😅

1 - random doodle of Vera (Yuriy’s daughter) to try out some new techniques but ehh

2 - Ilma ( @let-it-ripperoni ) apologizing to Brooklyn by appealing to his love of birds

3 - Celeste’s mom, Irina, refuses to talk about Boris except to say he’s a bad guy and @nekobakubey says hmm sounds familiar

4 - Steph ( @darkened-storm ) can never see through Matt’s disguises

5 - Kiya ( @bladerbunny ) and Bryan get married and decide to choose the worst (or best?) possible bridal party outfits

[let-it-ripperoni]

Art I did for my good friend @darkened-storm! She was so fun to experiment with.

[darkened-storm]

Steph knew it was a bad idea the second the call connected.

The camera shook violently before settling on Kiya’s face—slightly flushed, wildly pleased with herself—and then immediately tilted down to reveal… leaves.

Large ones.

Tropical. Suspiciously tropical.

Steph blinked. “Why does it look like you’re being attacked by a rainforest?”

“It’s fine,” Kiya said, breathless, clearly not fine. “Just—just hold on—”

The camera lurched again. There was the unmistakable scrape of ceramic against concrete, followed by a muffled thud.

Steph leaned closer to her laptop in her London flat. “Kiya. Why do you have a palm tree.”

Cut to Kiya, whisper-yelling: “Impulsive last-minute rescue.”

Steph stared at her. “That’s not a sentence that makes anything better.”

Another drag-scrape sound. The camera dipped just enough for Steph to catch a glimpse of a full potted palm wedged halfway through what looked like a sliding door.

Steph’s voice went up an octave. “YOU STOLE A PALM TREE.”

“I did not steal it,” Kiya shot back, bracing her shoulder against the pot and shoving. “It was on someone’s porch and they’ve been gone two months—”

“That’s still theft!”

“—and it looked sad,” Kiya finished, as if that solved everything.

Steph pinched the bridge of her nose. “That is not rescuing. That is larceny with foliage.”

Behind her, Matt—quietly making tea like this was a perfectly normal Tuesday—glanced over.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

Steph didn’t even turn. “Kiya has committed plant-based crime.”

Matt paused. Then, very calmly, set the kettle down… and picked up his phone.

California — same time

Kiya finally got the pot inside with a victorious grunt and kicked the door shut behind her.

“There,” she said, triumphant. “See? Easy.”

Steph leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Why are you whispering.”

Kiya froze.

From somewhere deeper in the house, a floorboard creaked.

“…I’m not whispering.”

“You are absolutely whispering.”

“I am being considerate,” Kiya hissed.

Steph deadpanned, “Of the man whose house you’re smuggling a tree into?”

Kiya opened her mouth—

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced down.

Bryan:

Do we own a palm tree?

Kiya went still.

Very, very still.

Steph saw it happen in real time. “Oh no.”

Another buzz.

Bryan:

Also why is Matt texting me ‘check your living room’ like it’s a hostage situation

Steph slowly turned her head toward Matt.

He didn’t even look up from his tea. “Preventative measures.”

“You snitched?” Steph whispered, scandalised.

“I prefer ‘risk mitigation.’”

⸻

Back on Kiya’s screen, there was the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Approaching.

Kiya whispered, “He’s not supposed to be home yet.”

Steph leaned forward like she was watching live television. “Oh I am not hanging up. I want to see this.”

“Kiya,” Matt added mildly, “you may want to—”

Too late.

The hallway light flicked on behind her.

Bryan appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, taking in:

• His wife

• A full-sized palm tree

• Dirt on the floor

• The expression of someone who had absolutely no intention of explaining this logically

There was a long, terrible silence.

Then—

“…why,” Bryan said slowly, “is there a tree in my house.”

Kiya straightened. Tried dignity. Failed immediately.

“It followed me home.”

Steph choked.

Matt turned away, shoulders shaking.

Bryan blinked once. Twice. “It—what.”

“It was neglected,” Kiya said, doubling down with reckless bravery. “I rescued it.”

“That is not rescuing,” Steph called from London, fully invested now. “That is a felony.”

Bryan pointed at the screen. “Why is Steph here.”

“Witness,” Steph said brightly.

“ENABLER,” Kiya snapped.

“Critic,” Steph corrected.

Bryan dragged a hand down his face. “How long has this been happening.”

Kiya hesitated.

Steph answered immediately: “About five minutes and already it’s escalated beyond recovery.”

Matt added, “There’s dirt on your floor.”

Bryan looked down.

There was, indeed, dirt on his floor.

He looked back up at Kiya.

“…you tracked soil through the house.”

“It’s organic,” Kiya offered weakly.

Steph lost it. Full laughter now, doubled over in her chair.

Matt finally sipped his tea. “Well,” he said, calm as ever, “on the bright side, it’s a nice plant.”

Bryan turned to him through the screen. “You’re not helping.”

“I warned you.”

“You CAUSED THIS.”

Kiya pointed at Matt. “Exactly! He snitched!”

Steph wiped her eyes. “Oh my god, you got busted mid-heist. This is incredible.”

Bryan looked back at the palm tree. Then at his wife.

“…we are not keeping it.”

Kiya gasped. “You can’t just throw it back out, it’s traumatised.”

“It’s a plant.”

“It has feelings.”

“It has roots in SOMEONE ELSE’S PROPERTY.”

Steph clapped once. “Say it louder for the courtroom.”

Kiya looked between all of them, betrayed on every front.

“…you’re all against me.”

“Yes,” Steph and Bryan said in perfect unison.

Matt, after a beat: “Regrettably.”

⸻

There was a long pause.

Then Kiya sighed, deflating.

“…fine.”

Bryan nodded, relieved.

“We’ll return it tomorrow,” she said.

He blinked. “We?”

Kiya smiled sweetly. “You’re part of this now.”

Steph cackled.

Matt took another sip of tea.

Bryan closed his eyes.

“…I knew I should have ignored Matt’s text.”

⸻

Steph leaned back in her chair, utterly delighted.

“Same time next week?” she asked.

Kiya, already eyeing the plant like she might try again, muttered, “Don’t tempt me.”

Matt raised an eyebrow.

Bryan pointed at the screen. “No more crimes.”

Kiya grinned.

“No promises.”

[darkened-storm]

The mental health trashcan-o-meter

The hotel room in London looked like a convenience store had lost a fight.

Oreos open on the coffee table. Two crushed chip packets. A suspicious mix of chocolate wrappers and something neon that Becky had insisted counted as “fruit adjacent.” The curtains were half drawn—but they kept moving, rattling faintly with every violent gust outside.

Wind howled down the street, loud enough to cut through the glass.

Steph glanced toward the window, twisting an Oreo apart like it had personally offended her. “That’s not normal wind.”

“It’s British wind,” Becky said, feet planted firmly on the table despite multiple protests. “It comes with personality.”

“It sounds like it’s trying to break in.”

“It probably is.”

Hilary, curled into the armchair with the remote, didn’t even look up. “If it gets in, it can help clean this mess.”

“It’ll make it worse,” Steph muttered.

Kiya, sprawled along the couch with one arm over her eyes, hummed faintly. “At least it’ll take the trash with it.”

Another gust rattled the window hard enough to make all of them glance over.

“Yeah,” Steph said. “That’s definitely taking someone’s bin.”

Hilary paused mid-channel flip. “…wait.”

She hit the volume.

On screen, a weather segment popped up—some overly composed presenter gesturing at a brightly coloured graphic.

TRASH CAN WIND METER.

Hilary blinked, then snorted. “Our situation can’t be all that bad if they’re comparing the weather to lost trash cans.”

Becky let out a quiet, long-suffering exhale.

“What I wouldn’t give,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “to be as oblivious as the general population is about how close we are to the world ending if we don’t win a beyblade tournament.”

Silence.

The wind howled again, like it was agreeing.

Steph twisted another Oreo apart.

Hilary didn’t change the channel.

Kiya shifted slightly, lowering her arm just enough to look at them. “If that scale applied to your mental health… where would you be?”

Her gaze slid, pointed, to Hilary.

Hilary shrugged immediately. “After dealing with Tyson and Daichi today? My lid is definitely flipped open.”

“That’s generous,” Becky muttered.

Steph huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m probably somewhere between the neighbor’s yard and halfway down the street.”

She glanced over. “What about you?”

Becky didn’t even hesitate.

“My boyfriend’s grandfather is our arch nemesis,” she said flatly. “And we’re trying to stop him from taking over the world.”

She reached for another Oreo.

“My trash can is gone.”

Hilary lost it first, dissolving into laughter.

Steph followed, quieter, but nodding like that was a completely reasonable conclusion. “Yeah. No. That checks out.”

Kiya sat up slightly as all three of them turned on her.

“What?” she said, already smiling.

“Well?” Hilary pressed. “Where are you on the scale?”

Kiya let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“I never had one.”

Steph blinked. “That bad, huh?”

Kiya leaned back again, folding her arms behind her head.

“I’m stuck in Japan with no public bin,” she said. “And I forgot to bring my own portable garbage bag.”

There was a beat.

Then the room broke—laughter spilling over itself, loud and unfiltered.

Outside, something metallic clattered down the street, carried by the wind.

Steph didn’t even look up. “Yeah,” she said through a grin. “There goes someone’s trash can.”

[darkened-storm]

She found the assigned room on the upper floors of the officer’s quarters, stopping only to confirm his name was indeed scribbled hastily below Thomas’s before she flung the door open—

—and stopped dead in her tracks.

Matt looked up, his sapphire eyes narrowing at the intrusion, and her words died at the sight of him.

He was half dressed in clean flight pants and a half-buttoned shirt, revealing the purple splotches that were beginning to form across his shoulders and chest where the restraints had held him.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Matt’s expression flickered — surprise, then wariness — as his gaze cut briefly to the open door behind her; a subtle reminder that she shouldn’t be here, and that she couldn’t afford to be caught.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?”

She flinched at the renewed use of her rank over her name — and its purpose: armour. Whatever had prompted him to lower his guard with her earlier, the walls were firmly back in place.

But she wasn’t about to back down now.

She stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind her with a decisive click.

“You’re hurt,” she stated, matter-of-factly.

He shrugged. “It looks worse than it is.”

The words did little to assure her.

“That was reckless,” she told him.

He leaned back against the edge of the desk, folding his arms loosely, as if deliberately casual. His gaze met hers, steady and calculating, but there was something taut beneath it — like a wire drawn too tight.

“I know how to handle myself in combat,” she said.

“And I don’t?” His words were barely above a whisper.

She took a step closer, eyes flicking — traitorously — to the bruising across his chest again. “You could have been killed,” she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

“So could you,” he reminded her, and there was the subtlest hint of amusement in his tone. “Doesn’t that make you just as reckless?”

“What?” She hesitated, thrown. “I—” A flicker of heat rose under her skin. “I guess… no!” She shook her head insistently. “I’m a Guardian Force pilot. It’s my job. Your job is to—”

“Protect you,” he interjected, the humour falling away like a mask. “A job, I might add, that is proving increasingly difficult — what, with all the attempted kidnappings and the spies…”

He trailed off, jaw tightening, something dark passing through his expression.

“I suppose taking the brunt of a charged particle beam isn’t really conducive to your assignment.”

She saw his jaw clench. “Don’t remind me.”

The silence stretched — tight, humming, dangerous.

She reached for him without quite realising she’d decided to. Her fingers brushed the bruising on his skin, lighter than air.

He flinched.

His hand came up instantly, catching hers and holding it flat against his chest — not pushing it away.

“You’re really all right then?” she asked, softer now.

His breath shifted beneath her palm. “I will be.”

“I’m sorry about Anna,” she said quietly.

“I don’t care about Anna,” he replied, and there was a sudden edge to his voice. “That’s not why— she’s not the reason why I did it.”

“Then why?”

He hesitated — just long enough for the truth to decide for him.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “It was reckless. I knew I’d be putting myself in the line of fire. I knew I had no business being on that battlefield today.” His grip tightened, not painful — grounding. “But when that radar locked onto you… I stopped thinking.”

Steph froze.

“That wasn’t training,” he continued, voice rough now. “It wasn’t protocol. All that mattered was protecting you.”

That was not a soldier’s answer.

It was a confession.

“I keep telling myself it’s duty,” he went on, quieter now. “That it’s the assignment — because that’s the simplest explanation. And if I tell myself that enough times, maybe it’ll be true.”

His free hand rose to cup her cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye, lifting her gaze to meet his.

And under no circumstances should he be looking at her the way he was looking at her now — like she was the very air he needed to breathe.

“We can’t…” she whispered.

We can’t fall in love.

Matt’s breath shuddered, his forehead resting briefly against hers. “I think,” he murmured, “we already have.”

She didn’t argue.

She kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate and certain and long overdue.

His hands found her waist and lifted her easily onto the desk, her breath catching as the solid edge pressed into the backs of her thighs.

Her fingers fumbled for the hem of his shirt, tugging it free of his pants and dragging it upward, needing skin, needing proof.

His skin was warm beneath her hands — living, solid — undeniable proof that he had survived the wreck, that he was here.

He sucked in a breath when her fingertips grazed one of the darker bruises, his grip tightening reflexively.

She shrugged out of her flight jacket, letting the fabric fall forgotten to the desk. Her hands went to her hair, fingers shaking as they snagged in the tie.

“Let me,” he said softly.

She dropped her hands.

He tugged gently at the tie until it came loose, letting the long strands tumble around her shoulders. His fingers threaded through her hair slowly, reverently, like it was something precious.

He lowered her onto the bed with care that didn’t quite mask the hunger beneath it.

“Sorry,” she said at once, withdrawing her hands — only for him to catch them again.

“Don’t be,” he told her.

He kissed the corner of her mouth. Then her cheek. Then the star-shaped tattoo beneath her eye, lingering there as if it meant something sacred.

His gaze searched hers, the intensity behind it making her breath hitch. “Have you…?” he began, voice low and careful.

Her pulse thundered.

She shook her head slowly.

Something in him softened instantly — not disappointment, not hesitation — but something protective and fierce and aching all at once.

His fingers stroked her face, slow and soothing, grounding her, giving her confidence.

“We’ll go as slow as you need,” he promised quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since this mission began — since the Knights, the betrayals, the fear —

Steph believed him.

And just beyond the door, the war could wait a little longer.

[darkened-storm]

“It’s called PTSD,” she said, watching his reaction carefully.

“What?”

“Post traumatic stress disorder. It’s when …”

“I know what it is,” he said irritably. “And I don’t have it. I wasn’t in a war, Steph, I lost a beybattle.”

She sighed patiently. “It started with a coupe, there were two sides, two opinions of what was right, and at the end of it a dictator was overthrown. Sounds a hell of a lot like a war to me.”

[darkened-storm]

Coffee with a hint of salt

“You look like you could use some coffee,”Fiona said, and busied her self fetching the coffee pot and some cups. “How about you, Corporal,” she asked Matt with a friendly smile.

“Umm, yes please.”

She picked up the sugar bowl and added three heaped teaspoons to her cup before offering it around the table. One by one, her friends politely pulled their cups away from her eager hands, except for Matt.

She watched him take a sip of the coffee and immediately his expression shifted to one of alarm. He coughed violently, placing the cup back down on the table with a shakey hand.

Becky buried her nose in her own cup to muffle her snort of amusement.

“Something wrong with your coffee, Parker,” Van asked, a knowning glint in his eye.

“No, nothing - it’s just a bit stronger than I’m used to,” he said, watching Fiona carefully. The Ancient Zoidian merely smiled and added three heaped teaspoons to her own coffee.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said at once, reaching for his cup. “That would be the salt.”

“Who puts salt in coffee?” he asked, keeping his voice hushed.

“Fiona does,” Steph said with a grin. She watched Fiona add three heaped teaspoons of salt to her coffee, and each of her friends in turn pull their coffee cups slightly further away from her eager hands.