#kittydean

colour: black season: autumn chosen word: adaptable

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ your chosen weapon is illusion-based magic. subtle yet creative and a little unpredictable. you don’t fight head-on unless you have to. instead, you bend perception, shift what people think they see, create openings where there weren’t any before. it’s clever and instinctive, yet still perfectly suited to someone who thinks outside the box.

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ you’re quietly curious, always observing, always taking things in, even when you’re not saying much. social situations can trip you up, make you second guess yourself, overthink every word. but your mind never stops working. you adapt. you adjust. you find another way around instead of forcing your way through.

The bunker’s quiet. Too quiet. You’ve got your sketchbook open in front of you, pen hovering more than actually doing anything. There are a few half-finished lines on the page, nothing you’re really committed to. You’re not focused. Not on the drawing, anyway. Dean’s across the room, leaning against the counter with a beer, and you can feel it every time his eyes drift over to you. It’s subtle. Easy to miss. You don’t. You glance up once. He’s already looking. Your gaze drops straight back to the page, like you’ve been caught. A second passes. “Y’gonna finish that?” he asks, nodding toward your sketchbook. “Eventually,” you say, trying to sound normal. Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “You’ve been ‘eventually’-ing that for, what, twenty minutes?” “Maybe I’m thinking.” “Yeah? That never ends well.” You risk another look. He’s closer now. You didn’t even hear him move. Your fingers tighten slightly around the pen. “Can I see?” he asks. “It’s not done.” “Don’t care.” You hesitate, then angle the sketchbook toward him—just enough. Dean steps in, leaning over your shoulder. Close. You can feel the warmth of him, the shift in the air, and suddenly your brain just—stops cooperating. Say something. Don’t say anything. Just— “Looks good,” he says quietly. “It’s nothing,” you reply. “Just a draft.” “Still.” There’s a pause, and you glance up. He’s not looking at the page anymore. He’s looking at you, and he doesn’t look away. Your chest tightens a little. You could say something. You should say something. But you don’t. Because what if you’re wrong? Dean shifts first, stepping back like it didn’t mean anything. “You always overthink this much?” he asks, casual again. You let out a small breath, eyes dropping back to the page. “Yeah,” you mumble. “Pretty much.” Another quiet stretch settles in. Neither of you say it. Neither of you move. But it’s still there, that almost moment, just waiting for one of you to stop hesitating.

Too many!