κ©ΰΌ.Β° @kittydean's ππππππ πππππππππ,
colour: black season: autumn chosen word: adaptable
Κΰ¬Ω ΰ£ͺβ your chosen weapon is illusion-based magic. subtle yet creative and a little unpredictable. you donβt fight head-on unless you have to. instead, you bend perception, shift what people think they see, create openings where there werenβt any before. itβs clever and instinctive, yet still perfectly suited to someone who thinks outside the box.
Κΰ¬Ω ΰ£ͺβ youβre quietly curious, always observing, always taking things in, even when youβre 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 bunkerβs quiet. Too quiet. Youβve 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 youβre really committed to. Youβre not focused. Not on the drawing, anyway. Deanβs across the room, leaning against the counter with a beer, and you can feel it every time his eyes drift over to you. Itβs subtle. Easy to miss. You donβt. You glance up once. Heβs already looking. Your gaze drops straight back to the page, like youβve been caught. A second passes. βYβgonna finish that?β he asks, nodding toward your sketchbook. βEventually,β you say, trying to sound normal. Dean huffs a quiet laugh. βYouβve been βeventuallyβ-ing that for, what, twenty minutes?β βMaybe Iβm thinking.β βYeah? That never ends well.β You risk another look. Heβs closer now. You didnβt even hear him move. Your fingers tighten slightly around the pen. βCan I see?β he asks. βItβs not done.β βDonβt care.β You hesitate, then angle the sketchbook toward himβjust 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 justβstops cooperating. Say something. Donβt say anything. Justβ βLooks good,β he says quietly. βItβs nothing,β you reply. βJust a draft.β βStill.β Thereβs a pause, and you glance up. Heβs not looking at the page anymore. Heβs looking at you, and he doesnβt look away. Your chest tightens a little. You could say something. You should say something. But you donβt. Because what if youβre wrong? Dean shifts first, stepping back like it didnβt mean anything. βYou always overthink this much?β he asks, casual again. You let out a small breath, eyes dropping back to the page. βYeah,β you mumble. βPretty much.β Another quiet stretch settles in. Neither of you say it. Neither of you move. But itβs still there, that almost moment, just waiting for one of you to stop hesitating.
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