#nourangul

colour: teal season: spring chosen word: warmth

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ your chosen weapon is a teal-handled combat knife. clean and practical. no frills, and definitely no hesitation. you don’t fight to look good. efficient, direct, and honest… just like you.

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ you’re kind. deeply so, but not nice. you won’t lie to make someone comfortable. you won’t soften the truth just to keep the peace. your care shows up in actions, not pretty words. you patch people up, yet you stand your ground, and you say what needs to be said… even when it’s not what someone wants to hear.

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ dean clocks it fast. the way you hand him a beer and tell him he’s being an idiot in the same breath. the way you stay when things get hard, not because it’s easy, but because it matters. he calls you “dora” like it’s second nature—half fond, half amused—especially when you’re being stubborn as hell.

The bunker door slams harder than it needs to. Dean stalks in, jaw tight, a smear of blood at his temple like he forgot it was there. You’re already up from the table, arms crossing before you can stop yourself. “That was stupid.” He scoffs, tossing his keys down. “Yeah? Worked, didn’t it?” “Barely.” You step closer, eyes narrowing. “You ran in without a plan. Again.” “I had a plan.” “Dean, ‘winging it’ isn’t a plan.” He opens his mouth, ready to argue—then winces, just slightly, like his ribs protest the movement. “…sit down,” you say. “I’m fine.” “Sit. Down.” He glares for a second, then—grudgingly—drops into the chair. “Bossy,” he mutters. “Reckless,” you shoot back, already grabbing the first aid kit. There’s a chance of some quiet as you kneel in front of him, hands gentler than your words. You tilt his chin, wiping the blood from his temple with careful precision. He watches you, something softer creeping in. “You always this nice after yelling at me?” he asks. “I’m not nice,” you reply. “I’m right.” A faint huff of a laugh. You press gauze to the cut. “Hold that.” He does. “Look,” you add, quieter now, checking his side. “You don’t get to throw yourself into danger like that and pretend it doesn’t matter.” Dean’s gaze lingers on you. “Matters to you?” You don’t look up. “Don’t make it a thing.” “Too late, Dora.” You sigh, but your hands don’t stop moving—steady, careful, there. “That’s the point,” you mutter. “I’m gonna call you out.” You finally meet his eyes. “But I’m also not going anywhere.” Dean goes quiet. Then, softer: “Yeah. I know.”

Thank u for the support during this time of burnout

Thank you so much @nourangul and @togepies!! 🎂🎂

Thank you, Jules and Sloth! I got my normal existential birthday cry out early so now the day's been good since lol 💝💝 @saintalessia @slothssassin

Me trying to be social

😜