cubicle home

This is the world we live in. The sheltered cubicles we call home. Bricks and mortar, soft wood and the occasional steel bar or two – providing us with a sense of security, of comfort. I do not deny that these ramshackle structure provide for us. We are usually kept dry, often warm, and – to a degree, depending on the quantity of available toilet paper, comfortable. But do they keep us safe? The perception of safety, that within our own walls nothing will happen to us, is based solely on the concept of: “because – well – shouldn’t really,” is what is so beautiful, and horrifying about the human condition: our ability to live in our imagination. To believe what we are told. It is the glue that links us all – regardless of race, creed or religion. We are all believers. 

We believe in a vast variety or gods and follow the rules that dictate those faiths, at the same time we believe in the borders of nation; telling us that we require papers and permits to cross invisible lines separating invisible nations and dividing one scrap of land into two. Our belief that no other car will cross the thin, white line that divide the lanes of the highway is so absolute that the line might be a Trump-size wall in its own might. And we believe that no one that we don’t invite will step into the little cubicle we call home – and more often than not  people abide to that rule. But not always.

What happens when one of these illusions shatter? How do we react? Does the reaction vary depending on the size of the illusion shattered? Or can one, little breach cause the whole illusion of our reality to crumble like a house of cards that just had its first encounter with an inquisitive cat

Date Night

Dean imagine requested by anon! I no longer have the original request, but it was something along the lines of “Dean and the reader spend some quality civilian time together by going out on an actual date" so that’s what you should expect, for the most part. This imagine has been edited for reposting to add details where it was scarce. Hope you like it!

It was days like this that made you wish your life held even the tiniest scrap of normalcy, that this dreary existence was your everyday, that you had never been introduced to the blood and the gore of your profession. The only deal-breaker sat beside you, his hands gripping his baby’s steering wheel, full lips parted in song as he struggled to keep up with the wailing falsetto so stereotypical to classic rock, his emerald eyes flashing to yours every time he saw it fit to move his focus from the lyrics and the road. You and your longtime boyfriend Dean were driving aimlessly around the ramshackle small town your case was located in, the Impala’s radio blasting music to the masses of overgrown shrubbery and empty storefronts, tires flinging silt and dust into the air as you raced around the abandoned side roads. Dean was speeding, as per usual, multitasking as he slammed his hands to the leather wheel in time with the drummer, comically head banging along to ”Running With The Devil,” proclaiming that Van Halen was fantastic and that you were insane not to know the lyrics and how could he ever invest his time in someone who didn’t know who David Lee Roth was as you laughed, singing along softly to every chorus, repeating the three simple words to humor the hunter. No matter how much you wished you could ditch the machetes and the crucifies, you’d take your blood-slick lifestyle, monsters and all, if it meant you could spend time with Dean Winchester. It was sometime around late afternoon, the air just beginning to take on the cooler quality of nighttime, the sky slowly fading to what would soon be black as the Sun dipped closer to the horizon. Your fingers ran through your hair as it blew around in the speed-induced wind, blustery strands collecting in your face, barring your vision of the road. Once the song was over, Dean slowed to a legal speed, grinning over at you, his hand reaching up to brush his fingers against the top of his open window, his jaw clenching as he smiled, exhaling with content. He cleared his throat before speaking, his voice slightly hoarse from screaming along to the music, gravelly tone made even gruffer.

“Where to?” He asked, looking to you with relaxed eyes. You gave him a puzzled look, leaning away from your window, staring at the dashboard’s clock, counting down the minutes since you had left the motel. It hadn’t been more than an hour, and he was already set to head back? Just when you had begun to relax, it was back to work. Or perhaps he was simply ready to nail a few monsters, no matter the amount of information. The vacancy of the ghost town must have egged him on. You sighed, chewing your lip as you formed your response.

“Well, until Sam or Cas call with a lead, I don’t think we should investigate.” You said, worried Dean had become woozy and overly ambitious from this David Lee Roth’s vocals, all confidence and no back-up. Dean rolled his eyes and inhaled slowly, drumming his fingers on the wheel, the sun’s warmth caught up in his eyes, gold sparks scattered among the green within.

“I wasn’t talking about the hunt, Y/n. meant… you know, for a date or something. We haven’t had a lot of downtime… I was hoping we could just relax for a bit.” He explained, soft eyes burning into yours as the car rolled slower, crawling along the cracked and sun-split pavement, asphalt bleached a light grey from exposure. Your heart nearly expanded in your chest, clenching in your throat and flooding you with childish, giddy delight. You couldn’t help but smile. You were on the same page; civilian life was oh so sweet. Half a million thoughts ran through your head, each shot down immediately by the town’s lack of resources of entertainment facilities… except for one. You’d passed a building with peeling paint a while back, long before Van Halen came onto the radio, and the lot was empty save for three cars, which meant the joint was open. You perked up in your seat, swiveling to better face Dean, his eyes flitting from road to your face, awaiting your response.

“Let’s catch a movie. Their cinema looks like it’s going out of business, so we might be able to get discounts on tickets. We passed it a while ago.” You suggested, Dean cracking a smile as he turned the car onto the town’s center street, shopfronts testing their neons, cubicle-dwellers walking home, all briefcases and scowls, the occasional old woman scuttling by on the sidewalk, glaring at the racket the Impala’s engine created. After a while of searching, you finally spotted the miserly building, Dean pulling into the lot of the theater, following your extended finger and peals of "That’s it! That’s it! DEAN, YOU’RE GOING TO MISS IT,” your body slamming against the interior as he swerved into the entrance, pulling the vehicle into a treasured front row slot. He pulled the keys from the ignition, playfully rolling his eyes at your urgency, before exiting the car, running around the front so that he could open your door as well, goofily offering you his hand. Huh, chivalry wasn’t dead. Look at that. You smirked, taking his hand as you stepped out, his arm draping over your shoulder as you walked, pulling you into his chest and away from the wind, his body heating you as effectively as a space heater. The warmth was fleeting, as his body shifted to open the door, holding the rusting metal open for you to pass, a gentleman in well-worn leather and heavy combat boots.

The ticket lady seemed shocked to see customers, to say the least, stowing her half eaten Big Mac underneath the counter, sliding her phone back into her denim pocket, her grating voice asking what exactly the lovebirds wanted to see. Dean gave you the freedom of choice, and you decided on the fourth or fifth installment of the shitty vampire movies, which were, for some odd reason, still in theaters. Dean groaned, mumbling his disappointment, taking both of your tickets and holding the door for you, grumpy as all Hell. You slapped at his chest, his chuckling recoil evidence enough that his moodiness was all for show.

“Why the sparkly pretty-boy chick flick?” He grumbled, obviously disgusted, no matter the dramatics behind his statement. You giggled, taking a large bucket of extra butter popcorn from a rack and leaving a ten on the register for the woman once more occupied with her greasy bun and social media account.

“Well, why waste our money on a movie we won’t be watching?” You reasoned, your voice saturated with flirtation. You watched Dean’s face change from moody to very, very happy, picking up on your implications with a moment’s delay. He pulled you into a kiss, lips ravaging your own, tongue darting over your lower lip with little patience, his hands hungrily wrapping around your waist, lips hurriedly moving along with yours. You both laughed aloud like juvenile delinquents caught in the act of something comically vile when the ticket lady shooed you into the theater, your skin prickling with heat, a generous warmth exuding from your chest, bubbly from Dean’s stolen kiss. You sat yourselves in the back row of the nearly empty screening room, behind the preteen girls with plastic fangs, settling in for disaster as the title glared across the screen, barely missing two dart-sized holes in the fabric. The previously mentioned fans in the row before you were clearly irritated by Dean’s tendency to fuel the dialogue further by adding broken comments about how they weren’t even killing the vamps the right way or how his job would be much easier if they all looked like disco balls, silencing him with your lips. He pulled you into his lap, once the girls had turned back around from chewing you out for disturbing their movie, his hands moving to caress your face as the emotionless voice of the sparkly human one droned on behind you,a mere blip on your radar, your attention otherwise occupied. You could feel Dean smile against your mouth, his tongue stroking yours, hands on your hips. He pulled away, his eyes alight with passion, even in the darkness of the screening room. He shook his head in wonder, gemstone eyes ravishing your body, his lips tugging into a breathless smile.

“Y/n, we’ve gotta do this more often.” The generous shushing from the girls in front of you only serviced to encourage your actions, your lips melting into Dean’s once more, milking every last drop of your time away from the blood-soaked schedule, your hands clasping behind his neck. You mumbled your agreement into his lips.

anonymous asked:

What advice would you give to a so called "babybat"?

I guess the first piece of advice I have is to acknowledge that you are a multidimensional human being who can have diverse interests both within and outwith the subculture and that you are under no obligation to listen to anyone who tries to police what behaviors are and are not acceptable for you to engage in as a Goth (beyond ones that are genuinely harmful to others.) That means that anyone who decides to tell you what you need to do or wear in order to be a Goth can shove it.

Beyond that:

  • Thrifting is a good way to build up the basic chunk of your wardrobe without breaking the bank, but it’s even more helpful if you learn to sew so that you can mod the clothes you find. 
  • You can watch all the tutorials on Youtube that you want but the best way to learn to do makeup and hair is to practice, and you shouldn’t be afraid to get it wrong sometimes. God knows I’ve had more than my fair share of lopsided eyeliner wings and unblended concealer but we all learn. 
  • Try to find a community of other Goths (if you’re on Tumblr this is a great place to start) to talk to and get inspiration from. 
  • If you’re not sure where to start for music, I recommend signing up for Pandora and looking for a Goth playlist. The advantage to Pandora is that you can upvote and downvote songs so that the algorithms will show you Goth music that you’ll enjoy (there’s no shame in deciding that some of it isn’t for you.)
  • If you want to decorate your room/home/dorm/cubicle/space ship/etc. to match your Goth-y aesthetic, I recommend waiting for Halloween time (if you’re in a country that celebrates Halloween) and stocking up during and right after the season.
  • If you want more non-Tumblr blogs and websites to follow Dark Links is always a good place to find people who are doing cool things. 
  • If you need help with parents or friends being difficult about your Gothness I recommend reading the advice of Jillian Venters over at Gothic Charm School, chances are she has heard your problem before and you’ll see an article to help you out.

Aaaand that’s pretty much it, unless you have a more specific question I can help you with. :)