It’s that time of the month Bad times are flowing The menstrual cycle has begun It’s a bad time of the month Your cramps are slowing you down And well that isn’t fun You could use something for all your mood swings Some voltaren, amotto, while your temple sings La da dai la da dai da da dai da da dai dai dai First time’s confusing, What should you do Should you tell your mum, or your dad The way you are losing parts of your fluids And by most accounts that’s bad And then you get older, get used to those things Like menstrual odours as your pubic hair sings La da dai la da dai da da dai da da dai dai dai It’s not that it’s bleeding It’s freeing the bad signs in you It’s just what you’re needing Next month you will bleed anew Now that it’s over You can go back to your life as it was before The tampons box is empty You don’t need to worry about those damn things any more Something is missing A vaginal song A tune that you’re wishing You could sing along La da dai la da dai da da dai da da dai dai dai …mmm periods
Summary: When a huge storm is upon New York, a cute pizza boy has his last delivery at the loft. Kurt can’t do much else than to invite him in. For safety reasons, of course. Pairing: Klaine Rating: NC-17 Word count: ~3,500
It’s Friday, which in the Bushwick loft is also known as pizza day. It doesn’t matter who’s in and who’s out, at 7pm on Friday night they call for pizza. So the fact Santana’s staying at Dani’s and Rachel is back in Ohio for a long weekend to celebrate her dad’s birthday doesn’t stop Kurt from calling their usual delivery service and place his order.
I honestly think that crying over a book is one of the most prominent sign of compassion for humanity. You’re crying over someone who isn’t really there, doesn’t really exist, but you still feel for them as if you have known them your entire life.
Hunger Games AU—Blaine is mentor to Kurt and the night before the Games finds them talking about more than just strategy.
It’s four in the morning and Blaine can’t sleep.
He lies in bed in his room, staring at the ceiling. Around him the blankets are heavy, lush, much more luxurious and comfortable than even his own sheets back at home in the Victor’s Village, but even that can’t call upon sleep. Then again, Blaine has never slept well in the Capitol before.
Every time he swallows it lumps up, gets caught in his throat. All he can think of is that tomorrow the Games begin; tomorrow all of the tributes will be shipped off to the arena and Blaine will be left here in the Capitol, pandering to the wealthy and easily-besotted. It’s his second time doing it; it should be easy enough by now. But it never is, and every year just reminds Blaine more and more how despicable this society is, how despicable he is for winning. No one decent ever wins the Games. It’s a fact. Blaine’s own hands are far from clean.