arts corridor

I live for clichés. Sitting on a Parisian rooftop, reading poetry in the early morning when the air is crisp and cold, soft kisses peppered across the face, romantic bouquets, walking as if on air throughout an art museum, every corridor empty except for me, pressing post-it-notes with messages to all the walls of my apartment, being unable keep myself from gasping as the heavy burgundy curtains of a opera house reveals beauty. I want it all.

Ivar Ragnarsson X Reader

Modern AU

Ivar had been staring at you for almost the whole of maths and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. You were feeling a bit angry and Ivar ‘The Cripple’ Ragnarsson was hardly going to make you feel better. This morning the girls had got a lecture from the teachers about the shortness of skirts because apparently we’re all sluts or something. You didn’t understand why anyone cared, it’s a skirt and it’s not going to affect what you do. But you’d hardly been listening as the teachers said they were worried for your safety, as if some pre-pubescent boy was going to find his hand down your pants.

You saw it as an insult that they’d even consider that you’d get off with the boys in your year. They were hardly models or even half decent at that. Ivar Ragnarsson wasn’t ugly, he was actually very attractive. But there was a catch, as there always is. He was possibly the biggest fuckboy you’d ever met. Not to mention he was so annoying that when he spoke it made you want to cry.

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