#hs au

[weeseverse]

Honest question: Boops, yay or nay?

-the aftermath of boop

[poedandruffsnorter]

FUCK I FORGOT TO POSTMTHIS😦

[angelfoodcakewith7minutefrosting]

It’s prom season! I drew the girlssss. <3 (And I OF COURSE I also had to add SoRiku.)

[amelia-yap]

chrweesemas!

[evilducks-offical]

oh my gods there’s so many officals

I think we could make up a full sized high school

Wait someone should make a very convoluted high school au fic of the officalverse it’d be funny

If no one does it I might but the possible depression maaaaay prevent that

[octacake]

pushing my hs thangyu agenda

[betterluucii]

I am not immune to Filo HS Aus

Incredibly self indulgent as always

[sushirrrry]

REPUTATION || a harry styles x reader story preview.

summary: harry's an asshole – to everyone but you, of course. there's something about you that makes him soft; if anyone messes with you, they'll know about it. when you join a literature class group project together, harry makes it known not to mess with him... or you.

________________________________________________

Spring, 2003. East Coast, liberal arts college.

Everyone on campus had a story about Harry Styles. Whether that was good or bad, you didn’t know. But he was known.

Some said he got into a shouting match with a philosophy professor over whether Nietzsche was overrated—he might’ve been. Others swore they saw him flick a cigarette into the university president’s koi pond—it was a rumor. But there was one time, during a poetry workshop, he turned in lyrics about fucking in a stairwell and refused to edit a single word. You were there for that, so you can confirm straight from the source.

Even if you’d never met him, you knew of him.

He notoriously wore the leather jacket, had the same dark smirk that gave Satan a run for it. The rumors about getting kicked out of the dorms freshman year and choosing to live in a half-renovated house on the edge of campus because he “liked the quiet.” The air of arrogance that hung around him like smoke. The fact that he only ever raised his hand in class to say something that made everyone else look dumb because not only was he smart, he read like a fiend.

He was the boy with a permanent scowl and a permanent cigarette tucked behind one ear. The one who made girls nervous, and guys pissed off. The one who never stayed long at parties, who showed up to lectures late and left early, who never smiled—unless he was laughing at someone.

But the version of Harry the campus knew wasn’t the one you knew.

Because right now, Harry Styles— the gruff, rude, beautiful man that everyone talked so dangerously about—was lying sideways across your narrow dorm bed, his head propped on your thigh, a paperback of The Picture of Dorian Gray upside-down on his chest. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling a little where it hit his neck, and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone. A sliver of his chest peeked out where the red and black flannel hung loose, the silver chain around his throat gleaming in the gold wash of the afternoon sun.

His fingers, ringed and rough with callouses, trailed absently over your bare knee in a thought-provoking manner that distracted you, but also grounded you. You were half-reading, half-watching him read you.

“You’re going to smudge the ink,” you said softly, not even looking up from your notebook.

His thumb paused mid-circle. “Worth it.”