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crack_van2013-12-26 12:01 pm
twigged.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2013-12-26 12:01 pm
Entry tags:
The Miseducation of Harry Styles by junkshopdisco (NC-17)
Fandom: ONE DIRECTION
Pairing: Harry Styles/Nick Grimshaw
Length: ~30,000 words
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
junkshop_disco
Author on AO3: junkshopdisco
Why this must be read:
This might be one you've already heard of - it was recced pretty far outside of fandom circles when it was first posted, and for good reason. Grimmy's made a career on his wit and humor, and when an author writes him well the results are always lulzy; junkshopdisco writes him really well. The Miseducation of Harry Styles explores Nick and Harry's relationship from their first meeting, and Nick's subsequent descent into batshit-levels of self-doubt and longing:
“The thing you have to realise about DJs,” Nick says, gesturing at Harry with a plastic glass, the contents of which is glowing green in a most disconcerting fashion, “is we all go batshit. Like, you can delay the onset of batshit by avoiding the nastier narcotics and never, ever buying a Toto album, but ultimately it comes for us all.”
Nick swallows, pushing non-existent fringe-wilt from his forehead and wondering if he can pass off the sweat sheening his face as mere product of the bar’s sticky air.
“I had this friend – he played so much handbag house in the late nineties that not only did he go partially deaf and get big-fish-little-fish Carpal Tunnel in both wrists, you’d find him having a meltdown in the biscuit aisle in Tesco’s. See, he’d totally lost the ability to choose anything other than what to play next, so having to pick Garibaldis or shortcake or Hobnobs would leave him a crumpled wreck on the floor. He ended up in some sort of rehab. For a while, he’d send me cards with seashells stuck on the front and stuff he’d crocheted inside, but then he just stopped and I haven’t seen him or heard from him in four years. I think maybe he killed himself sniffing craft glue. That’s just one isolated example of the all-DJs-go-batshit phenomenon. You’ve seen pictures of Fat Boy Slim laughing at nothing in a Hawaiian shirt. No one’s immune.”
Harry lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head, disco lights bouncing off his stupidly shiny hair. “So... is this your way of taking back what you did last night?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fine,” Harry says, necks his Coke as if there’s whiskey in it, and walks away, shoving his hair inside a beanie before he makes it to the door.
There’s no way the guy behind the bar has any clue what their conversation pertained to, but Nick’s fairly certain he’s judging him anyway.
“Oh fuck off,” he mutters.
As he stands there, cradling a mostly empty plastic glass and ordering a refill he doesn’t really want, clammy, sickly realisation crawls over his skin and down his throat: he probably just did the battiest, shittiest most batshit thing any human – DJ or normal person – has ever done. He just knocked back Harry Styles, a.k.a the guy he’s been obsessed with for a year.
Nick makes Harry a mix tape, falls in love with him, and has a nervous breakdown (not necessarily in that order). (AO3)
Pairing: Harry Styles/Nick Grimshaw
Length: ~30,000 words
Author on LJ:
junkshop_discoAuthor on AO3: junkshopdisco
Why this must be read:
This might be one you've already heard of - it was recced pretty far outside of fandom circles when it was first posted, and for good reason. Grimmy's made a career on his wit and humor, and when an author writes him well the results are always lulzy; junkshopdisco writes him really well. The Miseducation of Harry Styles explores Nick and Harry's relationship from their first meeting, and Nick's subsequent descent into batshit-levels of self-doubt and longing:
“The thing you have to realise about DJs,” Nick says, gesturing at Harry with a plastic glass, the contents of which is glowing green in a most disconcerting fashion, “is we all go batshit. Like, you can delay the onset of batshit by avoiding the nastier narcotics and never, ever buying a Toto album, but ultimately it comes for us all.”
Nick swallows, pushing non-existent fringe-wilt from his forehead and wondering if he can pass off the sweat sheening his face as mere product of the bar’s sticky air.
“I had this friend – he played so much handbag house in the late nineties that not only did he go partially deaf and get big-fish-little-fish Carpal Tunnel in both wrists, you’d find him having a meltdown in the biscuit aisle in Tesco’s. See, he’d totally lost the ability to choose anything other than what to play next, so having to pick Garibaldis or shortcake or Hobnobs would leave him a crumpled wreck on the floor. He ended up in some sort of rehab. For a while, he’d send me cards with seashells stuck on the front and stuff he’d crocheted inside, but then he just stopped and I haven’t seen him or heard from him in four years. I think maybe he killed himself sniffing craft glue. That’s just one isolated example of the all-DJs-go-batshit phenomenon. You’ve seen pictures of Fat Boy Slim laughing at nothing in a Hawaiian shirt. No one’s immune.”
Harry lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head, disco lights bouncing off his stupidly shiny hair. “So... is this your way of taking back what you did last night?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fine,” Harry says, necks his Coke as if there’s whiskey in it, and walks away, shoving his hair inside a beanie before he makes it to the door.
There’s no way the guy behind the bar has any clue what their conversation pertained to, but Nick’s fairly certain he’s judging him anyway.
“Oh fuck off,” he mutters.
As he stands there, cradling a mostly empty plastic glass and ordering a refill he doesn’t really want, clammy, sickly realisation crawls over his skin and down his throat: he probably just did the battiest, shittiest most batshit thing any human – DJ or normal person – has ever done. He just knocked back Harry Styles, a.k.a the guy he’s been obsessed with for a year.
Nick makes Harry a mix tape, falls in love with him, and has a nervous breakdown (not necessarily in that order). (AO3)