Happiness (3/13)
Happiness (3/13)
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Pairing: Dan/Jonatton
Rating: R, this chapter
Word Count: 1022, this chapter (3789, so far)
Warnings: references to cars; sexytiems
Disclaimer: Brooker and Morris own Nathan Barley, not me. I own a pot of homemade dulce de leche simmering on the stove, but not these characters, sadly.
Author's Notes: If you haven't downloaded it already, you'll be delighted to know that Happiness has a soundtrack and it's basically all I listened to while writing it. Which is probably why it reads like a quirky indie film. Also, this is Jonatton's sweet new ride.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Dan squinted, letting his overnight bag slip out of his stunned hands and fall to the ground with an unceremonious thud. He was not quite sure what he was looking at. It was yellow, and smallish, and had two seats, and no roof. He took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling extra slowly.
“Jonatton,” he said, the smoke lingering in the air about him as he considered his next question. “What the hell is this thing?”
“Our new car, etcetera?” said Jonatton, opening the passenger door for Dan. “Porsche 911… something.”
As far as Dan could tell, there had been nothing wrong with Jonatton’s old car, apart, apparently, from the fact that it was not stupid enough.
Dan eyed him suspiciously. “Can you even afford this?” he asked, hesitantly lowering himself into the seat. It was awkward. He assumed that in the roofless incarnation of this… thing, he must look like some kind of aged, grumpy-faced bizarro version of Noddy. This was a decidedly unappealing prospect.
“It was lightly used,” shrugged Jonatton, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Think they might have found a dead body in the boot?”
All the colour drained instantly from Dan’s face, running out over the floor and dripping onto the pavement. “What did you say?”
“They cleaned it, of course,” Jonatton rolled his eyes, turning the key in the ignition.
“You can’t be serious,” Dan cringed, shifting in his seat as Jonatton pulled out into the road.
“No, I’m not,” said Jonatton, shifting gears.
“I really just don’t see the appeal,” Dan shrugged uncomfortably, as they drove on. “It’s yellow, for fuck’s sake. Why couldn’t you just get a normal car?”
“Because this one has a sport button?” offered Jonatton.
“Oh, okay,” nodded Dan. “Wait, what’s a sport button?”
“It’s basically a sex button?” offered Jonatton.
“Right,” nodded Dan, poking the glove box. “Jonatton, what the hell does that even mean?”
And then Jonatton pushed the sport button.
That did seem to make a difference, thought Dan. It certainly felt as though they were going slightly faster than they probably were. It felt quite good, actually - even if the absence of a roof made it far too windy for him to smoke. It was like a primal sense of power that radiated from his core. Part of that, he discovered, may have been because Jonatton’s left hand had quietly moved from the gear shift to Dan’s upper thigh. Dan willed him not to stop paying attention to the road. Dan tried to pay attention to the road too. Jonatton’s hand hovering in dangerous proximity to Dan’s penis was making this increasingly difficult. Jonatton turned to Dan when they slowed at a roundabout, and said, with a cheeky wink:
“Well, what do you think?”
“Yep,” nodded Dan, clearing his throat. “Nice… handling?”
“You’re nursing a semi, aren’t you?” Jonatton smirked.
Dan maintained quiet eye contact with the dashboard.
“I’m pretty much at full attention,” he mumbled.
Jonatton grinned. “Want me to find someplace I can pull in... etcetera?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
Dan sighed. “Yeah,” he nodded quietly.
---
Dan was quite quiet for the remainder of the journey following their little sport button interlude, watching the scenery roll gently past. Jonatton positively beamed with the kind of satisfaction that came from a job well done. If Jonatton knew anything about Dan at all, he certainly knew his way around Dan’s cock. He knew how to apply just the right amount of pressure, how to set the right pace, how to swallow Dan down and make him whimper and beg, how to make him forget that they were in a somewhat secluded carpark in a very conspicuous car that Dan was hopefully now convinced was a sound investment after all.
Arriving in Henley, it seemed to Jonatton that it was all rather idyllic in the quiet of the early evening: to one side of them were all the little shops, Cafe Something, Whatever Tea Rooms, Blahblahblah Boutique, The Crown and Kebab, The Kebab and Elephant, restaurants that charged ten quid for a plate of tarted-up chips and called themselves something enigmatic like Zinc or Lard or Eat This Fucking Food; to the other side was a gently flowing Thames, populated only, as far as he could tell, by an older lady rowing her husband about in a rather pokey little boat. The calm before the storm, he mused, but there was no doubt in his mind that this weekend would be quite hilarious.
“So what exactly do we do at Henley?” asked Dan.
“Look at boats, etcetera?” shrugged Jonatton.
“That’s it?” Dan failed to see the appeal.
“It’s also a town, and shit? I made quinoa salad,” offered Jonatton. “And there’s drinks? Pimms, etcetera?”
“Okay... who is this we’re meeting?” asked Dan, as the absurd yellow embarrassment-mobile pulled up to the curb outside a well-maintained older home at the end of a small sidestreet. He noticed a small sign beside the front door, which read:
JAGUAR PARKING ONLY
which led him to hope that the Porsche nine-thing-whatever would have its tires flattened and some colourful words spraypainted on the driver’s side door by the time the weekend was out.
“They’re called Elizabeth and Jeremy,” said Jonatton, slinging his overnight bag over his shoulder, and gathering up the cooler bag of weekendy snacks.
“Okay,” nodded Dan. “And who exactly are Elizabeth and Jeremy?”
“Oh, well, I’ve known them... practically my whole life?” shrugged Jonatton, ringing the doorbell.
A blonde woman of about sixty in a nice sundress greeted them, arms crossed.
“Did you choose that outfit specifically because you thought it would make you look extra gay?” she asked, brow furrowed.
Jonatton glanced down nonchalantly at his outfit: somewhat-more-tight-than-necessary striped vest, shorts, extra hair gel.
“No fucking idea what you’re talking about,” shrugged Jonatton. “Mum, meet Dan Ashcroft. We’re in love.”
Chapter Four
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Pairing: Dan/Jonatton
Rating: R, this chapter
Word Count: 1022, this chapter (3789, so far)
Warnings: references to cars; sexytiems
Disclaimer: Brooker and Morris own Nathan Barley, not me. I own a pot of homemade dulce de leche simmering on the stove, but not these characters, sadly.
Author's Notes: If you haven't downloaded it already, you'll be delighted to know that Happiness has a soundtrack and it's basically all I listened to while writing it. Which is probably why it reads like a quirky indie film. Also, this is Jonatton's sweet new ride.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Dan squinted, letting his overnight bag slip out of his stunned hands and fall to the ground with an unceremonious thud. He was not quite sure what he was looking at. It was yellow, and smallish, and had two seats, and no roof. He took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling extra slowly.
“Jonatton,” he said, the smoke lingering in the air about him as he considered his next question. “What the hell is this thing?”
“Our new car, etcetera?” said Jonatton, opening the passenger door for Dan. “Porsche 911… something.”
As far as Dan could tell, there had been nothing wrong with Jonatton’s old car, apart, apparently, from the fact that it was not stupid enough.
Dan eyed him suspiciously. “Can you even afford this?” he asked, hesitantly lowering himself into the seat. It was awkward. He assumed that in the roofless incarnation of this… thing, he must look like some kind of aged, grumpy-faced bizarro version of Noddy. This was a decidedly unappealing prospect.
“It was lightly used,” shrugged Jonatton, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Think they might have found a dead body in the boot?”
All the colour drained instantly from Dan’s face, running out over the floor and dripping onto the pavement. “What did you say?”
“They cleaned it, of course,” Jonatton rolled his eyes, turning the key in the ignition.
“You can’t be serious,” Dan cringed, shifting in his seat as Jonatton pulled out into the road.
“No, I’m not,” said Jonatton, shifting gears.
“I really just don’t see the appeal,” Dan shrugged uncomfortably, as they drove on. “It’s yellow, for fuck’s sake. Why couldn’t you just get a normal car?”
“Because this one has a sport button?” offered Jonatton.
“Oh, okay,” nodded Dan. “Wait, what’s a sport button?”
“It’s basically a sex button?” offered Jonatton.
“Right,” nodded Dan, poking the glove box. “Jonatton, what the hell does that even mean?”
And then Jonatton pushed the sport button.
That did seem to make a difference, thought Dan. It certainly felt as though they were going slightly faster than they probably were. It felt quite good, actually - even if the absence of a roof made it far too windy for him to smoke. It was like a primal sense of power that radiated from his core. Part of that, he discovered, may have been because Jonatton’s left hand had quietly moved from the gear shift to Dan’s upper thigh. Dan willed him not to stop paying attention to the road. Dan tried to pay attention to the road too. Jonatton’s hand hovering in dangerous proximity to Dan’s penis was making this increasingly difficult. Jonatton turned to Dan when they slowed at a roundabout, and said, with a cheeky wink:
“Well, what do you think?”
“Yep,” nodded Dan, clearing his throat. “Nice… handling?”
“You’re nursing a semi, aren’t you?” Jonatton smirked.
Dan maintained quiet eye contact with the dashboard.
“I’m pretty much at full attention,” he mumbled.
Jonatton grinned. “Want me to find someplace I can pull in... etcetera?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
Dan sighed. “Yeah,” he nodded quietly.
---
Dan was quite quiet for the remainder of the journey following their little sport button interlude, watching the scenery roll gently past. Jonatton positively beamed with the kind of satisfaction that came from a job well done. If Jonatton knew anything about Dan at all, he certainly knew his way around Dan’s cock. He knew how to apply just the right amount of pressure, how to set the right pace, how to swallow Dan down and make him whimper and beg, how to make him forget that they were in a somewhat secluded carpark in a very conspicuous car that Dan was hopefully now convinced was a sound investment after all.
Arriving in Henley, it seemed to Jonatton that it was all rather idyllic in the quiet of the early evening: to one side of them were all the little shops, Cafe Something, Whatever Tea Rooms, Blahblahblah Boutique, The Crown and Kebab, The Kebab and Elephant, restaurants that charged ten quid for a plate of tarted-up chips and called themselves something enigmatic like Zinc or Lard or Eat This Fucking Food; to the other side was a gently flowing Thames, populated only, as far as he could tell, by an older lady rowing her husband about in a rather pokey little boat. The calm before the storm, he mused, but there was no doubt in his mind that this weekend would be quite hilarious.
“So what exactly do we do at Henley?” asked Dan.
“Look at boats, etcetera?” shrugged Jonatton.
“That’s it?” Dan failed to see the appeal.
“It’s also a town, and shit? I made quinoa salad,” offered Jonatton. “And there’s drinks? Pimms, etcetera?”
“Okay... who is this we’re meeting?” asked Dan, as the absurd yellow embarrassment-mobile pulled up to the curb outside a well-maintained older home at the end of a small sidestreet. He noticed a small sign beside the front door, which read:
JAGUAR PARKING ONLY
which led him to hope that the Porsche nine-thing-whatever would have its tires flattened and some colourful words spraypainted on the driver’s side door by the time the weekend was out.
“They’re called Elizabeth and Jeremy,” said Jonatton, slinging his overnight bag over his shoulder, and gathering up the cooler bag of weekendy snacks.
“Okay,” nodded Dan. “And who exactly are Elizabeth and Jeremy?”
“Oh, well, I’ve known them... practically my whole life?” shrugged Jonatton, ringing the doorbell.
A blonde woman of about sixty in a nice sundress greeted them, arms crossed.
“Did you choose that outfit specifically because you thought it would make you look extra gay?” she asked, brow furrowed.
Jonatton glanced down nonchalantly at his outfit: somewhat-more-tight-than-necessary striped vest, shorts, extra hair gel.
“No fucking idea what you’re talking about,” shrugged Jonatton. “Mum, meet Dan Ashcroft. We’re in love.”
Chapter Four