hippyjolteon | It's the Comedy Kink Meme!

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comedy kink meme

It's the Comedy Kink Meme!

Unless you can find anything similar, the idea for a Comedy Kink Meme is entirely mine. The Kink Meme format was originally lifted from the Digimon Kink Meme, which begat 2Bamaser's Pokémon Kink Meme and of course,

blackjackrocket's Pokémon Kink Meme. (Which y'all should fill out, stat).

So, without further ado, my spin on this whole thing...

The Comedy Kink Meme!

The Basics:

1) Comment anonymously (this is very, very important) with a pairing and a kink. Comedy is a very general term, but I'll pretty much accept and go with anything. Stand-up comedians are good, sketch shows are fab, sitcoms rock and above all, panel shows are what really matter here.* All pairings - be they in-universe, crossover or on more crack than, well, let's not go there... are allowed. All kinks are welcome.

*1a) But not too broad. I won't accept characters from comedy films, but comic actors (as long as they've branched out with stand up and the like) are fine.

2) Respond anonymously with a drabble/'fic/piece of fan art. Or just comment for fun. Or do both.

3) This will inevitably end up NSFW.

How to make everyone's life easier:

1) If you request something, try your best to respond to a request as well! Preferably respond to the older ones first, but just make sure we keep this up for as long as possible! After all, everyone needs a distraction from work/school/whatever it is that you young people do these days.

2) No drama . Keep the "comedy" in the Comedy Kink Meme alive and well.

3) Advertise. Pimp us out. Tell your friends. Keep this thing going in however many ways you can.

So, have fun and enjoy in as many ways as you could possibly imagine! Or something.

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Frankie Boyle/Tim Minchin - Ginger!love. It may be ginger, but Tim still doesn't like Frankie's beard. Extra e-love for mentions of ginger pubes.

Oh my god yes!
I might have to write this.

Oooh, please do! This fellow ginger-lover implores you!

Sorry it's only wee.

Frankie’s voice almost lilted as he asked, “Do you always play the piano naked?”

As Tim’s fingers danced along the ivory keys, flittering between scales and parts of songs (some his own, some classical, some Frankie doesn’t recognise). “Not always. I just like the way…” notes climax beneath his fingers, “it feels.” He sighs, pushing thick locks of ginger hair from his eyes, “What’s with the…” he motions at his chin, “fluff?”

“Eh?” Frankie sits beside him on the piano bench, absentmindedly pushing keys, “Oh, the beard? Aye, my chin was cold.”

“You look a little…out of place; like you should be in a park, hiding beneath a long, dark raincoat…suspiciously eyeing kids…you know.” (Tim smiles with white, pearlescent teeth.)

“I thought you’d like it, actually.” Words strain as Frankie pushes back his head to scratch at his beard.

“Why, because it’s ginger?”

“Fuck off, it’s winter blonde.”

Tim pushes his fingers to the keys, “It’s not ginger, it’s winter blonde, and of it, I’m not very fond…but the main issue I think…is ‘do the curtains match the drapes’…”

“Well,” Frankie moves in, attempting to be sultry, “why don’t you, eh…have a look?”

Tim can’t hold back the fit of giggles any longer as he moves his fingers to Frankie’s belt.

I love you so hard.

Russell Howard/Frankie Boyle.

Fluff that morphs into smut.

Watching a Harry Potter film.

Russ talking along, generally heckling.

Frankie needs a way to shut him up. Go with your imagination here...

Hope this is ok:

“Oh my god. Frankie, look! Look! Look, Frankie!”

Frankie lowers the newspaper he’s been staring at (analysing, Russell has to remind himself. Looking for material, not conversation pieces.) for hours, his face showing quiet contempt through his furrowed brow.

“What?”

“Looooook!” Russell prods the magazine he’s holding. It creases under his finger.

“Russell, do you want to just tell me what’s going on instead of fannying about?”

He thrusts the magazine in Frankie’s face. It lies just in front of his face, brushing his nose momentarily. “Harry Potter’s on tonight! Can we watch it? Please?”

“Which one is it?” (He asks, but it’s clear he doesn’t care. Russell wants him to be interested. It’s easier to comply this way.)

“Prisoner of Azkaban!” Russell shakes the magazine. It smells of newsprint, but it’s in no way pleasant.

Pulling it from Russell’s hand, he inspects the magazine. He reads across the columns of channels. “It’s on at the same time as “Quincy”. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t like Quincy.” Russell frowns, “You’ve never liked it.”

“It’s better than that shite.”

“Frankie, can we please watch it?” Russell’s eyes plead with him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I suppose so.” Frankie flicks the paper back into its place.

“Ahhhhhh!” Throwing his arms around Frankie’s neck – tearing the news paper in the process – Russell plants kisses all over the Scot’s neck.

“For fuck’s sake Russell…”

He immediately retracts, clasping his hands between his legs like a puppy does its tail. “Sorry.”

“I was just getting to the obituaries. I was getting exited, for fuck’s sake.”

+++

Frankie’s been watching the same somewhat pre-pubescent boy wave a stick around for at least an hour now, and logic deduced that it would continue as such until its timely end – or if he unplugged the telly and hurled it through the window, snarling and sweating. Russell, on the other hand, ducks and dives behind his cushion, copying every movement he sees, taking great pleasure in announcing to Frankie that he’ll “enjoy this bit” or “oh, wait for this bit!”, laughing and grinning like a demented child (admittedly, Frankie quite likes the “Lupin” fellow. Not so much as a character, just as there looks to be a distinct possibility that he’ll kill himself, and that amuses him to no end). Russell starts giving lengthy descriptions of the characters to Frankie – who has never seen, nor cared about Harry and his hapless adventures:

“Oh, oh – look, Frankie, it’s Dumbledore! He’s the headmaster, you know. Look at his beard…how long did you think it took him to grow that…”

It gets to a point where Frankie cannot stand to hear about the wizards. He can’t hear himself think over their incessant “whooshing” and Russell’s incessant talking. A thought, normally kept in the back of his mind pushes forward. It tells him there’s something he can do. Frankie can’t help but smirk.

“…do you think Dara would be Voldermort? Maybe Ed could be Ron, and I could be Harry…nah, he’d hate that. He’d start trying to shag the first years…Dumbledore wouldn’t like that. That’d be Hugh, wouldn’t it? Hugh’d be Dumbledore. Then he’d go mental – start running through the courtyards naked with a magical tambourine…”

Frankie pushes himself from the sofa, and carefully straightens out his shirt.

“Frankie? You alrig – QUIDDICH!”

He kneels in front of Russell. (Frankie takes his glasses off and lays them on the coffee table with care.)

“Frankie…?”

He undoes Russell’s belt - “Frankie…? Frankie, what are you doing?” – unzips his flay, and pushes a hand through with a wry smile.

“Frank…ah…” his voice trails off with the touch of Frankie’s cold fingers and the accompanied slow, laboured strokes. Silence – the only sound that fills the room is the movement of material and the hitch of Russell’s breath. Without warning, Frankie drags Russell’s half-hard cock from his jeans and slips his lips around it, still almost grinning as Russell arches forward with an animalistic groan, squirming under the wet warmth of Frankie’s mouth that’s sliding and sucking around him. Feeling pre-cum leak onto his tongue, Frankie moves just a little faster, and from the corner of his eye, he watches Russell’s mouth hang open in an almost macabre supplication as he groans in pleasure. Salty cum fills Frankie’s mouth, and pulling himself from the floor, he swallows hard.

Frankie takes his glasses and carefully puts them back on, before resuming his place on the sofa.

“Here, Russ, get me a drink, ay? There’s a funny taste in my mouth.”

Russell says nothing – he just sits, sweaty and bemused on the sofa, waiting to know what the fuck just happened.

I may be the only one who sees these two together, but...Michael McIntyre/Rhod Gilbert? Anyone?

Oh, my god! Yes!!! Please, so much yes!!!!

On the offchance this meme is still going...

It's all the fault of the ISIHAC 2009 tour. I find myself with a rather kinky thing for Jeremy Hardy. It's the voice. He said "stop torturing us" and I just thought, "no, don't." Kinky and consensual or hurt/comfort and not, I don't mind, but slash preferred.

...yeah, if anyone's still here: Greg Davies/Rhod Gilbert. Greg on top, please. If that happened, I could die happy.

It's 5 to three in the morning which has sparked my courage.
Any change at all of a little bit of restriction?
Not in a weird s&m way, more in a, "i've tied your hands up lets have sex" way.
Don't really mind who.
But something with Sir Tim would be nice.

I second this motion like a motherbitch. More Sir Tim fic is needed in the world.

Can I request some Frankie & Ed or Ed & Adam Hills?

It got angsty and v. long. You might want to copy/paste it into a word document.

+++

Frankie pushed his hand through Ed’s hair, grasping at a sweat-drenched clump and tearing back his head.

(Underneath him, Ed sits naked on the laminate floor – he tries desperately not to look at Frankie, who’s perched on the edge of the bed in his usual suit and tie, peering at him listlessly from behind his glasses. Sweat beads on his chest, and rolls down over dark red scratch-marks that lay like painful arêtes across his breast. His breaths are heavy and laboured; each one hurting more than the last. Frankie stares at him, his face lacking expression and his actions without a hit of compassion. Everything he did, he did to scar Ed – physically and mentally. But…Ed didn’t mind. More than that, he craved it somewhat. And he didn’t understand why.)

He pulls Ed’s hair harder; Ed is forced to lay his hands on the floor behind him as means of support. Frankie pushes his lips to Ed’s neck in a seemingly emotionless gesture and begins to bite, leaving trails of teeth marks and red patches that will soon become large oval bruises. He attempts – foolishly – to gasp. Frankie only bites down harder, a sort of demeaning punishment for trying to speak without permission.

Ed can’t help but to feel exposed and undermined in his position – he was every bit Frankie’s bitch; someone to toy with and disgrace. For some reason, in agreeing to fuck him, to let Frankie degrade and destroy him, he was happy. Ecstatic, excited, even aroused by the idea. That terrified him.

+++

Frankie stared down at the beautiful body he was allowed to break.

Ed had given him permission, obliged a little too happily to let Frankie fuck him. A lot less difficult than he’d imagined;

“I want to see you…” Frankie had him pinned to the wall, and cast his eyes to the more than apparent bulge in his trousers with nothing more than a coy smile. To his surprise, Ed merely kissed him – not in a timid way, Ed was incapable of being timid – but in silent agreement.

And so, here they were, Frankie imposing his control over Ed, and Ed…just accepting.

And he fucking loved it.

+++

Again, Frankie had him pinned down. Neither man was particularly tall or heavy, in fact, both could be collectively described as effeminate in their frames, but Frankie was the more forceful and commanding. On the flimsy hotel bed, he pushed Ed’s arms as far apart as they would go, holding each by the wrists and forcing the weight of his hips down onto Ed’s. He had brought no ropes, no silk scarves to bind him down; bur relied on fear to keep him. So far, fear was doing its job.

Frankie – his glasses close to falling from the tip of his nose – glares at Ed, “Stay.”

He pulls himself lazily from Ed, taking his glasses and placing them on the stained bedside table. (Ed watches, still bound by imaginary ropes and gags from the bed. He can’t help notice how different Frankie looks without his glasses. Almost childish.) With the same laziness, he begins to remove his clothes; slowly and indolently picking at the buttons on his shirt, not even caring to remove the heavy suit jacket that hangs from his shoulders until it lay open, exposing a myriad scars on his chest. Ed stares, transfixed and hungry, wishing, practically begging Frankie to hurry up, just to move, to go faster, to – please, please, please – fuck him now. But Frankie intends to make him wait.

Ed feels everything as he waits; the push of his all-too-fragile lungs against his breastbone as he breathes between painful writhes on the hotel bed, the stench of sweat and age-old seamen from the sheets beneath him, and, most painfully of all, Frankie’s aftershave that wafts towards him, slowly enticing him. And God, it’s fucking difficult not to move, especially when Frankie moves just out of eyeshot in his pacing of the heavily tarnished floor. But he allows himself those tiny writhes, just to let him know he’s still there; just to let Frankie know he’s still there.

Frankie does eventually stir, positing himself on the dresser that lay before the bed. He plays with the light switch, dimming and brightening the lights, making Ed wince uncomfortably in the bright lights before settling on the dim setting. They sit in the darkness a little longer, Ed growing more impatient with the passage of time. From the corner of his eye, he sees Frankie smirk, running his tongue slowly along his lips.

“C’mere.”

Ed didn’t have to be told twice, he shot immediately from the bed into Frankie’s lap, waiting and praying for the next command.

“So, I imagine you’re pretty bored by now, hmm?”

He shakes his head childishly; Ed just wants Frankie to touch him, he doesn’t want to fuck about.

“No? Really? Are you sure, Ed?”

Ed shakes his head impassively. He glares at Frankie, who, falling back against the wall with a hollow thud, rolls his eyes and tuts gently.

“Well, I’m bored Ed.”

Ed wants to whimper, he wants to say anything, but words escape him.

“Do you know what you’re going to do, Ed?” At this, Ed shakes his head slowly, “You’re going to suck me off.”

Frankie stays perfectly still, but glares expectantly down, as if to ask, well? What are you waiting for? Falling to his knees, and with less than steady hands, Ed unbuckles Frankie’s belt, and slowly pulls his half-hard cock into sight. He lets it slide with graceless precision past his lips and further down his throat, until he knows any more and he’ll start gagging, and Frankie won’t like that. Ed just wants Frankie to reciprocate as he sucks harder, but he knows that’s not how this works – although he’s more than sure that he hears Frankie exhale so very gently before swallowing hard. Frankie’s hand grips his hair, twisting thick strands around his fingers and pushing Ed further onto his cock until coarse hair scratches at his face. He pushes Ed harder with each stroke, and with a vague sense of desperation, Ed moves to his own cock, that’s straining hard against his chest. Frankie immediately pulls hard at Ed’s hair, forcing his head up and rendering him still.

“Did I say you could do that?”

Ed answers with a feeble “No”.

“Fucking…Get up.”

Ed gets up.

“Lie on the bed.”

Ed lies on the bed.

“Stay.”

Ed daren’t move.

He listens as Frankie looks for something, his actions laced with a clear distain. Before long (to Ed, it feels like hours), he feels Frankie clamber onto the bed behind him.

“In the air. Now.”

Ed does as he’s told, lifting his hips up and propping himself up on his elbows. He smirks to himself a little; this is what’s he’s been waiting for – the main event.

Frankie grabs at his hips, and without warning, forced a cold, wet finger into Ed; then another, then another, slowly pushing against him with arbitrary speed. Ed groaned and whined, fighting any and every urge he had to touch himself. Finally, with a soft laugh, Frankie – still mostly clad in suit and unbuttoned shirt – slowly pressed is cock into Ed with an elongated groan. He pushed further, slowly gaining pace, while bedsprings beneath them wheezed repetitively and the ancient pink headboard slowly beat against the wall. Ed buckled beneath him; the violent and volatile mixture of pain and pleasure was everything he’d ever wanted, and he was lost in the most overpowering state of ecstasy he’d ever felt, and he never wanted to feel anything again.

Digging his fingers into Ed’s ribs, Frankie breathed, “You’re – a – fucking – slut… a – fucking – little – slut…”, pushing harder with every pause until he could take no more, and buried deep inside Ed, came hard with animalistic grunts.

Spent and breathing heavily, Frankie flopped to the soiled mattress, and Ed soon followed. With a tired sigh, Frankie reached over and took Ed’s cock in his hand, whispering, “It’s only fair…” flicking at the head before pulling and twisting, all the while Ed lay panting, until a sudden wave of pleasure overcame him, and with back arched and head thrown back, he spilled out onto Frankie’s hand and his stomach. Frankie makes a show of pulling himself onto Ed’s hips and licking every droplet of cum from his body, starting first on his hand then moving – slowly – to Ed’s hips, never once breaking eye contact, smacking his lips after each swirl of his tongue. He moved to Ed’s lips, pushing their mouths together with languid grace, and hands stuck firmly to the pallor skin of his breast. Frankie bit down hard on Ed’s lip, leaving lingering tastes of the coppery blood and cum in his mouth.

“Now,” Frankie pulls away with a smirk, “get your shit and get the fuck out.”

And Ed complies, all the while trying to think of something clever to say, a new, a better way of telling him to get to fuck; he’s a brainless slut anyway. There’s nothing, though – no words to scream or shout, so Ed just pulls on his jeans and shoes, manoeuvring the t-shirt on his way to the door. His clothes cling to him, and as he opens the door, Ed takes one last look at Frankie, who is lying with arms outstretched on the bed – not dissimilar to how Ed was not long ago. He lifts an arm idly and waves.

(As Ed shut the door, Frankie couldn’t help but feeling alienated; like he didn’t belong in his own body, and that he’d have to apologise for what he just did – somehow – at some point. He hears his phone buzz on the bedside table and hopes that Russell’s sent him a shitty joke.)

Thank you very much! I'll enjoy reading that tonight, I wondered if anyone had written one :-D

Ooo Ed&Adam.

Whose Line UK - On the off chance someone is still reading: I have just been struck by an intense need for John Sessions/Tony Slattery that is a little bit mean and defensive. With John topping, if possible. <3

If this thread lives, may I please, please have some Andrew Maxwell/Russell Howard sex, please? Preferably with Andrew on top. Kthankx!

anyone still here? Anyone willing to write Dara/Russell? /o\

Something, anything, with Will Smith. Please.

I'd like to request some angsty, dirty fic, either of Jack Whitehall having violent, dubcon sex with Russell Brand, or fantasising about that.

Basically, I want Jack taking out his insecurities and shame about his hero-worship VIA SEX.

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Page 5 of 5

It's the Comedy Kink Meme!

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Part 1

Part 2

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Hurt!Jeremy Hardy

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Part 2

Part 3

Re: Part 3

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