Title: The Charm of Amateurs
Fandom: QI RPF, British comedian RPF
Pairings: none, exactly
Rating: Mature
Words: 1750
Summary: Some clever university students have put together a low-budget porn parody of QI. Alan Davies, Stephen Fry, and David Mitchell watch it together. (This is my silly, just-for-fun QI fic. If you're looking for the one about QI's being massively problematic, it's here.)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and only fiction.

Notes: Gently betaed by killer_quean.
Rated "mature" for porn (though not really the sexy kind) and way too many cock jokes.

They've all had the thing mailed to them, not to mention tweeted at them for weeks, but it's Alan who suggests a viewing party. Stephen seems to find the idea somewhat moving; Jo and Rob decline; and David is horrified but would rather know what's in it than not and doubts he'll be able to bring himself to watch it alone.

Which is how the three of them find themselves in Stephen's television room, Stephen and David on opposite ends of a plush sofa and Alan leaning back in an armchair, watching a DVD that a group of amateur comedians-slash-porn-actors have creatively titled QI Series F, Episode 69.

It's filmed, charmingly, in someone's flat, and the actors—apparently university students—look to be about nineteen or twenty at most. The one playing Fry is particularly babyfaced, recognizable only by his suit jacket and floral tie and his position at the center of a group of three tables, arranged in a kind of cornered horseshoe. His voice, however, is suprisingly on target, and the Stephen watching chuckles when he opens the proceedings with a series of Good evenings as theatrical as his own.

“Good evening,” ersatz-Stephen continues, “and welcome to QI, the quiz show where the questions are hard and the contestants are harder.”

David snorts. “Oh, erection jokes. How original.”

The panelists are introduced. Their David is tall and lanky, and Rob Brydon is blond but has a brow not unlike his namesake's. Jo Brand's lookalike is the best, a round redhead with a spiky haircut and a large, rhinestone brooch. They press their buzzers. Each makes a sort of sex moan until Alan's, which pipes out, in a reedy voice, Please sir, may I have some more?

“Now,” says babyface-Fry, “who can tell me something quite interesting about Alan's cock?”

“I can,” says Alan from his armchair, and Stephen and David laugh. On screen, I CAN turns out to be a forfeit, indicated by a decent facsimile of the QI sirens and what can only be the cameraperson's associate flicking a lightswitch on and off. David, Alan, Rob, and Jo have all lost points, and ersatz-Fry is shaking his head and wagging his finger at them. “That's minus ten blowjobs for each of you.”

“What, is each point a blowjob?” David asks incredulously. “Won't that kind of add up?”

“Or subtract,” says Alan.

Stephen shakes his head fondly. “Yes, poor Alan, you'd be forever in arrears.” He presses his palm to his forehead as soon as the sentence is out. “Terrible choice of words, I do apologize.”

“I can show you something quite interesting about my cock,” the Alan on the screen boasts. He's wearing a white t-shirt and has long, curly hair that is clearly a wig.

“Oh?” says screen-Stephen, peering owlishly at him.

“This is terrible,” David groans from the sofa. “I'm embarrassed for all of us.”

“Oh, it's sweet in its way,” says Stephen.

Alan throws up a hand. “What way is that? Or do you just like looking at them?”

“It's an homage,” Stephen answers. “Though the one playing me is quite lovely.”

The camera has cut to wig-Alan, who has pushed aside the table and is standing up, trousers unzipped, and stroking himself, his jaw hanging down in evident pleasure.

“Now that's just utter crap,” David says indignantly. “Are they seriously suggesting that what's quite interesting about Alan's cock is that when he touches it, it feels nice? That's kind of the basic thing about cocks, isn't it. That and you can have a piss out of them.”

“Oh, David,” Stephen sighs. “So endearingly obstinate.”

 Wig-Alan finishes his solo with a shudder and a groan, and, in what Stephen calls a lovely touch, the other panelists applaud.

“Very good, thank you, Alan,” ersatz-Stephen says, straightening a pile of index cards on the table in front of him. “Now,” he continues, bending down to retrieve something from under the table. “Can anyone tell me what this is?” It's a sex toy of some kind, long, curved, and green.

“A butt plug?” guesses wig-Alan, who has evidently had time to sit down and become composed.

“Ohhh, no,” groans ersatz-Stephen, as the sirens sound and the lights flip on and off. “It's not a butt plug. We thought you might say that. Minus ten blowjobs to you, I'm afraid.”

“What's a minus blowjob, anyway?” asks the Alan in the armchair.

David makes a derisive noise. “Maybe it means your last ten didn't count?”

Alan looks thoughtful, then starts counting to himself on his fingers.

“I thought it might be more to do with who's on which end,” offers Stephen. “Rather a simplistic view, in my opinion, but a common one.”

On screen, the blond Rob Brydon has correctly identified the sex toy as a dildo, and for points, spiky-haired Jo Brand has strapped it on and is fucking him with it.

“That would be Rob, though,” says Alan. “Even in a gay porn, he's got to be the one doing it with a lady.”

David makes a face. “It's not properly gay porn, is it, if there's a woman in it.”

“'Sthat what you tell yourself, David?” Alan shoots back effortlessly, and Stephen's silent laughter shakes the sofa.

“It's a wonderful shade of green, though,” Stephen muses. “Sets off her eyes.”

David and Alan exchange a bemused glance at this, then seem to decide at the same moment that looking at each other while watching pornography is entirely too awkward.

“You do realize that's a woman, don't you, Stephen?” Alan asks. “Aren't you always going on about being horrified by them?”

Stephen sighs. “I think that aversion has been somewhat exaggerated. One of the perils of being publicly homosexual, I'm afraid.” He follows this statement with a sly, appraising glance at each of his companions, but both seem to have become suddenly absorbed in what's happening on screen.

Spiky-Jo dissolves into some sort of screaming climax, and shortly thereafter, Rob comes too, his dress shirt dangling awkwardly around his bare bottom. Ersatz-Fry, David, and Alan applaud, and the babyfaced Stephen says, “Very good, points to both of you.”

“More blowjobs?” David snorts. “Won't they need to rest up a bit first?”

“She won't,” says Alan.

“One of the advantages of silicone, I gather,” Stephen puts in.

“I still can't believe we're doing this,” David says testily, and the others laugh.

“Looks like it's you next,” says Alan, and sure enough, on-screen David is answering a question about nineteenth-century fetishes in near-encyclopedic detail.

“Oh, that's very good, David,” gushes on-screen Stephen, loosening his tie. “You really are quite interesting.”

From his end of the sofa, Stephen gives an embarrassed cough.

“Ten points, David Mitchell,” ersatz-Stephen continues. “Ah... perhaps you'd like to redeem your points now?”

“What, all ten of them?” David-on-the-sofa snipes.

“Maybe it's one blowjob, but it rates a ten,” Alan suggests.

“Then I feel bad for the poor sap who gets partial credit. Good job knowing half the answer, have a mediocre shag.”

No longer behind the table, lanky-David has unzipped his trousers, and ersatz-Fry, kneeling in front of him, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a condom.

“Oh, what nice boys,” Stephen exclaims appreciatively. “That's very responsible of them.”

“That man's giving out, what, thirty blowjobs per episode?” David sneers. “I expect he'd better take precautions.”

“Oh, is that a lot?” Stephen asks mildly.

Alan looks for a second like he's considering tossing one of his armchair pillows at Stephen's unmistakably smug face, but he settles instead on a snide grin back at him.

On screen, the camera has zoomed in, and ersatz-Fry's face nearly fills the frame. Lanky-David's hands are in his hair, and his lips move expressively with a series of obscene noises. It's a long scene, and the room goes somewhat still as it continues.

Alan finally breaks the silence. “Ah. Is anyone else actually turned on by this?”

Stephen's eyes flick, perhaps automatically, to his companions' laps.

“Yes, thank you,” David answers caustically, shifting in his seat. “I've gotten an erection watching someone who's pretending to be me getting sucked off for being clever. I'd say I'm a parody of myself, but clearly that role is taken, so either I'd better go throw myself off a bridge now, or else...” He huffs out a loud sigh.

After a moment, Stephen offers, “He's quite skilled at it, though, isn't he?”

Lanky-David seems to think so; he's moaning and thrusting and grabbing at faux-Fry's hair, and when the camera pans out, his head is thrown back, mouth wide. Finally, he comes, a tad unceremoniously, and someone in the television room—no one can quite tell who—lets out a long breath.

There's a brief silence, and then faux-Stephen, who, through the magic of video editing, has reappeared in his seat, announces the scores. Alan has lost with minus five, and Jo, Rob, and David have won in a three-way tie.

“What I still don't understand,” David complains as the credits roll, “is what the scores are supposed to mean. Does Alan owe five blowjobs or just one crap one? And how come I've got as many points as Jo and Rob? I thought I used mine up.”

“David, David,” sighs Stephen. “Your concern for accuracy is deeply touching, if perhaps misplaced.”

David looks sulky. “I just want to be sure everyone's getting blown the proper number of times.”

“Of course you do,” says Stephen soothingly, and David eyes him, suspicious that he's being mocked. Stephen eyes him back, and it's a long look, with little flickers passing between them.

“Ah...” says Alan, after several moments of this. “Should I...” He gestures toward the door.

It breaks the spell. “I was just...” says David, and Stephen says, “Yes, of course, it's late,” and within a minute or two, Alan and David are on their way out the door together.

“It's going to bug me,” says David, on the way to the corner to get a cab.

“What is?” asks Alan.

“The scores,” David replies. “I realize they're nineteen year-old children with the camera skills of chimpanzees, but can't they at least do simple maths?”

Alan shakes his head, then spots a cab coming toward them and raises his hand for it. “You really don't get it, do you?”

“No,” says David irritably, “I really don't.”

The cab glides to a halt in front of them, and Alan opens the door, then claps David affably on the back. “Don't worry,” he says, sliding into the backseat. “You'll figure it out.”