WISHLISTS: Whipped (Fred/George/Oliver)
Author: kiertorata
Recipient: dunderklumpen
Title: Whipped
Pairing: George Weasley/Fred Weasley/Oliver Wood
Request/Prompt Used: spanking
Rating: R
Warnings: alcohol, mild dub-con, language
Word Count: 881
Summary: A bad drunk decision lands Oliver in an uncomfortable situation. Post-Hogwarts AU where Fred is alive.
Notes: Your prompt was just hilarious! I don't exactly know what happened in my brain, but here is the result. :D Hope you like it! (Also, disclaimer: I'm not a fan of twincest per se, but as Oliver is the one exposed here, I don't really view it as such.)
If there was something Fred and George were good at (aside from the obvious pranks and being a general nuisance), it was winning bets. Their legendary Quidditch World Cup win was proof of that, as were the multiple times they had won the knuts and sickles of their fellow classmates. They had a knack for these things.
Had Oliver remembered this before he made a bet with the twins, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament.
Trousers down, Quidditch robes up, arse bare and knees on the floor, he was very much starting to regret ever going to the pub with Fred and George Weasley. Firewhiskey shots and several pints of beer didn’t make for very good decisions. As Keeper for Puddlemere United, he boasted one of the highest save percentages of the British Quidditch league. As drunk Keeper for Puddlemere United, he had felt second to god. Making a little money off his talent had seemed like a genius idea at the time.
Oliver never missed. Except when he did. Three bloody misses, which against the Falcons’ Keeper was enough to make him lose his bet.
Oliver tried not to feel self-conscious being on display as he was. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been seen by the twins in the locker rooms back at Hogwarts. It just hadn’t been quite like this.
“One.”
The blow hit him just a second after George uttered the word and almost took him by surprise. A hot, tingling sensation spread out in his behind. It wasn’t as bad as he expected. If only Fred would stop snickering in the background he could feel more comfortable-
“Two.”
The next one hit him hard, and Oliver tried not to gasp out loud. He braced himself for the last one.
“Three.”
It came down harder than the first two, leaving his rear prickling with pain. He started to get up, but Fred motioned him to stop.
“We’re not done yet,” he said.
“You said it would be the amount of goals the Falcons made,” Oliver protested. “That was three. Believe me, I remember only too well how many saves I missed-”
“We said it would be the amount of goals the Falcons made for each of us,” Fred said. “I still have two left.”
“And I have one,” George chimed in. “Get back on your knees, Captain.”
Oliver wanted to say something to protest, but something about George’s commanding voice made him immediately succumb. Captain. There was something slightly thrilling yet utterly humiliating about being reduced to a state like this by his former teammates.
“This is how I like my Quidditch stars,” Fred said. “Whipped.”
“Or should we say spanked,” George said. Oliver could hear the smirk in his voice.
Something about it sent shivers down his spine. He pushed his arse out, just a little bit.
“Four,” Fred said, and landed a particularly painful one on his right cheek. This time Oliver moaned out load despite himself.
His knees were starting to ache from the contact with the bare floor.
“Hurry up, won’t you,” Oliver said, trying to mask the fluster in his voice as impatience.
“We like to take our time,” George said.
“Stop complaining,” Fred purred, “and take your punishment like a man. Five!”
Oliver hissed as the blow hit him. Thank Merlin the creases of his trousers still covered his critical bits, or he would be in for further humiliation from his tormentors.
“I’m never going to lose another match again,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“Did he just say he’s never going to lose another match?” Fred said with an expression of utter glee.
“I think he did, brother dear. How nice for us. I’ll have him after next weekend’s match, then,” George said.
“And I’ll have him the week after that.”
“What?” Oliver said. “What do you mean ‘have me’?”
“Didn’t you read the contract?”
“What contract-ow!”
The final blow hit him without warning. His cheeks tingled with pain and pleasure.
Oliver got up and pulled his trousers up quickly, thankful for the hard, protective material his uniform was made of. It covered any unwanted reactions.
“What contract?” he demanded again, trouser-clad and a little bit more like himself. He was still flushed.
“The one you signed last weekend,” Fred said matter-of-factly. “Or were you too plastered to remember?”
Fred whipped out the piece of parchment from inside his cloak.
“Here,” he pointed, and Oliver leaned closer to read. “You notice this very small line there. Just let me magnify it for your convenience…”
He uttered an enlargement spell, and Oliver grabbed the parchment.
“In the case that Puddlemere United wins this match or any future matches I, Oliver Wood, promise to offer my body post-match to Fred or George Weasley for to use as he desires,” Oliver read, pitch rising at each word. “Contract is valid indefinitely-you sly bastards! You can’t actually mean this!”
“In black and white, completely valid,” George said, grinning. “Thank you for being so…cooperative last weekend, captain.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Oliver said, and glared at them murderously.
“Or you’re just going to surrender yourself to us, like a good boy,” George said cheerfully.
“I think you’re going to enjoy it more than you’d care to admit,” Fred said.
Recipient: dunderklumpen
Title: Whipped
Pairing: George Weasley/Fred Weasley/Oliver Wood
Request/Prompt Used: spanking
Rating: R
Warnings: alcohol, mild dub-con, language
Word Count: 881
Summary: A bad drunk decision lands Oliver in an uncomfortable situation. Post-Hogwarts AU where Fred is alive.
Notes: Your prompt was just hilarious! I don't exactly know what happened in my brain, but here is the result. :D Hope you like it! (Also, disclaimer: I'm not a fan of twincest per se, but as Oliver is the one exposed here, I don't really view it as such.)
If there was something Fred and George were good at (aside from the obvious pranks and being a general nuisance), it was winning bets. Their legendary Quidditch World Cup win was proof of that, as were the multiple times they had won the knuts and sickles of their fellow classmates. They had a knack for these things.
Had Oliver remembered this before he made a bet with the twins, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament.
Trousers down, Quidditch robes up, arse bare and knees on the floor, he was very much starting to regret ever going to the pub with Fred and George Weasley. Firewhiskey shots and several pints of beer didn’t make for very good decisions. As Keeper for Puddlemere United, he boasted one of the highest save percentages of the British Quidditch league. As drunk Keeper for Puddlemere United, he had felt second to god. Making a little money off his talent had seemed like a genius idea at the time.
Oliver never missed. Except when he did. Three bloody misses, which against the Falcons’ Keeper was enough to make him lose his bet.
Oliver tried not to feel self-conscious being on display as he was. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been seen by the twins in the locker rooms back at Hogwarts. It just hadn’t been quite like this.
“One.”
The blow hit him just a second after George uttered the word and almost took him by surprise. A hot, tingling sensation spread out in his behind. It wasn’t as bad as he expected. If only Fred would stop snickering in the background he could feel more comfortable-
“Two.”
The next one hit him hard, and Oliver tried not to gasp out loud. He braced himself for the last one.
“Three.”
It came down harder than the first two, leaving his rear prickling with pain. He started to get up, but Fred motioned him to stop.
“We’re not done yet,” he said.
“You said it would be the amount of goals the Falcons made,” Oliver protested. “That was three. Believe me, I remember only too well how many saves I missed-”
“We said it would be the amount of goals the Falcons made for each of us,” Fred said. “I still have two left.”
“And I have one,” George chimed in. “Get back on your knees, Captain.”
Oliver wanted to say something to protest, but something about George’s commanding voice made him immediately succumb. Captain. There was something slightly thrilling yet utterly humiliating about being reduced to a state like this by his former teammates.
“This is how I like my Quidditch stars,” Fred said. “Whipped.”
“Or should we say spanked,” George said. Oliver could hear the smirk in his voice.
Something about it sent shivers down his spine. He pushed his arse out, just a little bit.
“Four,” Fred said, and landed a particularly painful one on his right cheek. This time Oliver moaned out load despite himself.
His knees were starting to ache from the contact with the bare floor.
“Hurry up, won’t you,” Oliver said, trying to mask the fluster in his voice as impatience.
“We like to take our time,” George said.
“Stop complaining,” Fred purred, “and take your punishment like a man. Five!”
Oliver hissed as the blow hit him. Thank Merlin the creases of his trousers still covered his critical bits, or he would be in for further humiliation from his tormentors.
“I’m never going to lose another match again,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“Did he just say he’s never going to lose another match?” Fred said with an expression of utter glee.
“I think he did, brother dear. How nice for us. I’ll have him after next weekend’s match, then,” George said.
“And I’ll have him the week after that.”
“What?” Oliver said. “What do you mean ‘have me’?”
“Didn’t you read the contract?”
“What contract-ow!”
The final blow hit him without warning. His cheeks tingled with pain and pleasure.
Oliver got up and pulled his trousers up quickly, thankful for the hard, protective material his uniform was made of. It covered any unwanted reactions.
“What contract?” he demanded again, trouser-clad and a little bit more like himself. He was still flushed.
“The one you signed last weekend,” Fred said matter-of-factly. “Or were you too plastered to remember?”
Fred whipped out the piece of parchment from inside his cloak.
“Here,” he pointed, and Oliver leaned closer to read. “You notice this very small line there. Just let me magnify it for your convenience…”
He uttered an enlargement spell, and Oliver grabbed the parchment.
“In the case that Puddlemere United wins this match or any future matches I, Oliver Wood, promise to offer my body post-match to Fred or George Weasley for to use as he desires,” Oliver read, pitch rising at each word. “Contract is valid indefinitely-you sly bastards! You can’t actually mean this!”
“In black and white, completely valid,” George said, grinning. “Thank you for being so…cooperative last weekend, captain.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Oliver said, and glared at them murderously.
“Or you’re just going to surrender yourself to us, like a good boy,” George said cheerfully.
“I think you’re going to enjoy it more than you’d care to admit,” Fred said.