There is nothing Vegard Ylvisåker dreads more than having his status threatened from the outside. It’s okay when he gets to willingly degrade himself, play the dork, the punching bag, the loser. It’s all about control and he gets to keep it that way. Being spanked on live nationwide television is the opposite of control. The opposite of overseeing the situation, directing the way he wants things to go. But a job is a job, showbiz is showbiz, and you don’t fuck with either of those things, so he plays the antsy and scared part beautifully and let’s fate hit him. Pun not intended.
The thing is, he would’ve been okay with any other form of humiliating or painful punishment. He’s not okay with being put through something thats a both, mixed with a heap of sexual innuendo and power dynamics. Because Vegard either has full control or he melts completely into a docile, willing mess. When that happens, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how loud his mind is yelling, his muscles won’t tense to refuse being moved by strangers' hands, his reflexes won’t act to protect him.
Instead, his body betrays him every step of the way, smoothly gliding into place as he’s pushed, moans threatening to escape as the stinging pain comes the first time. He yelps and jumps away, but then, with every synapsis of his brain screaming silently, he gets back into place a little too quickly, ass pushing upwards automatically, wordlessly begging for more. To add insult to injury, he can feel his pants tightening around the front. This is a disaster and a nightmare and its barely halfway over.
Bård watches the whole thing, torn between glee, empathy and utter terror. He’s more than happy to get to see his brother suffer, though he knows far too well just what kind of pain the other is going through right now. Even better he knows that Vegard won’t, can’t let this stand. Vegard is many good things, kind things, but he’s also strict and thorough. He will have to reinstate his position as the older, stronger, more powerful one and it won’t be as much fun as they would normally have had after a successful live show.
Soon, and yet after what seems like years, the torture is over. Vegard only slips out of his role as long-suffering victim for a tiny precious second of glaring at thing air before collecting himself and wincing and laughing it off, smoothly hiding his impressive erection by sitting down and gesturing until the camera loses interest for long enough to get himself under control. When he shortly after jokingly tries to hit Bård with the object at fault for the whole dilemma, the underlying threat is clear as day to the two of them.
Neither tries to act surprised when after superficially cut short congratulations and smiles and goodbyes they find themselves in the farthest end of the building in one of the surplus dressing rooms not even Billy Elliot had enough actors to occupy.
“Nice job out there.” Bård tries to keep at least the illusion of nonchalance up as long as he possibly can. Vegard is having none of it. “Yeah? Did you enjoy that, little brother? Was it nice to see me in pain for a change? Tell me how it felt for you, go on.” Bård immediately feels any dignity he had slip out of his fingers and tenses under his brothers mocking glare. “It was- It was funny, I guess? Bet the viewers loved it.” “Oh come on, you can do better than that. Didn’t our mother teach you not to lie? Did you enjoy it? Seeing me like that? All-“ Vegard pauses to press his teeth together in pent up anger. “-Out of control? Powerless?" “You come on, Vegard. You know it was hot and you know even better I enjoy seeing you act like a slut for a change. Can’t always be me, can it?”
The moment the stubborn attempt at keeping up some kind of friendly banter is finished, Bård knows he fucked up. Badly. Eyes drawn near shut into small black slits, Vegard hisses a simple “Hands against the wall. Count.” and waits for Bård to contemplate disobeying for the blink of an eye before wordlessly doing as told, feeling the could, rough wallpaper pressed against his fingers, butt pushed outwards as much as he can make himself before fear of whats to come freezes him up.
Theres a beat of nothing but their breathing. Heavy. Out of sync. Both trying to assess the other in vain.
Then a swoosh, tensing muscles, a slap and horrible, stinging, burning pain. Bård should be used to it, but he still can’t help a messed up mixture of a scream and a moan escaping his mouth before he remembers the second part of his task and quickly pants “One.”
Vegard had to suffer through three of those in front of all of Norway so he figures that converts to a nice even ten of them in private.
By the time he’s done, he has gotten rid of his suit jacket, arms hastily rolled up, both of them panting and with a nice flush painted on their faces. “You did good, you did so good, I’m so proud of you Bård” he hums calmingly, taking a step forward to turn his brother’s head toward him and give him one long tender kiss to compensate for all the quick ones he’d need to kiss it better.
Bård just slumps down, still braced against the wall, helplessly leaning, panting and moaning into the kiss. Vegard decides not to risk having that change anytime soon and goes to dig through his jacket pockets for the tiny bottle of lube he keeps in it. (After all, what good is it being rich and famous if you can’t have a whole jar of lube samples for celebratory post-show sex in your office?)
He returns to his still completely-out-of-it brother, gently opening the others pants and letting them fall to the floor before making him snap back to attention with two lubed up fingers at once, which start scissoring painfully slow soon after.
Alternating between spreading him open and slowly circling, just barely missing Bård’s prostate on every round, he waits until Bård has substituted breathing by constant moaning before smoothly exchanging the fingers, which seem thin in comparison, for his dick. The burning sensation gets Bård out of his trance, muscles in his body tensing up all at once, including the ones around Vegard, which makes the hot flesh around him feel even more impossibly tight. And like dominoes, that reaction makes Vegard react by letting go of all his carefully regained control, though this time willingly and consciously, and starts shoving himself into his brother and brother against the wall roughly and carelessly.
They manage to find a shared unrhythmical rhythm, that is their own and manages to reduce them to nothing but sweat and breathing and moaning like it does every single time they find their way to each other in far-off rooms or empty corners.
Its a matter of minutes before they both break through the tension that has been building up since before the stage that seems so far away right now sunk into darkness, and simultaneously, how else, come and promptly sink down onto the floor.
In a quiet and countlessly rehearsed tangling and untangling of limbs they manage to settle down against the wall and each other, Bård resting between Vegards legs, head pressed against his chest.
Both breathe quietly for a while, finally finding a shared beat of in, out, in, out, before Bård looks up at his older brother and sighs "Next week, I’m letting you win."