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“Khun Porsche,” a lower ranking, new bodyguard (Tin? Tim? Porsche is too overworked to remember.) addresses him as he steps into the room. “Apologies for disturbing you, but you should according to protocol be made aware whenever khun Porchay is in medical. Well, uh, he is now. Non-threatening.”
Porsche’s blood runs cold despite the heat and he stands up. “Meeting adjourned. We finalized most of the important details already, we will postpone the conclusive decisions until tomorrow,” he commands (because he could do that now, he could command people , which he never really got used to).
Walking out of the room, Kinn is immediately right behind him with his hand on his lower back—it never fails to send reassurance as well as tiny flashes of heat up his spine starting from the point upon his lower vertebrae where the large hand is placed—and nods thankfully but somewhat curtly at Tin/Tim/whatever-his-name-is, which he really should remember by now, but he’s busy, dammit. Most of the guards’ names had stuck. Just not this guy’s. He’s trying, okay?
They arrive within minutes, to a… profusely apologetic Kim, and a clearly amused but hurt Porchay with a bandage and a splint on his right wrist.
“Chay! What happened?” Porsche shouts, making the two look up from each other and at him.
“Kim keeps apologizing even though I specifically tell him that I hurt myself and that it’s not his fault and I’m trying to get that into his thick walnut skull ,” comes the exasperated answer from his brother.
“Rude,” Kim sulks. Porsche wonders if anyone has told him that he pouts when he’s frowning. It’s almost cute.
“No, like, what happened for your wrist to get,” he throws a glance at the medical report, “sprained?”
Chay groans softly. “Well… It’s a long story, but b—“
“He startled me accidentally and I pushed him to the floor and he landed badly,” Kim interrupts. “That’s the gist of it.”
Porsche raises one disbelieving, sharp brow.
The younger men sigh in tandem. “It’s a little embarrassing, hia,” Chay mumbles softly, a blush growing on his cheeks. Oh. Porsche is going to be so annoying about this.
“Ah. Sex injury?” Porsche says, very amused in a way only an older sibling can be, after a beat. The tiny half smirk on his face starts growing into a huge grin. Chay groans.
Porsche laughs in relief, the fear of his brother being hurt settling itself.
“Oh fuck, Chay, Chay ,” Kim whined.
The two fingers working him open were ruthless against his prostate, lube dripping around his hole and down his scrotum, onto the mattress.
Wiggling his hips in the air upon a gentle smack to his cheek, he shoved against the long fingers currently scissoring him open, swearing under his breath. It was muffled by the pillow his face was halfway buried in, but Chay heard it clear enough and chuckled in response.
The sound made Kim burn red hot—his darling boy always managed to ruin him in all the best ways. He was bordering on cock drunk already, and the cock part of it all hadn’t even begun yet.
It kept going, proceeding well and teasingly on both sides, and he was ready for Chay to pull his digits out and replace them with his deliciously thick cock, but his lover was nothing but persistent.
And then.
The most unsexy possible thing that could happen happened.
Namely, Chay’s finger caught on Kim’s rim weirdly when he pushed against it, as he clenched down and simultaneously a bit too aggressively pushed his hips back into it.
A quiet snap was heard and immediately after, a yelp. And Kim, even though it took a few seconds to come down from his little high, was soon pushing his boyfriend into the bathroom to gently wash and disinfect his hands, because obviously, medical emergency means doctor, which in turn means they couldn’t just leave his hand in its lube covered state.
He couldn’t do much more than profusely apologize. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Chay, I didn’t mean to hurt you, fuck,” he choked out, to which he just got a loving, exasperated frown and a huffed “I can’t even explain how much not your fault it is, phi, things just happen sometimes”—which did absolutely nothing to dissolve his guilt.
Kim shakes his head free of thoughts. Chay begins explaining, to his abject horror, (thankfully) a compressed, less detailed version of it all.
“I was, uh, hmm, fingering Kim and kinda pushed a little wrong, ah, and my fingers got caught and… Well,” he mumbles. “Something snapped. Killed the mood.”
Kim puts his head in his hands. He hears his own brother sigh, exhausted, as Porsche begins cackling maniacally.
“That’s hilarious,” he wheezes. “I don’t think I’m gonna let you live this down, ever.”
“Nooo. Hia, please don’t do this,” Chay moans. “It’s embarrassing enough as it is.”
He’s still giggling. “That’s the point, nong.”
“You don’t love me anymore, I see how it is.”
Porsche’s laughter picks up again at the somber tone in Chay’s voice. “It’s precisely because I do love you that I need to embarrass you with it, actually.” His brother groans at this.
He keeps teasing the younger couple a little while longer, until he decides to let up.
“Well, I suppose I’ll head up to our rooms. Text me if you need help with literally anything,” Porsche says, “except anything sexual involving your brat of a boyfriend. I’d actually rather kill myself.”
“I’d kill you myself before you could even think about it,” Kim responds, with much less bite than usual.
“Whatever, I’m not the one with the wrist-spraining ass.”
“I’ll sprain your ass and your wrist!”
“Okay, easy, you two. Porsche, come on, let’s go,” Kinn interjects. “Get well soon, Chay.”
“Thank you, P’Kinn.”
As they walk out of the infirmary, Porsche hears Kim grumble, “I’m doing my own prep from now on.” (Unfortunately, he also hears his baby brother whom he raised respond with “hell no, I love fingering you,” and promptly decides to bleach his ears and brain. He hurries into the elevator.)
“So,” Kinn begins on the way up, “can you actually sprain someone’s ass? Like, is that a thing that is possible?”
Porsche cackles.