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Mal De Mer

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Poirot loved Hastings when he was like this desperate and needy for Poirot’s affection. Hastings with his head thrown back, eyes screwed shut, worrying his plush bottom lip between his teeth desperately trying to smoother whimpers as Poirot worries a deliciously sensitive spot on his throat with lips and tongue. He would give anything at this moment to have him laid bare before him, all his sinful skin on display for exploration with his lips, fingers, and teeth. Pleasure echoing off the walls, the little hitches in his breath, Poirot’s name an exaltation he can’t contain but he must resist temptation.

 

They had been incredibly busy recently no break in the cases they had undertaken, so when the chance for a holiday had presented itself they had jumped at the chance. Unfortunately, Hastings had run into an old Army friend and a nice quiet getaway for two was now a group holiday with a lot of ex-military men on a boat.

“I’m sorry old boy, I haven’t seen old Redburn for ages & when I mentioned I was thinking of a holiday well...”

Hastings gave him a sheepish look, which he returned with a cold stare. All he wanted was time alone with him, it felt like an eternity since he’d had more than a fleeting touch, a quick peck on the lips never mind anything more as they were in a continuous circle of work & exhaustion. It was exquisite torture to be in the same room, feel his presence behind him but only be able to convey his hunger through his eyes. Now they were to be trapped in a floating prison surrounded on all sides by people who would never understand their needs or desires.

In the end, his anger can’t sustain him for long as Hastings remains his one irresistible weakness and he resigns himself to his fate of seven excruciatingly long days on the tumultuous sea engulfed in his longing.

Hastings fills his days with activities, stories of the army’s glory days, which Poirot engages with out of polite interest but the hunger gnawed at him night and day.

But Hercule Poirot was made of sterner stuff, resisting Hastings charms grew more difficult over the days, floating on the uneven water, drowning out the monotony & eating inedible swill but he prevailed.

Then on the sixth night as he was reclining on his bed reading there was a tentative knock at his door.

“Qu'est-ce?”

“It’s me.”

“Come in Hastings.”

When Hastings came fully into the room Poirot felt a jolt of excitement at the unadulterated desire he could see reflected on Hastings' face. He relished times like these, to know that without words he could tell that Hastings felt the same pull that he could resist Poirot no more than Poirot could resist him. He wanted to be the only one who could arouse such yearning within him.

Deep within his beaux yeux bleus Poirot could see blazing hunger that made his mouth water & his fingers itch with the need to touch.

Hastings sat down gently on the edge of the bed as Poirot carefully closed over his book & set it to the side. He sat up fully moving closer to Hastings so that there was only a scant inch between them. Hastings looked down at Poirot’s hand that was resting on his stomach; he slowly moved his hand towards it & softly stroked Poirot’s index finger after glancing at the closed door.

“Poirot... how are you enjoying your holiday?”

“Is that really what you wish to ask me Mon Cheri?”

In lieu of an answer, Hastings leaned forward and kissed him pouring weeks of frustration and desire onto his lips. Poirot brought his arms up around him pulling him as close as it was humanly possible. When he felt the desperate touch of Hastings' fingers on the back of his head he knew a few desperate kisses would not sustain him until they got home. He slowly moved his lips to Hastings' cheek, and then nibbled his way to under his jaw and then sinuously moved to his long sensitive neck.

Hastings breath hitched as Poirot took his own frustrations out by biting down harshly on his pulse point, weeks worth magnified by the six days of confinement on this aquatic gaol aching for the one thing he couldn’t have. He could feel the moan building momentum under his tongue within Hastings' throat as his ear picked up the sound of footsteps approaching his cabin; he moved his lips to Hastings' ear.

“Calme mon chéri, voulez-vous que les autres entendent”

The temptation to take the delicate flesh of his ear between his teeth for a moment was too great. The footsteps continued on past his door as Hastings fought to contain himself. Poirot was beyond the illusion of caring about propriety as he ran his fingers over Hastings regrettably clothed body until he reached the buttons of his trousers.

P…P-Poirot, I’m not sure…”

“J'ai besoin de te toucher s'il te plait chéri.”

Hastings stiffened and looked at the door in distress as though he expected someone to walk through it at that exact moment. Poirot brought his attention back by kissing him as he undid the buttons that were in his way, deftly slipping his hand inside. He was confident of his skill in this area and within a short time; the evidence was in his hand as Hastings moaned softly by his ear sending a thrill through him. Soon Hastings was struggling to contain himself, other passengers be damned and Poirot couldn’t help adding fuel to the fire as he returned to his neck, alternating between stinging kisses and jumbled French against his skin.

“Anyone could hear you… walk through the door and see the effect that only Poirot can achieve, tout à moi… Ne peut pas attendre… it will be just you and me… Je veux t'entendre… know it’s all for me, wring every last drop of pleasure from you… mon beau Hastings Je veux être à l'intérieur de toi… won’t stop until I am satisfied nothing will prevent me… no cases only us… however long it takes until we have had our fill… Je vais vous satisfaire comme aucun autre… Hastings…”

As Hastings finally succumbed to his ministrations Poirot plans out their return home in his mind, he means every word and it’s time for Miss Lemon to take a holiday she works too hard, she deserves at least a fortnight’s rest.