There it was again-Poirot's leg brushing up against his own. a slight movement, merely the slide of an ankle across his calf as Poirot adjusted his posture. He had simply disregarded it the first time.
Well, to be fair, he had thought to himself, it was an awfully small (practically cramped, one might say) train compartment. It was hard to believe that this was what passed for first class these days.
Hastings glanced over his half-read newspaper at the Belgian sitting across from him; as always, Poirot's entire countenance painted a picture of poise and decorum, with one leg crossed over the other, hands folded almost daintily in his lap. He was apparently occupied in observing the picturesque English scenery that was whizzing by them with every turn of the steam engine's many wheels.
Hastings almost felt as if he shouldn't interrupt the serene moment. Poirot seemed deep in thought, as he often was, but something in Hastings (what he would probably call his lack of social grace) prompted him to open his mouth, and say something...anything to pervade the quiet.
"Some really lovely views, eh Poirot? It's really worth it to get out of London once in a while."
Poirot nodded, his attention drawn back to his traveling companion, and gave his usual amiable smile.
"Ah, yes, Indeed, mon ami."
Though he often disliked traveling, even if it was for a case, Poirot seemed to be in particularly good spirits. They lapsed back into a reasonably comfortable silence and Hastings returned to his paper, skimming the latest cricket scores.
Maybe ten minutes later, Hastings was halfway through a very dry article about stocks and finances when he felt it again. A light, but definitely tangible, pressure against the inside of his lower leg, this time it remained there, a stolid almost reassuring presence of his dear friend (partner? lover? or perhaps an "associate" as many clients were vaguely told) sitting nearly a hair's breadth away.
He continued reading for a while, perusing a few more columns with varying levels of interest, until he was distracted once more by the sensation on his leg, which now manifested itself in more of a thoughtful stroking motion.
He peered up at Poirot again, whose chin was resting on his fist, and who seemed to have been casually observing Hastings for some time. A playful smile graced his lips, and his eyes twinkled with a not-so-innocent mirth. Hastings knew what looks like that usually preceded.
"I must agree with you, mon cher Hastings. There are most definitely some very lovely views I am enjoying at present, but I did not really need to leave London to see them, I think."
Hastings nearly flushed. Regardless of how long he and Poirot had been together, he wasn't yet used to the novelty, the singularity, of being complimented on his appearance, often very frankly, earnestly, or even offhandedly. Especially when he had always thought himself entirely plain-and almost unappealing-when it came to the looks department. He couldn't help but be excited by the gaze he was receiving from Poirot, one that could be described with words ranging from unchaste to debauched.
Hastings folded his newspaper and set it aside on the seat next to him, fully distracted now. He raised an eyebrow at Poirot, unintentionally pouting his thin lips.
"I do say, old boy, this isn't exactly the time or place..."
"Ah, but Hastings, there is another half hour until we reach Somerset, non? and the ticket checker? He has already come to check our tickets approximately twenty minute ago, mais oui? There is absolutely no reason for anyone to disturb us."
Hastings eyes still flitted to the carriage door self consciously. A feeling of excitement and danger thrummed under his skin, more formidable than his fear and apprehension.
"Poirot, you know you are completely and utterly incorrigible sometimes?" He tried to sound exasperated but his words still carried a fond affection.
Oh yes, yes, what less would you expect from the great Hercule Poirot," he chided, taking mock offence. Poirot leaned forward ever so slightly-there wasn't very far to go-and laid a hand on Hastings' thigh as he captured his mouth in a deep kiss. It had been a while since they had done anything like this, a particularly challenging case had been keeping Poirot both mentally and physically occupied for longer than either of them had expected or desired.
Hastings groaned, almost inaudibly, as Poirot caressed and kneaded his thigh. Their lips briefly parted, a huff of air passing between them, whose breath it was Hastings was not entirely sure. Poirot leaned back into his own seat, his hand still extended. He untucked Hastings' necktie from under his waistcoat, tugging it gently until Hastings closed the gap between them again, bent forward, eventually getting up from his seat and letting himself be pulled into Poirot's lap.
He pressed their lips together once again, hungrily, clutching the lapels of Poirot's suit with white knuckles. Poirot's swift hands made their way to Hastings back, rubbing delicate circles, one slipping lower cupping the seat of his trousers, holding him more firmly in place as Hasting's hips rocked against his own.
They quickly picked up a rhythm, though shaky at first, both were soon gasping for breath, the friction of their clothed erections exactly what they had been craving. Hastings swallowed hard. He detached his mouth from Poirot's to strip off his tweed blazer-they were both building up a bit of a sweat, and after a nod from Poirot helped him remove his own suit jacket.
He splayed his hands across Poirot's chest before sliding down to squeeze appreciatively at the slight paunch below. With a entreating glance, his hand lowered to the fly of Poirot's trousers, which, if their appearance where any accurate indication, were probably uncomfortably snug. The private detective's response came out headily, in nearly a whisper, "Yes, please, Hastings, S'il te plait." It was hard to believe that the man who had been so smug just a moment ago was practically putty in the captain's hands.
Hastings undid the fastening of his trouser and palmed the hardness in the drawers beneath it with a shaking, excited hand. Poirot let out of a hiss of frustration and muttered something in his native tongue as his partner stood up to shed his own trousers. His loafers were shucked off and shuffled aside, and his own trousers and drawers soon followed.
In Hastings opinion, nothing else he had ever witnessed could rival Poirot's look of complete adoration at that moment. Never before had anyone looked upon Hasting's form with this much sheer appreciation and esteem. Poirot's hands found his way to his partner's hips, caressing the lean sinewy muscle and pulling him closer once more, Hasting's prick rubbing up against Poirot's clothes in a particularity debauched fashion.
Poirot's breath was coming in sharp gasps and groans, he looked completely undone, and in the back of his mind Hastings supposed the both of them did. So much for polite society and his supposed stiff upper English lip (although there was something else quite stuff at the moment). For all he knew, the compartment next door contained some upstanding earl or duke, or an elderly women's needlepoint group...or a gaggle of nuns, for god's sake. And thanks to the loud thrum of the train, not a soul would notice two unassuming middle-aged gentlemen, rutting like animals on one of the stuffy benches in one of the private first-class compartments. The thought made Hastings burst into uncharacteristic and undignified boyish giggles. He supposed this was the type of raunchy behavior one gets themselves involved in when having an affair with an oh-so-passionate continental. He buried his head in Poirot's shoulder, still convulsing with what was soon silent laughter and causing Poirot to chuckle too.
When he had gotten a hold of himself he grinned mischievously and whispered in the detective's ear. With a nod, he leaned back, with Poirot's hands still bracing his bum and keeping him from slipping to the floor, and finally tugged down Poirot's trousers enough to wrap a hand around his hardness and give him a few quick tugs. His brought the fingers of his other hand to his mouth, sucking his digits thoughtfully. He lifted himself up more, straddling Poirot's lap with a bony knee on either side, digging into the upholstery, and reached around to his backside to prepare himself.
Once he considered himself ready, he exchanged another glance with Poirot and guided himself onto the Belgian's short fat prick, sinking down on it with a rather unbecoming grunt as he adjusted.
"Oh Mon Dieu," Poirot cooed, eyes half lidded and languid.
Hastings dug his fingers into the other man's shoulders and pulled his hips down harder, trying to set a pace again. He felt his thigh muscles working, tensing and untensing as he rode him. Poirot pulled him into another searing kiss that left them both gasping for air. Poirot clutched his upper arm with one hand and began to massage his prick with the other, timing each stroke with Hasting's quickening slapping of his hips.
It wasn't long before Poirot had climaxed, Hastings following suit with a satisfied shudder and a groan, making an absolute mess of Poirot's shirt and waistcoat. Hastings slumped forward leaning his head on Poirot's neck as they both caught their breath. His nose was filled with the floral scent of the detective's cologne. An (almost) guilty smile was plastered on his face-he couldn't believe they had just done that on a train.
The shrill, sudden sound of said train's whistle broke them from their moment of bliss. Poirot shook Hastings shoulder gently and playfully, "Hastings, mon cher, I really would not mind if you did not wish to move yourself for the rest of the evening but I am afraid we are just a few moments from the station, and they you may need to...extract yourself from me."
"Hmm? Oh, right, yes."
Once they had managed to clean themselves up to the best of their ability and redressed, they found themselves exiting the train platform and in search of a taxi to take them into town. Poirot kept grimacing, overtly aware of the still damp stain that marred his otherwise meticulously laundered waistcoat (luckily hidden away from the world by his thick wool overcoat, buttoned tightly despite the coolness of the summer evening).
"Mon ami, it was my original plan to meet first with our new client before booking in at the local inn, but I think we must now make a change in the plans. I believe, also, a change of the clothes is in order."
Hastings chuckled, his expression perfectly innocent, "Whatever you say, old boy."