'Puerco Pibil' Rating:
NC-17 [heh heh]Summary:
Sands decides they should go out for dinner. Mort is questionable. [pre-'Mexico']Disclaimer
I don't own either of these characters.Special Thanks To: hippediva
for filling me in on the ingredients of this infamous dish that I have never tasted myself. Feedback:
Please. Think of it as... rum. And then think of a certain pirate
begging for the intoxicating drink. Give ol'Cap'n Jack some rum? >^_^<
The setting was, naturally, a spanish restaurant, and one of far too much bright colors for the writer of shadowed clothing. Mort hadn't caught the name as they were pulling in because the other Mort and Shooter were arguing in the backseat. They were like children, those two, when they got into such heated debates as 'Who is better, Batman or Superman?'. Mort, the one from the mirror, naturally won those debates since Shooter barely knew who the superheroes were. But the hick defended his choice vehemently in spite of his bare-bone knowledge.
Once parked, all four of them - Sands joining in with the true Mort acting as translator - spent the next ten minutes settling the argument. Finally, with a vote of three against one, it was decided that Batman was the better of the two since he had his own cave, big-ass computer, and whore to dress up in the goofiest of costumes. Shooter claimed once more that homosexuality was wrong, a sin, etc, to which Sands responded, "We'll see how that view is later tonight, ya goddamned bible-humper."
Now seated in the more secluded smoking area - as per Shooter's and Sheldon's request - Mort was reminded of why he hated public dining areas. Far
too many people, for one thing. Whilst waiting upon your meal, there was little else to do aside from glance about your surroundings like some kind of rat in a claustrophobic cage. You couldn't really look
at anyone, though, save for one or two seconds because, as soon as they sensed eyes upon them, they glanced suspiciously in your direction, thereby forcing a quick glance away. He hated to be spotted by any of them, hated their own curious glances toward him. He didn't want their greedy, angry, teenybopperish, or whatever, eyes looking over him like some antennae on a predatory insect. Yet he couldn't bring himself to meet the gazes of these people to force their eyes away from him, for that would entail that him seeing
them, which he was loathe to do. Mort didn't like people, and that was all there was to that
For another, there was simply too much noise
to merit one's comfort. How could anyone truly relax in such an environment? Conversations of all sorts were at full volume around you, the sound of clattering dishes, the shuffle of feet as the waiters moved about with grace only acquired after a few months on the job, babies crying and wailing their woes to all surrounding, big business people on their little phones, etc etc. He missed his quiet little house by the lake already, and he had only been away from it for twenty minutes. He wanted out of this hell hole, he wanted to be home, not here, but home
Restaurants were like brothels, as far as both Morts were concerned. The tables, silverware, plates, and glasses were all like trained whores; you rented them for a time then, once you left, they were cleaned up and readied for the next customer.
"Except unlike brothels, you don't get to choose your bitch, only how she's dressed." Came a sarcastic reply from across the table, accompanied with a smirk as innocent as Lucifer though twice as seductive. Mort glanced at his agent companion - //'Companion? More like your fuckbuddy.' was the chuckling response he heard to his left, coming forth from his mirrored self// - in confusion, hardly aware that he had spoken his musings aloud.
"Ya really oughtta guard yer thoughts more of'en, pilgrim. Neveh know who maght be lis'enin' in." Shooter said from his place at Mort's right. Which was quite a moronic thing to say, really, given the waiter's odd look when Mort had requested a table that seated six. He sat at the center, as did Sands on the opposite side, which left four chairs for his two illusions to use as they saw fit. He didn't inform the waiter of this - wasn't his business, after all - nor did he care about the curious quirk of the brow from the servant. The kid was barely hold enough to have hair on his balls, Mort thought, so how could he possibly understand the difficulty of making sure the voices in your head were seated comftorably?
"Yeah, well, what I ought to do and what I actually
do are two very different things. I'll say whatever I damn well please, thankyouverymuch." The writer responded which earned a glare of rage from the Mississipian author. Sands only rolled his eyes at this, more than used to his 'suspect' speaking to empty air. Naturally, he couldn't see either of the two when they weren't possessing the original Mort, but given these many months of observation, he could almost swear he knew what they were saying.
The agent sat back in his seat, idly rolling a cig then lighting up to further 'corrupt his lungs' as his writer was fond of saying. Puerco Pibil would take a while before it was ready, and knowing what he did of the two personalities, he knew it was simply a matter of time before they grew impatient. Impatience would lead to snapping comments meant to incite anger, which then could escalate to a violent scene of the man with the multi-colored bedheaded blonde striking out and yelling at seemingly nothing.
This happened at a McDonald's about two months ago thus leading to them being forbidden to return. Apparently they had scared the busload of schoolkids visiting when Mort had ruthlessly attacked the Ronald McDonald cardboard figure. Which was just fucking bullshit, anyway; you can't protect the damn brats forever.
Besides, they had screamed far more when he shot the figure in the head - once, twice, five times - than when Mort had begun tearing it limb from limb.
His mind immediately returned to the present when his senses informed him of the delicious dish being nearly ready. Their dinner was near completion; he estimated ten more minutes or so before they could dine. He sat up straighter in his seat, a sharp-eyed alpha wolf once more alert, and rested his cig between his fingers, elbow propped upon the table. Mort was boredly fingering a pile of salt that he had created upon the tabletop, now having that look on his face when thought too much over some trivial matter. Shooter and his reflection, Sands figured, were either arguing or silent.
"Remind me why we're here again." The writer said to him without even glancing up from his mixture of salt and the pepper that was now being added with meticulous care.
"Because being stuck for too long in your house isn't good for you, Mortimer." Sands responded simply, grinning with an angelic devilishness when those wide, mostly innocent eyes glanced up at him in exasperated anger.
"How many times must I ask you not
to call me that?"
"I don't know. How many times would you prefer?"
"Then none it is... Mortimer
A glare of either heated anger or passionate lust - amazing how both darkened the color of the eyes and created a 'fuck me' look - was his silent response before Mort lowered his gaze, smiling with amusement. And when Mort smiled, his entire demeanor seemed to change; for the briefest of seconds he appeared happy and free, instead of a prisoner of the mind that he truly was. Though he never questioned aloud, Sands often wondered how such a life could possibly be, always being tormented by your cluttered thoughts, having those same thoughts turn on you and form two nearly-seperate beings. Not only that, but said beings could possess you at any time, day or night... Sands knew this first-hand. In that sense, it wasn't life that was like a box of chocolates, but their fucking; Sands never knew who he was going to get. Or, rather, who was going to get him
"Is that the only reason, that you enjoy placing him in uncomfortable situations of which he has no control?" Mort said suddenly out of nowhere - something else Sands was used to - but something in the tone and choice of words caused red flags to be raised and alarms to go off. This wasn't the shy, quiet, and often disillusioned tone he knew from the writer. It wasn't the southern rage from Shooter, either. Which left one 'person'.
"Mr. Reflection, I presum--?" Before he even finished speaking, 'Mort' leaned across the table and snatched the cig from his hand and propped it between his own lips, grinning a challenge back at Sands. Well. That answered his
"Its creepy how you two do that, you know, just take control all of a sudden." Sands said to him with an air of casualness, but ever cautious. Mort he loved and trusted, Shooter he knew how to deal with, but this
Mort? Something about him always put him on the edge. It was, he supposed, because they were too much alike. Both ruthless, cunning, stubborn, and both liked to be top. Their type of foreplay consisted of fighting it out to see who would be the bitch to the other.
"Yeah? Don't like it, then move out. You knew I was here before you even knocked on the door so long ago."
"True." Sands responded. As always with this version of Mort, a conversation was a chess match, each statement a move and a challenge. "Doesn't mean I like you driving Mort about like some second-rate tractor."
"You don't seem to protest too much when I'm fucking your brains out." Mort said with a smirk that spoke of many such nights when he had won the wrestling matches. Unlike Mort, Sands didn't blush at the bad language, being a user of such himself. He merely shrugged, admitting without words that this version of Mort was right, and then reached over to claim his cig from Mort's right hand.
The other Mort remained still, watching his opponent as a hungry panther feigning sleep watches a mouse approach to snatch up a crumb of cheese. Sands's own expression matched this, the challenge set and the smiles being as sharpened, experienced blades. Just as the agent's fingers reached the cig, Mort twisted backward, his unoccupied left hand coming down to pin Sands's to the table. But Sands was quicker and he managed to move just in time to avoid the pin, and lean even further over the table to reach his cig. Mort quickly dropped it none too gently on the table, reached out with both his hands and grasped Sands's black t-shirt, then pulled him roughly to him for a possessive, triumphant kiss that both enjoyed immensely.
Thankfully, the smoking area was vacant of customers, though a waitress was cleaning up some tables. She had stopped at the wrestling match, hesitating to get in involved, then resorted to all-out staring when they kissed. It was her first day on the job, she was trying
to make a good impression by getting her work done early, and now all of a sudden, these two hot guys are KISSING
right before her eyes. Dammit all to hell.
Only when the plate she had been holding fall from her strengthless fingers to crash to the ground did all three react at once; her jumping from the startling sound, and the two kissers breaking apart instantly. Mort was disoriented, looking about dazed - something Sands had come to recognize as the 'midpoint' between one personality leaving him and he reclaiming himself - and Sands watching the waitress with a seductive grin. He knew, just from the way she glanced at them every two seconds as she cleaned up the fallen mess, that she had been watching. But more importantly, he knew that Mort and himself made one hell of a hot couple. He managed to capture her gaze - not just catch it for a fleeting second but own
it for a brief moment - and winked slowly at her, enjoying the way her breath quickened and her cheeks blushed. Then he turned back to face Mort, dismissing the girl entirely from his mind. After all, he'd given her enough to ignite her fantasies for weeks to come.
He cautiously reclaimed his cig as he watched those brown eyes clear and become focused. But, the question was, which version of Mort was he seeing? It was only a second later after that mental question when Mort glanced up at him with that lost and fearful gaze did Sands know that Mort was himself once more.
"Did he do anything...bad?" Mort asked quietly, unable to meet Sands's gaze and instead focused on the pile of seasoning. The sheer heartbreaking desperation of that one question was enough for Sands to hesitate before speaking, as it always did. At times, all three seemed to get along and Mort didn't seem to mind when he was possessed. And at other times he acted as a woman who had just been raped and was dealing with the broken pieces of her soul. Sands supposed such a harsh metaphor wasn't too far off, given the circumstances.
"No. Just cheated on you with me is all." The agent in black responded with a playful smirk, trying to lighten the mood. Mort smiled at the comment, but it was one of those smiles that didn't quite reach the eyes and soon faded into obscurity.
They were silent for a time, each contending with their own thoughts, and the only sounds being the waitress cleaning up the mess. She was doing so none too quickly, Sands noted mentally just by listening to the unhurried movements. She was stalling, staying for as long as she could, and this had nothing to do with how sexy either of them were. One could know nothing of Mort Rainey, yet still have some instinct that made them want to hug him, comfort him until whatever troubled him passed away, and the sadness faded into joy.
That was another curious thing Sands had noted in these many months. People reacted in one of two ways to Mort: one, they wanted nothing to do with him, feeling uneasy around him; two, they wanted to coddle him and care for him as though he were a child who needed love. It was an interesting contrast, though entirely useless given that Mort's despair wouldn't and couldn't be driven away so easily.
But enough of this angst and depression. The puerco pibil was finally
finished, the announcement of this being the arrival of the waiter with the tray. Sands placed his cig in the astray as the waiter set the plates before them, made the usual 'inform me if you require anything' in a cute Spanish accent then quickly departed. Sands leaned down and closed his eyes, simply enjoying the smell of this delicacy as the steam wafted towards him. He sighed in pleasure, then glanced to see if his partner was enjoying the meal's arrival as much as him, only to discover it was quite the opposite.
"What the hell is this shit?" Mort questioned of Sands as he peered at the plate, looking at it in almost fearful disgust, his lip already upcurled. Unknown to Sands, Shooter was standing behind Mort and peering over his shoulder, also looking at the dish with a quirk of the brow.
"It looks ta me like someone got'a'lil too happy with red food colorin'." to which Mort - the first one - responded, "No, it doesn't. It just looks...odd." Sands quirked a brow at Mort, muttering a questioning 'hm?' and nodded when Mort translated what Shooter had said.
"Its called puerco pibil, nothing fancy just happens to be my favorite, and the red color is caused by annatto seeds, which is what the pork is roasted in for three hours."
Mort experimentally poked at the plate with his fork as though half-expecting to be attacked. "Okay, I understand pork and rice. And there's some seeds which give it the coloring." A pause as he glanced up at Sands, curious as a kitten and as skeptical as full grown cat. "Do I even want
to know what else is in it?"
"Even if I told you the exact ingredients, you wouldn't know what the hell they were. Therefore, its pointless." Sands responded calmly as he took a bite of the delicious meal. Mort nodded in agreement of this then shrugged with a 'well...why not?' expression as he spooned up some of the dish.
It was...good. Different, but okay. Definetly far too fanciful for what he was used to, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Sure as hell beat pb&j anyday, thats for damn sure. But as much as Sands had raved about this dish, he was surprised it wasn't...something more
than what it was. He shrugged once more as he swallowed the bite.
"Its okay, but not the mind-blowing experience you had raved over. But something I would eat again, sure."
"'Mind-blowing?' Morty, its beyond
that, way beyond. Its like an orgasm for the taste buds... no food on this planet could be any better."
"Now you're simply being dramatic." Mort said with a small grin, amused by Sands's theatrics.
"No... I'm not." Sands said slowly and it was Mort's turn to be alarmed by the tone of his partner. He looked up, the dangerously seductive gaze entrancing him just as it had the waitress, and his fork clattered to his dish. Sands was a damn toxic and one that you simply couldn't get enough. "You're simply not in the right...mindset." Mort's brow furrowed in confusion at this, ignoring the sigh of exasperation from Shooter and the snickering from his reflection.
"The right... what the hell are you.... Sands
?!" His tone had gone from confused and questioning to startled as his partner, with the speed and grace of the sleekest panther, suddenly backed his chair away and dove under the table. He felt those expert hands grasp the waistline of his pants and, within seconds, had his jeans unzipped with a speed that never failed to startle the writer. Too stunned to vocalize anything, he could only grip his chair tightly as he felt his shirt moved quickly out of the way, those sensual fingers of soft skin glide slowly over his lower abdomen, causing a shuddering gasp from Mort and a quickened breath as those fingers dared to go lower. Finally, he managed to find his voice, albeit it wasn't as strong as he desired it to be.
"W-we shouldn't be doing this... not here... not out in the open... the... the tablecloth...barely covers... "
"Exciting, isn't it?" came the reply from Sands against his now-swelling cock just before Mort felt the tip of the agent's tongue on the underside as it licked him from base to tip in that agonizing slow way that Mort could never resist. Vocalization of any sort of denial was utterly futile at this point.. He felt his lover's warm breath against him just before he was enveloped in deliciously wet heat, a long moan escaping his lips before he could bite it down. Not only did Sands have an expert tongue but, damn, the entire kinkyness of this situation was only fanning the flames of his lust. They were in a public restaurant where a waiter or a customer could walk in and see them at any moment.... surely that should alarm him, but instead, it only encouraged him.
"Yeah, we all know what a fucking slut you really are....." Mort heard whispered against his ear in his own voice just before his reflection grasped him chin between index finger and thumb. Mort always questioned how his reflection could touch him yet he couldn't touch it
, but he never received an answer. Nor was he about to receive one now as the second Mort's lips descended upon his with a dominating and rough kiss. Now it was two tongues that tormented his feeble resistances, two tongues that knew just how to expertly send him crashing to an earth-shattering orgasm.
Shooter was the odd man out in all this, something that certainly didn't please the southerner. Annoyed, he walked away from the oral threesome - a fact known to none - and simply looked around the restaurant.
Mort unclenched his hands from the chair and managed to get them to the tops of his thighs where they met his lover's and proceeded to cling to them as a drowner would cling to a lifesaver. This unrelenting kiss from his doppleganger along with said doppleganger's exploring hands, the expert motions of Sands's mouth which knew just
what Mort liked, and the entire adrenaline rush of doing this in public was all adding up...combining together...
He broke off the kiss from his reflection and arched his neck back - which his opposite took as an opportunity to bite down at the exposed and vulnerable spot - as his body became taut just before it released itself into Sands's mouth, a long moan of pleasure escaping Mort's lips that he didn't even bother to repress. Both tormenting mouths gave one final lick upon his spent body - Sands on his softening cock, the other Mort on his throat - before removing themselves from their claimed spots. Mort, the true one, was panting and out of breath and was aware of Sands gently returning everything to its original position, including tucking his shirt in as it had been before.
He heard the shuffle of footsteps as Sands came out from under the table, grinning that carefree, lopsided smirk that was every bit as intoxicating as everything else about the man. Mort, still recovering from the unexpected blowjob, could only respond with a smile of his own and say, "Did I ever...tell you.... that you're a psycho?"
"To which I say takes one to know one." Sands said as he picked up Mort's abandoned fork and proceeded to dish up some of the delicacy onto the cutlery. With one hand upon the back of Mort's chair, he leaned closer and brought the sample to Mort's lips. The writer, now more in control of himself sat up straighter and ate the proffered sampling, his eyes never leaving Sands's.
"So. Was I right?" The agent of black asked ever so innocently of him once the bite was swallowed.
"Stubborn bastard." Mort said with a small laugh which was far too beautiful for Sands to resist. He leaned in closer and gently kissed his lover, feeling the answer to his question in Mort's sigh of happy contentment.