#trying to smack you in the face with the plant motifs

[saundraswriting]

Interior Design Chapter 4: Accept

SUMMARY:You official declare your acceptance of the job for the Avengers, knowing it will be the biggest one you will ever work on. You start right away.

WARNINGS: None

NOTES: This is an everyone lives/no one dies, Living in the compound, Non Civil War compliant, No Sokovian Accords AU.

Previous / Next

"Oh my god. That was so fucking stupid." You facepalm. "You meet Sargent Barnes and that is what you say. Then recommend a houseplant." You smack your forehead again.

"Are you quite done?" Tony leaned against the wall arms crossed, eyebrows raised, a small smile hovering on his lips. You had dragged him down a ways to be out of sight from the others while you panicked.

"Mr. Stark! No, I am not done. I think I need to go. Right now." You sighed, leaning against the opposite wall, gently thumping your head on the wall.

Tony dropped his amusement very quickly, straightening. "Let me tell you something. That is the first time someone has touched Barnes in weeks. I have never seen someone hug him. Only Steve has been able to touch him, and even he has to ask to not startle him." Tony told you.

"You're right! I didn't ask. How rude and improper of me. I didn't trigger him did I?" Tony's words did not reassure you like he hoped, actually pushing you closer to true panic. You pushed off the wall turning to head back towards the kitchen. Tony threw an arm out stopping your progress. Youi looked at him, eyes wide and unfocused, cheeks flushed.

"Wait. Hold on. Listen to me, Ms. Psych-Minor-lady. A severely traumatized dangerous man let you in close enough to hug him. He was crying, yes but-" Tony was trying to calm you down. You felt terrible, a off the street civilian thinking you were entitled enough to just touch him and prattle on about what is best for him. Tony could see what you were feeling on your face.

"Crying?!? You yelped. "I made him cry??"

"But he was smiling too. You did good, kid. Also that plant idea was solid. Now let me show you to your room? I have your stuff in a guest room right now but that will be moved in a minute. I will give you a room here and an office on the business section as well. Now, the only empty room is in the hallway with Steve, Sam, Bucky and Shuri." Tony smiled at you trying to relax you. You peered at him suspiciously.

"I didn't do anything bad? I just...I don't know everything that has happened lately but what bit I do know just pulls on my heartstrings. I felt he needed some unbiased comfort. I would certainly want a hug after everything too." You wrapped your arms around yourself, shrinking in, still nervous you had overstepped a line. Then the rest of Tony's words registered. "Your giving me a room? That seems weird."

Tony laughed and puled you into a side-hug. "Kid, I have had my eye on you for a while. You are part of this team, especially if you have to deal with all our bullshit. But to get back on track. You aren't wrong about Barnes. We've all been treating him with kid gloves, wondering what little thing we say or do will push him over the edge. In a minute of meeting him, you showed everyone he is still human-one who has been very hurt and is still struggling to deal with it. He needs our support, not alienation."

"He looked so sad and tired, alone. I know what it is like to be alone, to have your family pull away when they should be there for you." You leaned into Tony for a moment, appreciating the hug for the offered comfort. "Now, Mr. Stark. How about you show me a room that I will be working on? I would love to see some visuals." You tried to change the subject to get away from your botched first impression with Sargent Barnes.

Tony nodded, accepting the subject change with grace. Tony and you came upon a room and he asked F.R.I.D.A.Y to open it. "!2 of these rooms including yours included. There are 8 that are for our more frequent flyers and Very Important Powerful Beings." The two of you entered, you stepping deeper into the room to look at the dimensions. "Several of the VIPB are people like King T'Challa of Wakanda or the Black Panther and Colonel Carol Danvers goes by Captain Marvel among others, Ant-Man and his friend The Wasp like to stop by a lot."

"Scott Lang? Hope Van Dyne?" You turned to ask. Tony was surprised. "I respect Hope for trying to help her dad undercover at the Lab and Scott is doing his best. He likes to put smiles on people's faces. He is good about being good." You explained. "This rooms are great. Spacious with lot of natural light. You also didn't limit options, the room can be oriented in any direction." You paced the room, using your arms as a measuring guide. "I will need to plan extensively with the full-time residents. I will need some serious backgrounds on the others. I wouldn't want them to be unhappy upon arrival. I will need to speak to someone about how to make a room fit for a king and princess." You mumbled to yourself continuing to walk around the room. Tony watched with a proud look, like a parent giving their child a present they love.

"Glad to see you enjoying yourself. We'll be getting dinner here shortly. We eat together and usually watch movies afterwards." Tony was speaking to you while leading you back to the kitchen by the elbow. He could relate to the distant look in your eye. He knew you weren't listening, too busy thinking and planning. He led you to the edge of the hallway and you stopped.

"Mr. Stark." You interrupted the man. He smiled knowingly. "I accept your offer. I am honored to work for you. I do have some small current projects but I should finish them quickly to give my full attention to this."

"That is exactly why I wanted to stay here. You will be able to balance everything easier. I don't want to take away from your inner city clients. Now dinner tonight is Chinese. What do you want?" You gave Tony your Chinese order, the two of you moving forward once more.

You sat down at the large kitchen table, propping up your tablet and opening your laptop. The design app you used had the update blueprints and layouts like Tony promised. He huffed a small laugh. "I will leave you to it for a while. See you later, Y/N." Tony left, you mumming distractedly.

You decided to start a fresh page of notes to work with the labeled blueprints F.R.I.D.A.Y installed for you. You build a list of the basic of what everyone would need, knowing that is where their personal taste came into play. You listed some style motifs and examples to help with the planning.

An hour later and you were clawing at your hair. 'How do I make individual room layouts open to change without doing, undoing and redoing all the work over and over until they like it?' You were obnoxiously tapping a pen against the table while you thought, you were staring at the kitchen zoned out when it hit you. "Magnets! I make a magnet image board. I use the specs of one room and the basics into magnets and then I can make their personal choices magnets to be movable!" You smacked the table energetically. You began frantically scribbling and searching for custom magnets. You figured that a decent sized board with a grid would be best, you can make your own with pictures and plain lightweight magnets. "I am going to need so many samples." You muttered.

"Hey, you ready for a break? Chinese will be here soon. As will some of the others you haven't met yet." Tony chimed from next to you. "You've been at it for like two hours now. I have been waiting for you to come up for air for a while now."

"I am a bit of a workaholic. Sorry. You have to be forceful to get my attention when I am in the zone." You apologized sheepishly. "This is very large undertaking, I wanted to get some thought in order before I got started." Tony waved off your apology and moved to the couch where Steve was already sitting.

The sight of him on the couch made another thought cross your mind. You left the mess on the table and walked quickly to the living room. You peered closely at the sectional in front of you. "Reinforced furniture." You commented. Captain Rogers and Tony looked at you in confusion. "Captain Rogers, can I borrow you for a moment?" You asked. He nodded and they both stood up. "I need you to lift this couch please."

"Um, sure." The good captain did just as you asked and you got down on the floor and looked underneath. Nodding a few time you got back up, "Thank you for the assist. You may put it back."

You went back over to your notes and began muttering and scribbling. "Thicker wood frames, metal brackets at joints, some metal supports?"

"You are...very welcome...Y/N." Steve and Tony looked no less confused.

"I will admit to being more confused than before." Dr. Banner spoke from next to Tony. You looked up at the new voices freezing at who you saw.

"Oh my god. #sciencebros." You breathed. "Dr. Banner, an honor to meet you." You spoke louder, coming up to shake his hand. "I needed to see the wear and tear on the everyday furniture. The frames need reinforced." The three men ah'ed in understanding. Any further explanation was interrupted by Clint and Natasha coming in arms fully loaded with bags.

"We come bearing gifts! Everyone ready to eat?" The four of you jumped to help, you scrambling to put away your stuff and get out of the way.

Moments later the Avengers that were there had settled to eat. You sat across from a silver-haired younger man, who sat on the left of a beautiful Burnette who had a man with red skin on her right. Clint. Sam, Steve, Bucky, Tony, and Natasha then filled the rest of the seats. You were trying to gather your courage to introduce yourself when the red skinned man spoke to you first.

"Hello there, Ms. L/N. I don't think we have been fully introduced." His smooth British voice eased your nerves slightly but also caught the attention of everyone at the table.

Previous / Next

*******************************************************************************************

Okay, here we go...time to get to the good stuff. Anybody want tagged? What are we thinking?

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #protective Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x interior designer! reader #Interior Design the fic #bucky barnes in recovery #recovered bucky barnes #avengers family #domestic avengers #avengers fanfiction #saundraswriting #saundrasays

[joshslater]

Libertine

This is a collaboration with idesofrevolution, reimagining one of his earlier stories, again allowing me to explore ideas I haven’t worked with before.

You were getting seriously pissed off. The drunk and high punk douchebag had been obnoxious from the start, but he had remained on his side of the van. Regrettably his sickly stink of stale weed and armpits had not. Your strategy of ignoring him had paid off so far, but now he was apparently bored of making rude noises and gestures from his seat, and was inching towards you, making faces and taunts. He was pulling his lips from side to side, sticking out his pierced tongue and generally trying to get a reaction mere inches from your face. The smokey timbre of his breath, and the sickly sweet stench of stale marijuana filled your nose. He could go to hell. But you don't want to rock the boat while in it, and this is the first solid lead you've had since your friend disappeared. You turn to the little shit and gently shove him back in his seat.

"Stop it."

The punk, in his inebriated stupor laughs, swivels his back against the side of the van and rests one of his feet in your lap. His filthy, reeking feet inside his ratty socks in his trashed Vans sneakers. Don't rock the boat, you think. You're just happy the driver manage to ignore the hijinks in the back.

"When am I gonna see Travis?" "You’ll see him... He wants to see you too."

He winks and wiggles his foot in the well-worn yellow and blue checkerboard slip on, the formerly white socks playing peekaboo in their many frayed holes. The odor was intoxicating, not unlike vinegar with a hint of cheese, marshland and rubber. He starts to rub his shoe against your groin. You don't know what you hate the most. The constant antics from this attention seeking moron, or that you start getting an erection.

But you have to focus. Travis is the priority. These fucks are probably the ones that took him, and you gotta bring him back. You owe him that. You turn your face away and look out the window at the trees and bayouland flying past. This little hideout was way outside of town. You press the button to lower the window and get some fresh air. Nothing happens.

You resign yourself to the situation, as he finally appears to have calmed down. Don't. Rock. The. Boat. As you are getting light headed from the smell, and getting your growing bulge massaged by a skate shoe, you stare out the window and zone out. The greenery becomes a blur. You are unsure how much time actually has gone by when he, clearly excited, shifts and sits straight in his seat.

"Awwwwww yess! We’re here!"

The van pulls up to a rusted old chain link fence, with overgrown vines covering the old barbed wire. An open gate welcomes the van onto the dirt road, past old construction equipment, now enveloped by the rising bayou. In the distance, the outline of an old warehouse gets clearer. The sunlight shines onto the old brick facade, windows shattered and the metal roof nearly caving in from decades of neglect. Around the perimeter of the grounds, marijuana plants flourish. As the van comes to a stop, the punk reaches over you to open the door, not passing up a final opportunity to get in your face with his stinking body.

The sweltering Louisiana heat hits you like a freight train as you exit the raggedy old van. Never before have you been so happy to fill your lungs with the smell of stale marsh water. While the driver backs out the van, your annoying guide, already ahead, beckons you to follow him.

"Heel! Come on, puppy!"

He can still go to hell. You hasten to walk up along side of him. As you get there he tosses his sweat-sticky arm around you.

"Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?"

You reach the door, and he knocks in a strange pattern before the door opens and a familiar, yet off-sounding voice slithers out of the hazy interior.

"Sup muthafuckahs?"

It’s Travis. Or perhaps rather a strange caricature of Travis. The Travis you knew was your timid, boy-next-door best friend of ten years. He was there when your parents divorced. He was the shoulder to cry on when you broke up with your boyfriend. He was a quiet, good-natured kid who was always the sweetest guy. This… This delinquent was not Travis. His tattoos and gauged ears, buzzed faded haircut, silver chain, bulging muscles, and ripe, unwashed stink. Travis would never let himself look like this, or be seen like this. And yet, here he was, standing in front of you with some snide smirk and and soul-piercing gaze. You grab him by the shoulder, pulling him to the side, slapping a half-smoked joint from his veiny hands.

“Travis. What the fuck did they do to you? Did the drug you?”

He smirks, picks up the joint from the dirty floor, and brings it to his lips. He takes a slow, deep drag of the weed, never once breaking eye contact with you. He blows the smoke in your face defiantly, and brushes past you, making sure your shoulders connect.

“Sup Ash?”

Travis walks over to the punk who borderline kidnapped you, grabbing a handful of his perky ass before bringing him in for a sloppy, tongue-heavy makeout. You never knew Travis was gay, and a part of you was happy to see him finally embracing his sexuality, but it stings that he didn’t confide in you. But also, as he and Ash groped and bit and licked each other, you were certain that something was really wrong. You had never seen Travis this viscerally pleasured before, and you two learnt to masturbate together. And how had he managed to get all the tattoos and piercings, and get so ripped in less than 24 hours, or 30, or whatever the fuck the time was? What was going on? Travis pulled away from Ash, rubbing the moist front of his black jeans. “Fuck me later, babe. Why don’t you take my friend to see Sage?” Your best friend smacked his ass before walking over to you, blowing you a kiss as he walked past.

“C’mon babe, you’re going this way.” You should be terrified that Travis had gone behind you and locked the heavy metal door, but somehow you feel compelled to follow Ash into the haze of the dimly lit warehouse.

As the three of you walk toward the back door, you pass the various living spaces of the warehouse’s occupants. All tattooed. All pierced. All muscled. Most of them fucking. Moans and slapping sounds are coming from all around you. You find the origin of the heavy fog in several lounging guys passing bong after bong of different colored weed, the black liquid being distinctly different from typical bongwater.

Ash leads you up a flight of stairs, with Travis trailing behind. From the landing, your perspective sees the entire warehouse’s debauchery. Sweaty, nasty sex; dirty, rank clothes; questionable bongs; and old pizza boxes. These guys truly lived here, and clearly did little else. This vantage point quickly changes, as you turn to the opening of a cracked, frosted glass door. You feel a gentle shove on your shoulders from Travis as you stumble into the room. The door slams behind you.

The room was lit with red tint, and a few dim Edison bulbs likely original to the building. Whatever used to adorn the walls and ceilings had been stripped to the brick and mortar, exposing the pipes and beams above. The room was furnished much more heavily than the rest of the warehouse, with bookshelves, shiny leather sofas, a desk, and clothes strewn across the floor.

“I was wonderin’ if you’d show up here.”

From the corner of the room, the most stunningly sexy man you’ve ever seen saunter out of the haze. His plump lips and chiseled jawline immediately makes your heart skip a beat. He is tossing an old football into the air, catching it each time without breaking his sinister, yet wholly encompassing gaze.

You stutter for words in Sage’s presence, as he oozes a dominant air about him. It is clear from his demeanor that he is the boss. That's not the only thing he oozes, as you feel a strong, musky scent with tones reminiscent from the van drive here. You start getting an erection again. What's happening to you? Did they do something to you? How? You end up not saying anything, just standing with your mouth open.

“You know who we are? Who I am?” he asks as he toss the ball into a sofa. You're still tongue tied in his presence, but eventually blurt out what he was prodding to hear.

“You’re the Libertines. That cult-like gang that sells weed all across the city.” Sage smirks and leans against the bookshelf, crossing his arms and ankles. He gestures for you to spill more. “And you’re Sage Ravenswyck. You run the whole thing.” He bows, bastardizing the gentlemanly gesture to his ominous wit. Sage Ravenswyck, touted as the single most dangerous pot lord in the country. You don't say that part out loud.

“And you came to take Travis away from us, right?” You feel a chill down your spine. That's why you came here, but you can't say that. You don't even believe that to be true anymore. His silky, menacing, seductive tone prevents any speech from escaping your mouth. Sage steps forward, only a step away from you. “He’s not going anywhere, man. And neither are you.”

He pauses for a moment, his eyes seemingly piercing your soul, and studies you carefully. Then he grabs you by the jaw, pulling you into a slobbering, tongue-infested kiss, just like Ash and Travis shared. His mouth tastes like marijuana ash, cigarettes, and some indescribably savory flavor. You are not permitting the kiss under the threat of violence. The threat is there, for sure, but you are actively participating. You want nothing more than to stay connected to those plump, inviting lips. You are totally confused as to why.

He breaks the kiss, takes a step back and flatly states "I like you. Strip."

You want nothing more than to obey. As you begin to remove article after article of clothing, you see that Sage does the same, revealing more and more of his tattoos. Old voodoo signs and talismans permanently adhered to his sweaty skin. Motifs that seemingly come to life in the Edison light. You feel the heat radiating from the metal ceiling hitting your already sweaty skin, but it is the smell of his sweat that fills room. The same sour, salty musk that wafted from Ash and Travis, but stronger and more potent. You can still taste him in your mouth. Your jaw is lax and your are salivating as if you were about to vomit, but you don't feel nauseous.

You are both standing naked on a carpet of unwashed clothes, looking at each other. He's the most handsome man you've ever been naked with in a room. While you may feel sweaty, Sage is soaked. Gleaming in the light as if he'd been oiled up. His lithe body with defined, tight muscles accentuates it even more, as the light creates reflections and shadows on his pecs, abs and cock. He is flaccid, but you are sporting an almost painful erection. Five minutes ago you were rescuing Travis. How did you end up here?

"Time for initiation, cunt" Sage says, as he takes hold of your shoulders and pushes you to your knees. You’re eye level to his large, sweaty cock and balls, salivating more than ever in your life.

To your surprise he brings his sweaty, pungent right foot to your lips. Expecting to worship his enticing feet, you open your mouth, preparing to lick his soles. But as he brings it down into your gaping maw, you realize just how much you have misjudged your situation.

His entire rancid foot slips into your mouth, your tongue tasting every ounce of built up sweat and funk. He forces it down your throat, squeezing everything else within your neck, pushing your skin taut from the inside. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it ought to and you have a flickering thought that this isn't possible, but his relentless pushing further and further down overpowers your with sensations. Sensations you have never felt before, mixed in with taste and smell of Sage and the most overpowering sense of lust you've ever felt.

He holds your head, locking eyes with you, as your face is getting closer and closer to his groin. His foot is rearranging your insides like a spoon through grits, and you can feel the foot turning, pointing forward. Further and further down, until it slips into your cock, finding a resting place. All you can think of, is him and getting him deeper in of you.

He moves his hands to the front of your head, prying open your mouth even further to accommodate his second foot. It slides down faster than the first one, and further. You can feel it continue down your hip towards your knee. He wiggles free his first foot from within your cock and moves it down your other leg.

His cock and balls are now practically resting on your face. He smiles a wry smile, inserts his finger under the foreskin of his uncut cock and then smears a line across your forehead. Then he pries your mouth open even further and slips into you, like a pair of low riding compression trunks, with your tongue resting in his ass crack and your nose in his pubic hair. You take deep breaths through your nose, and the smell of well stewed cock and balls fills your brain. You desperately want to touch him, but your body doesn’t obey you anymore.

He slips further down, and starts to rotate around, to face the other direction. He grabs your mouth and starts climbing into you, pulling you over him, like someone stepping into a hooded overall. You feel your body moves to standing up, unable to control it yourself, and your feet and legs and toes being filled with his, stretching your skin. There is a tingling sensation, like when a limb has gone to sleep and wakes up, as he settles within you. He pulls the rest of the body up, his six-pack subtly rippling across the front of your body, until it settles where it should.  When he is almost neck deep into you he slips his arms into your arms as if you were a rubber suit, and into your hands as if there were rubber gloves. It feels like a warmth spreading out into your body and limbs.

Finally he stretches your mouth over his head, and snap into place like a condom. You are filled with him, completely engorged, and yet to all outside eyes, some transformed version of yourself. He adjusts his head inside of yours, stretching your face to cover his, like a Halloween mask. Then he carefully stretches and flexes every limb and muscle in your body. You hear pops and feel grittiness smoothing out. You can't hear his thoughts, but you are filled with a feeling of excitement, joy and lust. If these are shared feelings or just your own you don't know.

Suddenly you fall forward, face first into the floor, and only at the last moment does he break the fall by putting out his arms into a push up stance and starts doing push ups. Your body feels stronger than it ever have, but at the same time you have no control over it. It makes you scared and excited at the same time. The total loss of control makes you hornier than you’ve ever been in your life, but there is nothing you can do about it.

After a good 20 or so push ups he transitions into doing burpees. If you were sweaty before, this opens the faucet, soaking you in sweat. 50 burpees or so later he stops and just stands on top of the pile of your combined dirty cloths, panting heavily and dripping sweat. "Ok, let's get you up to dress code" he says with your voice. Your cock, hard as ever, is leaking pre-cum like bad plumbing. He takes some on his fingers and start rubbing your sweaty biceps, often going back for more. It stings. To your amazement color starts appearing on your arm, until a tattoo emerges. Then another one. Within minutes your have as many tattoos as Travis.

Sage then grips the shaft of your slippery cock and begins to stroke it. If you could, you would moan like a pornhub slut, but instead you are caged inside your own body, just following along for the ride. Despite being hornier than ever before in your life, Sage manages to keep you on edge longer than you thought possible. It's like he knows your body better than yourself. Stroking you in ways you have never felt before. Stroking both of you, together. Then he lifts your left arm and inhales deeply from the arm pit. It doesn't smell like you, nor like Sage, but something in between. Your body can't take it any more and you erupt with more cum than ever before. Then everything goes black.

You wake up on a pile of cardboard boxes, still naked, still sweaty. You reek of marshland, sex and skater socks. Two guys you don't know are 69:ing a few feet away. Was Sage really climbing inside you, or was that just an erotic acid trip? But how else could you explain what has happened to you? Sage is no longer inside of you, but he left plenty of himself. While your tattoos are different than his, your body resembles him. You can taste him in your mouth. You wonder if Sage would let you go, if you asked him. He probably would. But what is out there that is better than in here? You wish to be worn more. To be molded by him, like a well worn sneaker. Until then there is a threesome waiting to happen a few feet away.

[toddlazarski]

The Tlayuda Trail

Shepherd Express

There’s not a newly minted driver’s license-holder, gaggle of buddies in the backseat, nowhere to go in awkward underage-ness save suburban drive-thrus, nor a college-age stoner, worth his or her weight in Grateful Dead Dick’s Picks discs, or even an early adult barfly, in possession of the Grubhub app, who hasn't had a moment, maybe even something resembling a full blown affair—unseemly pant seat stains, GI stress, a burning of the heart—with the Taco Bell Mexican Pizza.    

Even if you haven’t, consider the guilty-pleasure little monster: two crisp pizza shells, mashy refrieds, seasoned ground beef, a creamy three cheese blend, BBQ-ish, Mexican-inspired pizza gravy, tomatoes. It covers the texture gamut, is crackly, saucy, sodium-packed, pleasantly messy but edible on-the-go. Processed running queso rivulets dangle seductively between bite edges. Then consider the weird fourth meal hours, the flexed schedule it finds itself plopped in the middle of, the mix of excitement segueing toward yawning regret. It’s all a bit like having a baby. 

Maybe the magic is in the joyous sum of the over-salted parts, or the conditions within which it is usually, hopefully always, consumed. Or possibly it’s just the fact that “Mexican Pizza” is as pleasant a term combo as might exist this side of “Open Bar.” 

But then ponder the sound Tlayuda—that rough consonant collision leveling off with a pleasant oooh of an old-timey car horn, coming back up with the ahh of satisfaction. This Oaxacan specialty is the spiritual inspiration behind the aforementioned corporate calorie conglomeration. Which, despite munchie merit, is a white-washed bastardization, one on par with the Doritos Locos taco, Charlton Heston’s portrayal of a Mexican DEA agent in “Touch of Evil,” or your drunk uncle’s Cinco de Mayo celebrations. When made with real ingredients though, a diner can expect a fresh, oily, shimmering, seared tortilla crust holding, or pocketing, some sort of earthy meat-and-bean band, half-melted cheese layers letting mouth warmth finish the cooking task. It’s usually topped off by clingy clumps of avocado, maybe a flourish of crema velvetiness, crowned with some sort of chile pepper pop.  

Often served closed-face, the tlayuda in this form can come across as the more successful, well-rounded cousin of the quesadilla. It’s maybe a bit fatter. But in the doing-alright-for-myself kind of way, as the ingredients melt and tumble and spill together like late night at a wine mixer. In the fold of protein, cheese, crusty carbs, some bites can resemble those of a smushed, airless calzone. Or there is the version that harkens closer to an actual pizza, with manageable wedges, a segregation of flavor proponents, proper ratios, never too much crust.     

Whichever iteration, there is a time in adulthood for refinement, for proper exploration and broadening horizons, for consciously eschewing Big Box pig-outs. At the very least, in the hopes of smoothing some rough primitive urges for sopping grease and base beef pleasure points, here’s a tour of Milwaukee’s finest Mexican “pizza.” Because there’s also a time to admit, in most all cases, Taco Bell is actually quite bad.     

Villas Restaurant

Of the multitude mistakes I’ve made in life, leaving Villas with a tlayuda hastily ordered “to go” ranks somewhere between studying journalism and beginning the previously hinted-at affair with Taco Bell. The foil-wrapped half-moon shaped monster was heavy enough on the passenger seat that the Honda thought it needed to turn on the airbag. I wondered if I should buckle the big guy in. By the time we got home though, it was all accident anyway: a mushy, soggy mess, impenetrable by fork, cooled and coalescing.      

Yet two indicators instinctively led me to the ridiculous conclusion that I would again be on my way west on Greenfield Avenue, in a matter of days really, for a return to the scene of the calorie crime. One, like any conscientious father concerned about poisoning and decent palate-making, I stole a monitoring bite of my daughter’s quesadilla. Then another. It was a bursting, beautifully-golden crisped tortilla, packed with oozing, overflowing cheese, bits of which had touched the flattop, become blackened with a delicious bit of caramelization. Then there is the salsa. Probably a front-of-classroom sort of MIAD student could name the color that is the orange-ish, yellow-ish, burnt grass-looking stuff in the squirt bottle, but it seems too abstract to try, like trying to describe a feeling in a dream. Singular in taste too, it is a sauce at once punchy and inviting, scorching and addictive.   

My return was also hastened by the pleasantness of the place: the blue-on-blue floor and table motif, the warm orange walls, the Easter decorations, fake flowers and plants, the Packers ceiling fans. Mostly I enjoyed the tuba pop bumping from the kitchen, competing with the Mexican soap operas. It’s nice to remember that there are people back there, people working, rocking out at work too, just like me and you. Maybe working harder though, based on the mass of the 14-buck tlayuda. It is sized to emasculate, dropped at your table with a smirk like it’s a very big joke. It’s large enough for sustenance for somewhere between three meals and the time you just get sick of it or forget it’s in your refrigerator. 

The closed shell is crispy and oil-shimmering, fresh out of a bath it seems. And while takeout was a disaster, there is something within where it only keeps getting better as it sits in front of you, gathering itself as you eat, the chorizo settling, the queso warming, gooping, becoming happier, friendlier with the other ingredients, even with the subdued beans, which need some coaxing out from under their shell home. There’s actually almost enough lettuce to make you feel something approaching responsible life decision-making. But then you are cracking the chippy skin again, and there’s no turning from the fact it’s a plate of sheer fried bombast. 

Why does it need to be so big? It’s a question along the lines of “where do we go when we die?” Which, if you eat a whole one, you may find the answer to sooner than later. Or, if like me, you eat half with way too much of the salsa—unable to stop with the squirting—you have a more sure destination: A late afternoon siesta with just a brief stop in bathroom purgatory.   

Chicken Palace

There are few places in town where the gulf between expectation and execution is wider: the overly-bustling corner of 35th and National feels like a frenzy, what with the packed lot of Asian restaurants, beaters speeding too fast, trying to make the light, too loud without mufflers, and the bus stops so crowded, occasionally looking like the characters within could easily double as a police lineup. Inside there’s a grimy tile floor, Mexican soap operas at uncomfortable volumes, and a gaudy neon-centric color scheme that reeks of schmaltz and Breaking Bad’s Pollos Hermanos. But most importantly there’s a tiny counter with a smiling woman and a cash register, offering a chance to request happiness while yielding free whiffs of endlessly grilling chicken. 

It’s the specialty, if you couldn’t tell by the royal name. And it is best in whatever form allows the most usage of the deep, dank reservoir of a salsa bar. Within explore the neon verde, cool and pepper-y like a Mexican relish; the onion and habanero pickled mix of capsaicin angst; the bright tomato, with a sneaky spice finish; the dark rojo, both hellish and earthy; the thick, emulsified light green cream that I would like to request one day be splashed around my gravestone on a weekly basis. You have to ask for salsa cups, so, be reasonable, just get cinco.        

The tlayuda more than fits the order for framework in this case. Coming charred and burnt-smelling, it is folded into a form that is almost sandwich, almost panini, almost three-piece erector set. The bites are crackly, foundationally-threatening for those not paying attention, but there is still a doughy, chewy finish that renders it something like wood-fired Roman pizza. Creamy black beans are front and forward, mixing nearly half with the shredded, orange-hued chicken. Incredibly moist, it’s nice to be reminded how good poultry can be when it’s not a menu afterthought. It smacks of salt, time, care, a red hot grill. The lettuce and cheese are thusly overshadowed, wilty, the avocado is mostly buried. But that seems all the better, creating a blank pollo slate, one buttery with beans, crisp with a cracker corn crust, allowing the salsa to shine like your favorite ‘za toppings. All in rotation with every bite. 

Taqueria La Costena 

This rolling red doll house parked down 27th street from St. Luke’s Hospital—looming like both health warning and some security—offers probably Milwaukee’s finest take of the pizza form of tlayuda. The corn crust, acting as pure conveyance, is a bit floppy, lightly oiled and griddled, a consistency of an every-corner New York City slice, strong enough but needing some second hand assistance. There’s lettuce and tomato for body, a smidge of a smear of refried pintos, and svelty sour cream to smooth it all out. Queso warmly hugs the shell, cilantro flutters about like pleasantly unchecked flora sprouting between salty sidewalk cracks. It’s a beautiful, colorful site, sitting there in it’s styrofoam home on your passenger seat. It can also be aesthetically enhanced by the dark red, smoky salsa, everything enticing enough for me to risk listeria from a recent avocado recall, the hunks sitting on top so soft and green and fatty. 

But really it is all in unintrusive service of the bountiful meat-of-choice. Chorizo, which often makes the best filling, almost always makes the best topping, as it also would and could on many Americanized sorts of pizza—say, the meat-lover’s special. It is crumbly, salty, satisfying in a crisped sausage way, but better, garlickier, more chile pepper-exotic. Here it comes perfectly charred, black but juicy, generously bountiful. 

“Seven minutes” was the quoted wait time from the happy man in the little window, a timekeeping call met, showing he knows how this all goes, that it is far from his first tlayuda rodeo. Back in the car, it becomes one of those dishes you look at, and even on an empty lunchtime stomach you think you’ll have at least half to save for later. But then, maybe barely longer than it took to finish your order, maybe emboldened by some clean test results at the hospital, or perhaps hungered from a foliage eye feast at the nearby Domes, there is nothing left but but meat-hued carnage, some debris almost forming a police chalk outline of a greasy front-seat crime. There’s also more than enough satisfaction to realize that taco trucks are the true, adult form of the drive-through window.