demolicious
Fandoms
- Team Fortress 2 (2)
Recent works
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Summary
in which soldier is supey sad
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Summary
demomans kinda annoyed cz soldier doesnt shut the eff up
soldier doesnt see the issue tbf shrugs shoulders
Recent bookmarks
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Gross Freakay Spamtenna NSFW Art!! Watch me improve through hashtag porn
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Summary
This establishment really wasn’t Tenna’s scene. Maybe it was a symptom of age, maybe it was a side effect of having a developed prefrontal cortex, but a dark lounge/bar/club/den of degeneracy-type thing with perpetually dim lights and suspiciously sticky seats just didn’t whet his pallet anymore. The thrum of the music pounded his own thoughts out of his head, a rigid tightness settling above his brow bone that would definitely become a tension headache later. That’s what money sounds like: shitty music, cocktail shakers, and desperate people.
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Tenna is the host of a dying gameshow. Spamton is a consultant hoping to strike it big. They meet to talk business. -
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Spamton could already imagine the fuzzy static against the hair on his thighs and stomach, against the palm of his hand and the head of his cock- he's done it so many times before, and every time he woke up the next morning and felt sick looking at the mess he left behind all over the screen.
(Now with pt 2 + 3 included!)
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So, that's where he's at. He sits in his cramped office, he stares at Spamton’s face, his fingers itch for a cigarette, and then his fingers itch for another because his business partner has made Tenna’s head his home.
Feeling the smoke exhale through his vent, Tenna plays with said novelty keyring. Ugh. He flicks it away, watching it skirt before coming to a quick stop as it meets with a pile. His whole desk is covered in them, miniature versions of the two of them riding in a car together staring up at him distastefully. If he wasn’t looking carefully, he might even think they were multiplying by the second. He remembers that photoshoot well – same as he remembers the argument they'd had right before, the argument they'd had during it, the argument over who stands where, and 'Ant, get your [paws] off the paint job’. Of course, before they could drop the rental off at the dealership, they'd humped wordlessly and desperately in the driver’s seat, as if they'd used up their daily character limit on all the bickering done prior.
Series
- Part 2 of tabloid's wet dream
Bookmarked by bootsnbombs (demolicious)
23 Nov 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
goddamn tenna you are cooked The House
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Summary
“Y’know,” Spamton starts, tapping the ash from his cigar before taking a long drag, “I don’t normally see ‘em get more neurotic the longer the night goes on. You’re a real [super star], Ant.”
He's about to protest – swat away the accusation and the videos of shooting stars swirling around them – but as he opens his mouth, Spamton leans roughly into him. One moment, his mouth is dry as a bone and the next, he's got a wet tongue – a very wet tongue, definitely not his own – poking and prodding away. There's something else in there too, circular and dissolving quickly. Involuntarily, he swallows what's left of the pill that wormed its way in.
That little prick did not just —
Series
- Part 1 of tabloid's wet dream