(allstate) sugar, for jennyagain
More holiday fic! jennyagain requested Notre Dame football porn, and here it is. Plot? Who needs plot? I spit upon your plot!
Brady Quinn/Jeff Samardzija. Used first names for this one because somehow that worked in my mind with college football, and, more importantly, I did not feel like writing "Samardzija" out 8 billion times.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
(allstate) sugar
“Ready for some Sugar?”
“Allstate Sugar,” Brady corrects automatically. He’s been doing it all week, mind already primed for the pros, endorsements and making sure you give the sponsors what they’re paying for. Jeff can’t decide if it’s annoying or endearing. Maybe a little bit of both.
“Got your Allstate Sugar right here.” He waits until Brady looks over, then smacks his chest, grinning broadly. Brady rolls his eyes but gets up anyways, flops down next to Jeff.
“Nobody actually says that, you know.” Jeff just cocks an eyebrow, twitches to make his hair fan out a little, and Brady shakes his head. “Biggest cornball on campus.”
Jeff slides his fingers down Brady’s stomach familiarly, curling them up under the hem of his shirt so his fingernails rest against skin. Brady sighs, rolling motion of abdominal muscles that Jeff can feel, and it makes him want to rip Brady’s shirt off, rub the heels of his hands over Brady’s chest until he’s got every form blind-memorized.
“Gonna be a lotta cameras down there,” Brady says, wrapping his fingers around Jeff’s wrist, pinning his hand there, just barely under his shirt. Brady raises his eyes to Jeff’s face and his expression is so open, so earnest, it almost hurts.
“I know.” Jeff flattens his fingers out, more of Brady’s stomach skating under the pads of his fingers.
“We go to a Catholic school.”
“I know.”
“Major bowl game. Lots of cameras.”
“You already said that.”
Brady ducks his head a little in embarrassment, so so pretty, it’s hurting Jeff to look at him, it really is. The grip on his wrist slackens a bit and Jeff slides his hand up under Brady’s shirt, Brady’s own hand a loose bracelet taken along for the ride. He can smile and nod when their teammates talk about the breasts on this girl, the rack on that one, but Jeff knows better, the feel of Brady’s chest like a secret he’s keeping for himself.
“Jeff…”
“We’ll be careful. It’s not any different than during the season, man. We’ll be cool.”
Brady sighs again, tips his head back and that’s Jeff’s cue to ease himself on top of Brady, lick the neck offered to him. It’s only polite. Brady’s hand is pinned between them briefly before he wriggles it free with an apologetic smile.
“Can’t have that getting crushed. Not before the game.”
Jeff nods, takes his hand from under Brady’s shirt, wringing out another sigh. He licks his palm obviously, wetly, tongue out as far as he can get it and Brady’s eyes charmingly locked. When he pulls the zipper of Brady’s pants down he’s careful to use just his fingertips, palm cupped to keep it damp. He’s starting to get good at this.
He wraps his hand around Brady’s dick, the metal of the zipper teeth drawing white lines between his knuckles, and then it’s easy. The moisture won’t last long but it doesn’t have to, just enough to start off with, to get Brady gasping and pushing up into his hand and not caring when it gets rougher and drier.
Jeff scrapes his own teeth along Brady’s neck, moves his hand faster, zipper teeth scraping him right back. Brady groans and spreads his legs and that’s Jeff’s next cue. He shifts sideways a little bit, straddles one of Brady’s thighs and rocks against it, short hard thrusts of his hips pushing him up against the rise of Brady’s quad muscles. He’s still got his jeans on but it doesn’t even matter, each gasp that Brady lets loose sensitizing Jeff more and more even without the luxury of feeling skin.
Brady’s gripping the bed with one hand until the sheets ball up under his fingers, his other hand flying up to Jeff’s head when Jeff flicks his wrist sharply between the metal teeth surrounding Brady’s fly. Already-tense fingers sink into Jeff’s hair and tug it forward. Brady’s mouth is falling open in a shape that makes Jeff think “football”, makes him think everything good in the world.
Jeff’s hair gets tugged forward harder, his neck bowing painfully but he doesn’t even care, because Brady’s coming with shuddering little gasps, jerking hard in Jeff’s hand and there’s come between his fingers and all over the fly of Brady’s pants and Jeff sucks in breath until his lungs feel like they might explode, lets it all out with a whoosh that may or may not carry Brady’s name on it.
He keeps his hand in Brady’s pants even though it’s starting to cramp something awful because, really, he’s in no shape to move.
His pants are disgusting. He’s not too bent out of shape about it though, because this is college, they do their own laundry, and Brady’s in the same boat anyways.
Brady sighs and nuzzles his hair, running it through his fingers and making Jeff glad he keeps it long.
“Cannot do that during Sugar Bowl weekend,” Brady mutters, the words vibrating through Jeff’s hair and tingling along his scalp.
“Allstate Sugar Bowl,” Jeff mutters back, earning himself a swat to the back of the head and an amused snort from Brady, and really, that’s all he needs to make it worthwhile.
Brady Quinn/Jeff Samardzija. Used first names for this one because somehow that worked in my mind with college football, and, more importantly, I did not feel like writing "Samardzija" out 8 billion times.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
(allstate) sugar
“Ready for some Sugar?”
“Allstate Sugar,” Brady corrects automatically. He’s been doing it all week, mind already primed for the pros, endorsements and making sure you give the sponsors what they’re paying for. Jeff can’t decide if it’s annoying or endearing. Maybe a little bit of both.
“Got your Allstate Sugar right here.” He waits until Brady looks over, then smacks his chest, grinning broadly. Brady rolls his eyes but gets up anyways, flops down next to Jeff.
“Nobody actually says that, you know.” Jeff just cocks an eyebrow, twitches to make his hair fan out a little, and Brady shakes his head. “Biggest cornball on campus.”
Jeff slides his fingers down Brady’s stomach familiarly, curling them up under the hem of his shirt so his fingernails rest against skin. Brady sighs, rolling motion of abdominal muscles that Jeff can feel, and it makes him want to rip Brady’s shirt off, rub the heels of his hands over Brady’s chest until he’s got every form blind-memorized.
“Gonna be a lotta cameras down there,” Brady says, wrapping his fingers around Jeff’s wrist, pinning his hand there, just barely under his shirt. Brady raises his eyes to Jeff’s face and his expression is so open, so earnest, it almost hurts.
“I know.” Jeff flattens his fingers out, more of Brady’s stomach skating under the pads of his fingers.
“We go to a Catholic school.”
“I know.”
“Major bowl game. Lots of cameras.”
“You already said that.”
Brady ducks his head a little in embarrassment, so so pretty, it’s hurting Jeff to look at him, it really is. The grip on his wrist slackens a bit and Jeff slides his hand up under Brady’s shirt, Brady’s own hand a loose bracelet taken along for the ride. He can smile and nod when their teammates talk about the breasts on this girl, the rack on that one, but Jeff knows better, the feel of Brady’s chest like a secret he’s keeping for himself.
“Jeff…”
“We’ll be careful. It’s not any different than during the season, man. We’ll be cool.”
Brady sighs again, tips his head back and that’s Jeff’s cue to ease himself on top of Brady, lick the neck offered to him. It’s only polite. Brady’s hand is pinned between them briefly before he wriggles it free with an apologetic smile.
“Can’t have that getting crushed. Not before the game.”
Jeff nods, takes his hand from under Brady’s shirt, wringing out another sigh. He licks his palm obviously, wetly, tongue out as far as he can get it and Brady’s eyes charmingly locked. When he pulls the zipper of Brady’s pants down he’s careful to use just his fingertips, palm cupped to keep it damp. He’s starting to get good at this.
He wraps his hand around Brady’s dick, the metal of the zipper teeth drawing white lines between his knuckles, and then it’s easy. The moisture won’t last long but it doesn’t have to, just enough to start off with, to get Brady gasping and pushing up into his hand and not caring when it gets rougher and drier.
Jeff scrapes his own teeth along Brady’s neck, moves his hand faster, zipper teeth scraping him right back. Brady groans and spreads his legs and that’s Jeff’s next cue. He shifts sideways a little bit, straddles one of Brady’s thighs and rocks against it, short hard thrusts of his hips pushing him up against the rise of Brady’s quad muscles. He’s still got his jeans on but it doesn’t even matter, each gasp that Brady lets loose sensitizing Jeff more and more even without the luxury of feeling skin.
Brady’s gripping the bed with one hand until the sheets ball up under his fingers, his other hand flying up to Jeff’s head when Jeff flicks his wrist sharply between the metal teeth surrounding Brady’s fly. Already-tense fingers sink into Jeff’s hair and tug it forward. Brady’s mouth is falling open in a shape that makes Jeff think “football”, makes him think everything good in the world.
Jeff’s hair gets tugged forward harder, his neck bowing painfully but he doesn’t even care, because Brady’s coming with shuddering little gasps, jerking hard in Jeff’s hand and there’s come between his fingers and all over the fly of Brady’s pants and Jeff sucks in breath until his lungs feel like they might explode, lets it all out with a whoosh that may or may not carry Brady’s name on it.
He keeps his hand in Brady’s pants even though it’s starting to cramp something awful because, really, he’s in no shape to move.
His pants are disgusting. He’s not too bent out of shape about it though, because this is college, they do their own laundry, and Brady’s in the same boat anyways.
Brady sighs and nuzzles his hair, running it through his fingers and making Jeff glad he keeps it long.
“Cannot do that during Sugar Bowl weekend,” Brady mutters, the words vibrating through Jeff’s hair and tingling along his scalp.
“Allstate Sugar Bowl,” Jeff mutters back, earning himself a swat to the back of the head and an amused snort from Brady, and really, that’s all he needs to make it worthwhile.