fundraiser
Ages and ages ago, this was a request from starfishchick, who asked for Tom Brady/Derek Jeter (both Michigan alum, kind of) at some Wolverines fundraiser.
Tom Brady/Derek Jeter
NC-17
2,649 words
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.
fundraiser
The wind whips through the trees, razor-cold. It's one of those iron gray Michigan days, the kind he thought he had escaped for good years ago. And he could have escaped this one, if he really wanted; it would have been easy enough to come up with an excuse. But his agent has said that it looks good to be supportive of higher education, the press just eats that sort of thing right up. It doesn't much matter that he personally never went that route. He's had enough success with the media, over the years, to know that he can trust what his agent says about these things.
The reception is in a big Central Campus building that didn't exist back when Derek had been looking at this place. It has something to do with science, he knows that much-- what he does not know is why they're having the reception up here instead of down on South Campus, where all the athletic facilities are. The front of this building is a massive glass wall, gently rippled like a frozen wave. Outside he can see students staggering by, sweatpants rolled up around the ankles of their boots to keep from dragging in the snow, massive backpacks pitching them forward at odd angles.
Sometimes he thinks about what he must have missed by not going to college. Probably not too much. He had been willing to go, of course, if that had been what he needed to do, but the idea of four more years of sitting in classrooms, idling away wasted time before he could get back on the field again, was never particularly appealing. All he's ever really wanted to do is play ball.
---
"If you'd gone to college," Casey asks, "where would that have been?"
"Michigan," Derek says, and that's true enough. He'd been accepted there, had spent a summer bumming around the campus, trying to get used to the idea of living alone in this weird little city-town, so different from Kalamazoo. There had been a scholarship. His parents wouldn't have had to pay a thing.
But then there was the draft, and the Yankees, and the first round. The first round meant a lot of money, even back then. It hadn't been much of a decision.
"As in the University of? Great. There's an athletics fundraiser this winter," Casey says, tapping away at his keyboard. He's prodding the page-down button over and over again, like he's going through a list of things various colleges want Derek Jeter to do for them. Hell, there probably is such a list; his agent is very organized. "They'd love to have you. And after those club photos came out last week, you could use this, it'll play well in the papers--"
"Sure," Derek says, already bored, already thinking about other things. Casey knows what he's talking about, that's why Derek employs him. Whatever he thinks will work.
---
He signs some napkins. He shakes hands and smiles politely, answering questions. He has memorized the names of the current Michigan baseball coaching staff so that he can say nice things about them. He doesn't know the head coach. Bill Freehan was the coach when Derek had almost-gone, Bill Freehan the former Detroit Tiger great, but he retired in '95 and now it's someone new.
He patiently endures a thousand jokes along the lines of hey, I didn't know you went for the Mets. One of the Mets owners funded the new Michigan baseball stadium, the practice facility, the whole thing. Derek laughs just enough each time to make the alum feel as if he or she has been witty. Not enough to make them feel uncomfortable. He doesn't know any of these people, but he knows how to do this.
A disturbance washes over the crowd. It starts as muttering, some story passing from one conversational group to the next. Then it becomes motion: heads turning towards the door, bodies shifting in that direction. Derek may not really care about whatever passes for Michigan dignitaries, but he's not immune to the curiosity. He turns to look.
Someone has come in. It is clear from the reactions of the everyone else that this is a real Someone, because there are full professors here, NCAA bigwigs, people with titles like Regent and Provost. Michigan is a big university with a national reputation and an international presence; these people, Derek knows, are used to thinking of themselves as real big fish in a moderately important pond. They do not rouse themselves for just anybody.
The crowd gives way like something from a movie, people parting for one central figure. Derek recognizes the man there, but can't immediately place him beyond the general familiarity. Dark hair, a little shaggy. A strong jaw and chin. Broad shoulders, athlete's shoulders-- then he remembers where he is. It's Tom Brady. Of course.
Brady moves towards him easily, ignoring almost everyone else, which is fairly stunning until Derek realizes that there is a smaller man at Brady's elbow, guiding him, and a larger man in a disappearing-trick dark suit just behind him, making sure nobody gets too close. Naturally Tom Brady would have a handler and security. Derek is here without such things, but he is here as a Friend of the University only. He is not, as Brady is, a real Wolverine.
"Hi," Brady says, hand swinging up, and it takes Derek a moment to realize that Brady is talking to him.
He says hello back and offers his own hand. They shake; camera flashes go off. Brady's smile is very toothily white, but the shape of it is a little bit goofy, just enough to be endearing. Derek's hand feels small in Brady's grip, and an overwhelming sense of something very like shame washes over him. Normally he's certain that baseball is a fine sport, quite possibly the best in the world, but standing right next to Brady he can only feel how prissy and inadequate it must seem when compared to football. He's not used to feeling small, but Brady is built like-- well, like an NFL quarterback not too far out of his prime. Derek is built like a skill shortstop flirting with decline, his body carefully sculpted over the years for acrobatics and accuracy even when the power starts to dissipate.
Brady leans in close, still smiling that media-perfect smile. He says something quietly, presses something into Derek's hand, and then he's moving off, the big security guy swiftly blocking his path from behind. There is a podium across the way, a man there tapping at a newly activated microphone. There will be speeches now, each word carefully calibrated to generate the most goodwill from wealthy alums. Derek has a small speech of his own, all about the importance of higher education and the opportunity that athletics scholarships provide for young student-athletes; he is here, basically, on the off-chance that some of the potential benefactors are baseball fans, easily swayed by his presence. Brady probably has a longer speech to make.
He looks down at his hand. In the center of his palm is a plastic hotel key card. The number of the room it goes to is rattling around inside his head, carried on a football huddle whisper.
---
It occurs to him that Brady must be used to getting just about whatever he wants. Glance at a restaurant table-- it's his. Ask for a seat upgrade on a plane-- it's his. Look sidelong at a girl-- she's his. Of course Derek is used to that too, in plenty of ways, but he's the one sitting on the very big bed in Brady's hotel room, turning the key card over in his hands and feeling foolish, so clearly Brady has one up on him here.
The door opens and Brady walks in. He's still in his shirt and tie from the reception, but his jacket is off, draped over his arm; he tosses it carelessly at an armchair as he closes the door behind him. Derek almost leaps off the bed to take it away and hang it up in the closet, but he manages to restrain himself. Just barely. That is a bespoke suit, and Derek would never treat his own good clothing so carelessly, but Brady is a grown man who can do what he wants with his coat.
"You showed," Brady says, sitting next to Derek on the bed. Up close he looks tired, but he's managing a smile all the same.
Derek shrugs. The weight of Brady is making the mattress incline in that direction, and he's trying to not roll in. He actually has no real idea why he did show up, because he does not actually know why Brady asked him to show up. But he has nothing in particular to do tonight, alone in a place teeming with college kids, and he was intrigued. Perhaps a little hopeful, even though he knows that Brady is married to a famously gorgeous Brazilian supermodel and has already produced a couple of kids.
Overcompensating, he thinks, but he tries to push that thought away. Not productive.
"It's always weird being back here. Makes me think I should be running off to a class or practice or something. You know?" Brady rolls his shoulders back, sitting up straighter. He puts a hand on Derek's knee.
"Not really. I mean, I don't have all that many memories from here," Derek says, and that's the truth. Most of his memories of those years are from the minors. "It doesn't make me feel anything."
Brady squeezes Derek's knee, slow and deliberate, fingers pressing in under the kneecap like a doctor's hammer. "Not anything?"
"Well," Derek says.
---
He expects it to be awkward-- they barely know each other-- but in this, as apparently in all things, Brady is a professional. When Derek runs his hands down Brady's sides, he leans up into it shamelessly. When Derek takes off his own shirt, feeling stupidly inadequate, Brady trails the knuckles of one hand down the center of Derek's chest and mutters, "ah, baseball players," in what Derek is willing to believe is an appreciative tone of voice.
The only moment where it approaches true awkwardness is when Brady stops him and says, "Hey, wait. You've done this before, right?"
Derek almost laughs. Honestly.
After that it's fine. It's good. Brady seems slightly worried about accidentally crushing Derek, something that is probably not really an issue, but Derek doesn't object when Brady lies back and takes hold of Derek's hips. He hovers over Brady, teasing himself with the anticipation for a few minutes before he gives in to the ache in the pit of his stomach and sinks down.
When Brady thrusts the rest of the way into him, he gasps and jerks forward, hands coming down hard on Brady's chest. Brady's chest is either naturally hairless or he shaves it, but there are a few dark freckles scattered around. Derek fixes his eyes on them, holding still and trying to remember to breathe.
"God you're tight," Brady mutters. "I didn't think--"
"S'fine," Derek manages. He doesn't want Brady to think he has to stop. Brady's hips twitch up at the sound of his voice, and no, he really, really does not want Brady to stop.
---
If this was the middle of the season, he would be concerned. Brady's hands settle in at his waist and grip hard there, hard enough to almost certainly leave awkward, obvious bruises, scaled for a man's hand. Everyone's sex markers are open to view in a big league clubhouse, and no one is above comment. Nothing is sacred. Derek is not going to have the kinds of marks that would pass unnoticed.
Brady's cock is not that much thicker than what Derek is used to, but the difference is there, and it's amplified with Brady inside, the stretch just slightly too much and the pressure just slightly too overwhelming. Derek can't stay cool. He makes embarrassing noises. He tries to spread his legs more than they want to spread; the muscles in his thighs and groin burn distantly, and will probably burn a lot more tomorrow. Brady's thrusts are hard and unforgiving, and Derek pushes back into them so hard that it almost feels like he's dislocating his own hips. It's the kind of fucking that will have him walking funny for several different reasons.
Thankfully it is not the middle of the season. Derek can waddle around for a week if he wants, secretly covered in bites and scratches, and nobody will have any reason to bring it up.
---
Brady is a fan of running commentary. He says things like, "God, yeah, that's fuckin' right," and, "play with yourself, yeah, that's perfect," and, Derek's personal favorite, "take it, take it, just like that."
"Yeah," Derek says. "C'mon." He's half a breath away from saying give it to me, but he manages to avoid it. Nobody has ever held him that firmly and told him to take it like that before, though, and he likes it a mortifying lot.
"You gotta," Brady says. He squeezes, fingers pressing into Derek's abdomen, and it hurts, his grip is so strong. Derek gasps and gasps again. His mouth is hanging open, but he can't bring himself to close it.
Brady groans, forearms flexing as he tries to shift Derek up. "You gotta move more. Just, fuck. Fuckin' bounce on it."
"Oh my god." Derek has to close his eyes and remember to breathe, because he has said that exact same thing to girls before. Just bounce on it, baby, leaning back and watching a pert ass go to work in his lap, and that's really all he is to Brady, isn't it? Just another random hook-up, a step or two above the common groupie, not much more than a warm tight hole to be used, fucked, then tossed aside when he moves on to another city--
Derek sits down hard and grinds his hips. He wants Brady deep, deep enough to feel it in his core like the best kind of workout, and Brady obliges, meeting the downward pressure with his own upward thrust, like a goddamn pro, balls against Derek's ass and then tightening against him, and Derek can feel Brady start to twitch against some hotly sensitive internal part of him, and it's so good.
"Fuckin' take it," Brady grunts, all clenched teeth and tightened muscles. Derek's mind cuts out as he shakes and overheats and does.
---
Brady is gone by the time he wakes up the next morning. When he goes downstairs to settle up, he finds that the room is all paid for, in addition to the room he had actually reserved, the room he should have spent the night in. He thanks the hotel desk jockey with a bemused grin; he's done this for more people than he can count, and it's a little funny to be on the receiving end of it for once.
It isn't until he turns his phone back on when his plane lands in Tampa that he realizes something is different. Even then it takes him a moment of playing around before he understands.
The number of contacts in his address book has changed. It's a tiny difference, something he only picks up on subliminally, but once he realizes it's easy enough to find the new entry. It's tidily alphabetized, right under Biel, Jessica and above Burnett, AJ.
He grins to himself and tucks the phone back into his pocket. He knows that the University of Michigan has a large alumni base, spread out over the country. They probably have plenty of fundraisers in plenty of cities. And he's certain that Casey can get him in on a few more of them.
It'll look great in the papers.
Tom Brady/Derek Jeter
NC-17
2,649 words
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.
fundraiser
The wind whips through the trees, razor-cold. It's one of those iron gray Michigan days, the kind he thought he had escaped for good years ago. And he could have escaped this one, if he really wanted; it would have been easy enough to come up with an excuse. But his agent has said that it looks good to be supportive of higher education, the press just eats that sort of thing right up. It doesn't much matter that he personally never went that route. He's had enough success with the media, over the years, to know that he can trust what his agent says about these things.
The reception is in a big Central Campus building that didn't exist back when Derek had been looking at this place. It has something to do with science, he knows that much-- what he does not know is why they're having the reception up here instead of down on South Campus, where all the athletic facilities are. The front of this building is a massive glass wall, gently rippled like a frozen wave. Outside he can see students staggering by, sweatpants rolled up around the ankles of their boots to keep from dragging in the snow, massive backpacks pitching them forward at odd angles.
Sometimes he thinks about what he must have missed by not going to college. Probably not too much. He had been willing to go, of course, if that had been what he needed to do, but the idea of four more years of sitting in classrooms, idling away wasted time before he could get back on the field again, was never particularly appealing. All he's ever really wanted to do is play ball.
---
"If you'd gone to college," Casey asks, "where would that have been?"
"Michigan," Derek says, and that's true enough. He'd been accepted there, had spent a summer bumming around the campus, trying to get used to the idea of living alone in this weird little city-town, so different from Kalamazoo. There had been a scholarship. His parents wouldn't have had to pay a thing.
But then there was the draft, and the Yankees, and the first round. The first round meant a lot of money, even back then. It hadn't been much of a decision.
"As in the University of? Great. There's an athletics fundraiser this winter," Casey says, tapping away at his keyboard. He's prodding the page-down button over and over again, like he's going through a list of things various colleges want Derek Jeter to do for them. Hell, there probably is such a list; his agent is very organized. "They'd love to have you. And after those club photos came out last week, you could use this, it'll play well in the papers--"
"Sure," Derek says, already bored, already thinking about other things. Casey knows what he's talking about, that's why Derek employs him. Whatever he thinks will work.
---
He signs some napkins. He shakes hands and smiles politely, answering questions. He has memorized the names of the current Michigan baseball coaching staff so that he can say nice things about them. He doesn't know the head coach. Bill Freehan was the coach when Derek had almost-gone, Bill Freehan the former Detroit Tiger great, but he retired in '95 and now it's someone new.
He patiently endures a thousand jokes along the lines of hey, I didn't know you went for the Mets. One of the Mets owners funded the new Michigan baseball stadium, the practice facility, the whole thing. Derek laughs just enough each time to make the alum feel as if he or she has been witty. Not enough to make them feel uncomfortable. He doesn't know any of these people, but he knows how to do this.
A disturbance washes over the crowd. It starts as muttering, some story passing from one conversational group to the next. Then it becomes motion: heads turning towards the door, bodies shifting in that direction. Derek may not really care about whatever passes for Michigan dignitaries, but he's not immune to the curiosity. He turns to look.
Someone has come in. It is clear from the reactions of the everyone else that this is a real Someone, because there are full professors here, NCAA bigwigs, people with titles like Regent and Provost. Michigan is a big university with a national reputation and an international presence; these people, Derek knows, are used to thinking of themselves as real big fish in a moderately important pond. They do not rouse themselves for just anybody.
The crowd gives way like something from a movie, people parting for one central figure. Derek recognizes the man there, but can't immediately place him beyond the general familiarity. Dark hair, a little shaggy. A strong jaw and chin. Broad shoulders, athlete's shoulders-- then he remembers where he is. It's Tom Brady. Of course.
Brady moves towards him easily, ignoring almost everyone else, which is fairly stunning until Derek realizes that there is a smaller man at Brady's elbow, guiding him, and a larger man in a disappearing-trick dark suit just behind him, making sure nobody gets too close. Naturally Tom Brady would have a handler and security. Derek is here without such things, but he is here as a Friend of the University only. He is not, as Brady is, a real Wolverine.
"Hi," Brady says, hand swinging up, and it takes Derek a moment to realize that Brady is talking to him.
He says hello back and offers his own hand. They shake; camera flashes go off. Brady's smile is very toothily white, but the shape of it is a little bit goofy, just enough to be endearing. Derek's hand feels small in Brady's grip, and an overwhelming sense of something very like shame washes over him. Normally he's certain that baseball is a fine sport, quite possibly the best in the world, but standing right next to Brady he can only feel how prissy and inadequate it must seem when compared to football. He's not used to feeling small, but Brady is built like-- well, like an NFL quarterback not too far out of his prime. Derek is built like a skill shortstop flirting with decline, his body carefully sculpted over the years for acrobatics and accuracy even when the power starts to dissipate.
Brady leans in close, still smiling that media-perfect smile. He says something quietly, presses something into Derek's hand, and then he's moving off, the big security guy swiftly blocking his path from behind. There is a podium across the way, a man there tapping at a newly activated microphone. There will be speeches now, each word carefully calibrated to generate the most goodwill from wealthy alums. Derek has a small speech of his own, all about the importance of higher education and the opportunity that athletics scholarships provide for young student-athletes; he is here, basically, on the off-chance that some of the potential benefactors are baseball fans, easily swayed by his presence. Brady probably has a longer speech to make.
He looks down at his hand. In the center of his palm is a plastic hotel key card. The number of the room it goes to is rattling around inside his head, carried on a football huddle whisper.
---
It occurs to him that Brady must be used to getting just about whatever he wants. Glance at a restaurant table-- it's his. Ask for a seat upgrade on a plane-- it's his. Look sidelong at a girl-- she's his. Of course Derek is used to that too, in plenty of ways, but he's the one sitting on the very big bed in Brady's hotel room, turning the key card over in his hands and feeling foolish, so clearly Brady has one up on him here.
The door opens and Brady walks in. He's still in his shirt and tie from the reception, but his jacket is off, draped over his arm; he tosses it carelessly at an armchair as he closes the door behind him. Derek almost leaps off the bed to take it away and hang it up in the closet, but he manages to restrain himself. Just barely. That is a bespoke suit, and Derek would never treat his own good clothing so carelessly, but Brady is a grown man who can do what he wants with his coat.
"You showed," Brady says, sitting next to Derek on the bed. Up close he looks tired, but he's managing a smile all the same.
Derek shrugs. The weight of Brady is making the mattress incline in that direction, and he's trying to not roll in. He actually has no real idea why he did show up, because he does not actually know why Brady asked him to show up. But he has nothing in particular to do tonight, alone in a place teeming with college kids, and he was intrigued. Perhaps a little hopeful, even though he knows that Brady is married to a famously gorgeous Brazilian supermodel and has already produced a couple of kids.
Overcompensating, he thinks, but he tries to push that thought away. Not productive.
"It's always weird being back here. Makes me think I should be running off to a class or practice or something. You know?" Brady rolls his shoulders back, sitting up straighter. He puts a hand on Derek's knee.
"Not really. I mean, I don't have all that many memories from here," Derek says, and that's the truth. Most of his memories of those years are from the minors. "It doesn't make me feel anything."
Brady squeezes Derek's knee, slow and deliberate, fingers pressing in under the kneecap like a doctor's hammer. "Not anything?"
"Well," Derek says.
---
He expects it to be awkward-- they barely know each other-- but in this, as apparently in all things, Brady is a professional. When Derek runs his hands down Brady's sides, he leans up into it shamelessly. When Derek takes off his own shirt, feeling stupidly inadequate, Brady trails the knuckles of one hand down the center of Derek's chest and mutters, "ah, baseball players," in what Derek is willing to believe is an appreciative tone of voice.
The only moment where it approaches true awkwardness is when Brady stops him and says, "Hey, wait. You've done this before, right?"
Derek almost laughs. Honestly.
After that it's fine. It's good. Brady seems slightly worried about accidentally crushing Derek, something that is probably not really an issue, but Derek doesn't object when Brady lies back and takes hold of Derek's hips. He hovers over Brady, teasing himself with the anticipation for a few minutes before he gives in to the ache in the pit of his stomach and sinks down.
When Brady thrusts the rest of the way into him, he gasps and jerks forward, hands coming down hard on Brady's chest. Brady's chest is either naturally hairless or he shaves it, but there are a few dark freckles scattered around. Derek fixes his eyes on them, holding still and trying to remember to breathe.
"God you're tight," Brady mutters. "I didn't think--"
"S'fine," Derek manages. He doesn't want Brady to think he has to stop. Brady's hips twitch up at the sound of his voice, and no, he really, really does not want Brady to stop.
---
If this was the middle of the season, he would be concerned. Brady's hands settle in at his waist and grip hard there, hard enough to almost certainly leave awkward, obvious bruises, scaled for a man's hand. Everyone's sex markers are open to view in a big league clubhouse, and no one is above comment. Nothing is sacred. Derek is not going to have the kinds of marks that would pass unnoticed.
Brady's cock is not that much thicker than what Derek is used to, but the difference is there, and it's amplified with Brady inside, the stretch just slightly too much and the pressure just slightly too overwhelming. Derek can't stay cool. He makes embarrassing noises. He tries to spread his legs more than they want to spread; the muscles in his thighs and groin burn distantly, and will probably burn a lot more tomorrow. Brady's thrusts are hard and unforgiving, and Derek pushes back into them so hard that it almost feels like he's dislocating his own hips. It's the kind of fucking that will have him walking funny for several different reasons.
Thankfully it is not the middle of the season. Derek can waddle around for a week if he wants, secretly covered in bites and scratches, and nobody will have any reason to bring it up.
---
Brady is a fan of running commentary. He says things like, "God, yeah, that's fuckin' right," and, "play with yourself, yeah, that's perfect," and, Derek's personal favorite, "take it, take it, just like that."
"Yeah," Derek says. "C'mon." He's half a breath away from saying give it to me, but he manages to avoid it. Nobody has ever held him that firmly and told him to take it like that before, though, and he likes it a mortifying lot.
"You gotta," Brady says. He squeezes, fingers pressing into Derek's abdomen, and it hurts, his grip is so strong. Derek gasps and gasps again. His mouth is hanging open, but he can't bring himself to close it.
Brady groans, forearms flexing as he tries to shift Derek up. "You gotta move more. Just, fuck. Fuckin' bounce on it."
"Oh my god." Derek has to close his eyes and remember to breathe, because he has said that exact same thing to girls before. Just bounce on it, baby, leaning back and watching a pert ass go to work in his lap, and that's really all he is to Brady, isn't it? Just another random hook-up, a step or two above the common groupie, not much more than a warm tight hole to be used, fucked, then tossed aside when he moves on to another city--
Derek sits down hard and grinds his hips. He wants Brady deep, deep enough to feel it in his core like the best kind of workout, and Brady obliges, meeting the downward pressure with his own upward thrust, like a goddamn pro, balls against Derek's ass and then tightening against him, and Derek can feel Brady start to twitch against some hotly sensitive internal part of him, and it's so good.
"Fuckin' take it," Brady grunts, all clenched teeth and tightened muscles. Derek's mind cuts out as he shakes and overheats and does.
---
Brady is gone by the time he wakes up the next morning. When he goes downstairs to settle up, he finds that the room is all paid for, in addition to the room he had actually reserved, the room he should have spent the night in. He thanks the hotel desk jockey with a bemused grin; he's done this for more people than he can count, and it's a little funny to be on the receiving end of it for once.
It isn't until he turns his phone back on when his plane lands in Tampa that he realizes something is different. Even then it takes him a moment of playing around before he understands.
The number of contacts in his address book has changed. It's a tiny difference, something he only picks up on subliminally, but once he realizes it's easy enough to find the new entry. It's tidily alphabetized, right under Biel, Jessica and above Burnett, AJ.
He grins to himself and tucks the phone back into his pocket. He knows that the University of Michigan has a large alumni base, spread out over the country. They probably have plenty of fundraisers in plenty of cities. And he's certain that Casey can get him in on a few more of them.
It'll look great in the papers.