Work Text:
Your name is Tom Brady.
Your ego alone has a quarter of a million twitter followers. Your hair is always perfect. (You're going to need it to be perfect soon)
Your name is Tom Brady.
Your life is, shall we say, purrfecto. Except we won't, because you are a man, not a cat, not even a cat-man. (A spiky cat dick would also probably come in handy in the near future, just on principle)
Your name is Tom Brady, and today is the day.
Your secret husband, Tom Hiddleston, gives you a secret kiss in a secret place, before the game begins. Not your game, his. You see, he has just been hired as the starting quarterback of the Oakland Raiders, or as you like to think of them, your Oakland Raiders, ever since you beat them for that AFC championship.
As you know, the Tuck Rule is an exception to NFL Rule 3, Section 22, Article 2, Note 2: When [an offensive] player is holding the ball to pass it forward, any intentional forward movement of his arm starts a forward pass, even if the player loses possession of the ball as he is attempting to tuck it back toward his body. Also, if the player has tucked the ball into his body and then loses possession, it is a fumble. It applied when you moved your arm forward in a passing motion, but then changed your mind and tried to keep hold of the football rather than attempt a pass. In this situation, even though you lost the ball while stopping your passing motion and bringing the ball back to your body, it was still considered a forward pass (and thus an incomplete pass when the ball hit the ground).
A part of your soul died when they rolled back that rule. It's okay, Belicheck sold the rest of it off for those super bowl rings a long time ago.
Your name is Tom Brady.
You watch the game dispassionately. Tom's Raiders are challenging the London Redcoats (formerly the Jacksonville Jaguars after an extensive and exhausting set of trade deliberations).
You consider the entire country of Great Britain your rival, because you are so perfectly American, down to your very essence. They say we're all just made of star stuff, but you know better.
Your name is Tom Brady and you are made of both star stuff and stripe stuff. As American as capitalism and apple pie.
You consider Tom your first conquest. A foothold into enemy territory. A willing and pliant tract of land in which to sow your seed.
The sex is good.
Before you know it the game is over. Your team has won.
You feel warm and loose and ready as you slip down into the visitor's locker room. Your team is ready.
Adrenaline is high and testosterone is higher. You aren't sure when you lose your clothes in the surging mass of bodies around you. They have done so very well, and this is their reward.
You let someone lean you over the bench, feel the first of oh so many sinking deep into you, many becoming one in a chorus of grunts like ancient music to the drumbeat of flesh on flesh. Your feels are the first to go, tangled up in the tattered remains of your ability to, just...can, soaring away as sensation overtakes you.
This is their ritual, and yours. Hands are touching you, and legs and mouths and cocksandskinandHEAT oh god, the heat. Every time you feel as if you can't take any more, every time fingernails sink into your hips and you feel yourself fill with their satiety, the feeling pulls back just enough for it to hook behind your breastbone when the next one takes his place.
Soon, the crescendo has reached its peak, and the writhing bodies part like the red sea of yore. Someone flips you onto your back, and all you can see is Tom.
Your name is Tom Brady. You are the alpha and the omega. You are the conquest and the conqueror. You are fucking and you are fucked, and your husband kept his helmet on.
Tom lowers himself on to you, and the world goes aquamarine. The secrets to the universe are hidden in his tight heat, and he has chosen you to plumb the hidden depths, to search every corner to uncover them. Everything around you fades, until it's only you and him and the British Empire, until breathlessly you release, touching every intimate part of him with the fire of American exceptionalism.
Your name is Tom Brady, and today, you are victorious.
and i'll be gone, gone tonight
the ground beneath my feet is open wide
the way that i been holding on too tight
with nothing in between
