an aussie winning

gerome about virion: i Cannot believe im related to that man. im neither charming nor a flirt. i am the night. i am darkness™

gerome to his beloved:

Power Couple (Chato Santana)

words: 1,854

request:  El diablo X reader when their introducing everyone reader is polled in with chains all badass like and Diablos just all damn and they become a couple and later like the bar scene digger asks reader if she has any tattoos and she shows him one right under her bust and diablo gets super jelly

requested by: anon

tagging: @aya-fay

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Bittersweet 😨 She was fine❗️ 🎥 via 👉 @t0p_bikes
Aussie @Sar_Roy 🇦🇺 takes the win here in Chesterfield on @theWomensTour this afternoon, after
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It Has Always Been Forever - Part 18

Previous Chapters :)

Part 18.

 Jamie finished getting dressed, catching Claire’s reflection in the mirror watching him from her perch on the edge of the bed. Her eyes roaming his still bare upper half, his body still warm from his shower. She was already dressed and ready to leave for her shift at the hospital, but spared a few minutes to take in the view.

“What is it, ghraidh?” Jamie asked, seeing her sigh wistfully. She caught his eye in the mirror, holding it for moment. Then suddenly got up and came up behind him, her arms coming round his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder - just barely reaching - as she stood on tiptoes. Her fingers idly ran over the bumps of his toned stomach. He leaned back into her.

“I want you to have a great time tonight,” she said, placing a kiss on his neck. “Its just the thought of what the lads might have in mind.” She let out a breath of a laugh and put her forehead between shoulder blades, standing back on the balls of her feet, tightening her hold. His fresh scent filled her senses and the slight dampness of his skin made her skin tingle.

“Ye ken its just drinks, aye? Maybe watch the rugby at the pub too,” he assured her, entwining his fingers with hers.

“I ken what the lads said. Just…” she freed her hand from his, and still holding him tightly to her, unbuttoned his jeans and slipped her hand into his boxers. He inhaled sharply. “Remember who this belongs to when they’re paying for lap dances for you. Aye?” She tugged.

“Aye. I’m no’ likely to forget that in life, Sassenach. I ken well who I belong to,” he said, voice deep and husky, closing his eyes at her delicate touch, letting his head fall back against hers.

Claire stroked him for a few minutes - both getting lost in the rhythm, swaying slightly with it, but were interrupted by the ungainly crashing currently ascending the stairs.

“Damn…” they said in unison. Claire pressed her lips to his back once more, letting her lips and hand linger on his goosebumped skin, till a persistent knocking began that threatened to bring the building down around them. With one final, languid stroke, her hand reluctantly pulled away and she stepped back.

“Finish getting… dressed. I’ll let them in - before they break the door down.” She gave his bottom a firm squeeze, and with a murmured apology, rushed to let the barbarians in.

Jamie heard her footsteps recede, followed soon after by a deafening and hearty chorus of “EHHH!!!” as she opened the door. His entire body was thrumming, and with Claire’s touch still pulsing through him, he took a few minutes for himself, before joining the lads.


Claire waited the few minutes it took before Jamie joined them, his mates sufficiently comfortable with her to not hold back in their bawdy humor. Angus and Rupert looked determined, but Murtagh gave her a reassuring smile, nothing too drastic was going to happen while he was around - she hoped. And Joe… Well Joe was Joe and he fit right in with them, even masterfully taking the thorough chafing Angus was giving him about being Maid of Honor.

Jamie walked in the room looking a little flushed and caught Claire’s eye.

You’re good? Claire’s look asked, anxiously.

He solemnly blinked back. Perfect, it said.

“Alright, well, I’ll leave you lads to it then,” she said primly, grabbing her bag and coat and headed for the door. Before she opened it though, she felt Jamie’s hand on the small of her back. She turned and kissed him, eliciting a wave of wolf whistles from the guys - cutting them short.

As Claire stepped out into the hallway - just as Ian arrived, breathless, Jamie’s voice came clear through the door. “Ye can feck off, the lot o’ ye!”


The night had gotten off with a bang - literally. Murtagh’s radiator overheated spectacularly when they’d found themselves stuck in a wee traffic jam, blowing the cap clean off denting the rickety pickup’s bonnet from the inside, causing all passengers to unceremoniously flee the hastily smoking automobile.

“Aye,” Murtagh said, rubbing his neck, looking critically at his car and turning the radiator cap over in his hand. “I’ve been meaning to change the cap for a while now. It doesna close all that well anymore.”

“‘Change the cap’. Ye need a new bloody car, is what ye need. That bastard’s a bloody deathtrap!” Jamie exclaimed, shaking with reaction, his anger somewhat irrationally rising. He’d never been comfortable in cars ever since his accident, only feeling remotely secure when he was behind the wheel. He never let it show, if he could help it, though.

“Perhaps it’s for the best? If we’re all planning on having a few drinks tonight, a cab’s gonna be the best means of transport, if you ask me,” Joe put in, discreetly checking his racing pulse.

“Aye, you’re right, Joe. Lets just get this piece of shite to the side of the road first, then we can make our way to the pub,” Jamie said, keen to walk off his nerves.

They pushed the car for a while, looking for a suitable place to leave it, then footed the rest of the way to the pub, in ever raucous form. Everyone had an opinion what Murtagh could do with his car. None of them all that helpful.

They got to the pub, buzzing with energy and immediately ordered a round of drinks. They’d missed the first twenty minutes if the rugby match - Scotland a try ahead against Australia - which bugged Jamie to miss. They didn’t bother pacing themselves, only Joe seemed cognizant of how much everyone was drinking. The more they drank, Jamie noted, the louder they always became. Worse still when Scotland started losing in the second half.

The pub had been full of both boisterous Scottish and Australian fans, neither shy of stressing their opinions on the game. And when the match ended 31-10 to Australia, and Angus having reached a point in his cups where his mental filter be damned (if ever the bugger had one!), the inevitable happened.

“Wankers!” he bellowed. “Can’t win withou’ the help from the feckin’ ref, can ye, ye bunch of soddin’ arse-pinchers!” he declaimed, much to the group’s annoyance.

“Sit yer bloody arse down, ye wee gomerel!” Murtagh hissed, trying to grab the beer bottle from his hand and sit him down - Angus determinedly trying to climb onto his chair, for whatever reason. Angus fought him off, still spewing profanities at a group of burly looking Aussie fans, celebrating the win, a growing tension definitely creeping into their festivities. That was always Angus’ problem - he always spoke like he was 8 feet tall, even without drink fueling his passion.

Jamie exchanged looks with the other lads, and by silent agreement, they knew they’d have to soon forcibly carry Angus out before he started yet another pub brawl. And just as they came to this realization, a bottle wheezed past Jamie’s ear. Before he could even react, the pub exploded.

Angus disappeared under a pile of yellow and green. Rupert began peeling bodies off his friend, screeching in Gaelic. Jamie and Ian exchanged exasperated looks, before diving in to help their mates. Murtagh, seeing Joe about to join in, put a hand on his shoulder and grinning said, “‘Do nay harm,’ is it no’?” Handed his coat to Joe, took his time neatly folding up his sleeves as he walked into the melee.

Angus’ roars could be heard beneath the heap, as the sound of howls, shattering glass and breaking bar stools filled the air. Rupert straightened up abruptly, having caught an elbow just above his right eye, cutting him, raised his head and howled “Wooo! Bugger!” and flung himself back in.

By now both sets of fans had begun bashing each other. Joe couldn’t tell where any of his party were, neither could he tell whether the screams were out of anger or delight. Both, definitely both. He noticed the police casually walk into the pub, take in the scene, then, with a dexterity born of long experience, he thought, they calmly began breaking up the brawlers.


“Angus,” said one of the police officers, looking down at him as he staunched his bleeding nose with a napkin. From the tone of his voice, it wasn’t the first time - nor would it be the last - they’d found themselves in this situation.

“Taran,” Angus replied, sheepishly. They all sat on the sidewalk outside the pub, each nursing his own bruises.

“Jenny’s going to kill me,” Ian was saying, dejectedly.

“Did ye see how that strumpet in the red top was looking at me!” grinned Rupert, craning his neck back to see if she was still in the pub.

“Mmmph!” Murtagh grunted.

“How are we not getting arrested right now?” Joe anxiously asked looking down the line of seated drunken brawlers.

“It isna the first time we’ve found ourselves sitting here. Bloody Angus! Christ, Claire’s going to kill me,” Jamie said, rubbing a knot on his forehead gingerly.

After the usual lecture from the police, and an umpteenth warning, the police left the lads to their own devices, with the express instruction of calling it a night.

“Guess we’re done for the night, then,” Joe said, he couldn’t keep the tone of relief from his voice.

“Och!” Rupert laughed. “Not by a long shot!” he said helping Angus to his feet. Seeing the mutinous looks on the guys faces, ready to indeed call it a night, he added, “Look lads, it’s still early, we’re still whole…ish. It’s Jamie’s stag night! I know where we can go for good food, and where Angus won’t get himself into any trouble,” he coaxed.

With the promise of food thus made, they, rather reluctantly, agreed, trudging after Rupert as he led the way. As it turned out, there wasn’t a place in Scotland where Angus couldn’t get himself into trouble.


Claire leisurely did her rounds. It’d been a quiet and slow night, her thoughts drifting now and then to Jamie and what buffoonery him and his mates were up to. She flitted through wards, checking on patients, then made her way to the ER to see if any extra hands were required. She heard them before seeing them - rowdy laughter breaking the hush that had enwrapped the hospital all night. As she rounded the corner, her suspicions were verified when she saw them huddled round a bed clearly making jokes about their bedridden mate; Jamie’s broad back shook with laughter, Joe holding a chart in his hand with Ian peering over his shoulder ‘helping’ fill in the forms, Murtagh sitting pensively at bedside, and Rupert practically doubled over. They all looking thoroughly sauced.

Joe looked up, seeing her headed toward them, murmured something to Jamie who turned, beaming. Then as they all caught sight of her, they bellowed “EEEHHHH!!!” deafeningly at her.

“What’s all this, then?” she asked coming level with them. Her eyes immediately taking in Jamie’s appearance. He seemed in good order, but for the massive bump on his forehead. Looking round, everyone in fact seemed to be scraped and bruised to some extent. Her eyes finally coming to rest on Angus, lying strewn in the bed, beard matted with blood, cloth held up to his swollen mouth. “God, do I even want to know?”

This only elicited more laughter and a harsh look from the matron on duty to keep it down.

Between fits of mirth they told her; about the match and pub fight, and stern warning from the police. “All this happened in a pub brawl?” she asked nodding toward their various injuries.

“This,” Jamie said, touching his forehead, “aye. But Angus-ss-ss,” he couldn’t finish. It was infectious and even though she still didn’t know what was the cause of it, she quivered with amusement.

Joe, having recovered first, continued the story. After they’d left the pub, Rupert had taken them for dinner, somewhere he knew Angus wouldn’t cause anymore trouble - or so they thought.

“A brothel?!” Claire said, incredulous.

“Nay, no’ a bawdy house! A strip club,” Rupert defended, plumping himself on a stool. “They serve a brilliant dinner menu, and well, I thought the girls would be a fair distraction, ye ken. For Angus,” he added at the last second.

“For Angus, indeed,” she said, voice dripping with cynicism, giving Jamie the side-eye.

“To be fair, the dinner was really good,” Jamie put in, earnestly.

“While we ate, Angus went to have a little watch, as it were,” Ian continued, delicately. “And well… We heard a wee stramash start up and as we went to see what was to do…”

“Dorcas kicked his teeth in - literally!” Rupert finished, to gales of hilarity. Looking over at the bed, Angus gave her a gaping, brilliantly toothless grin from ear to ear - his freshly missing bottom teeth matching the gap of his missing front teeth - his lip split as he smiled, a trickle of blood running into his beard. He’d apparently gotten far too familiar for her liking, to which she drove her heel into his face.

“That’ll teach you to get too handsy!” Claire admonished, barely keeping her own laughter at bay.

“I think I thwallowed one!” he informed her, happily.

Congrats to Serena Williams on winning the Aussie Open

19 total titles, passing Navratilova and Chris Evert on the all time list.

She’s the all time best on the women’s side,  bar none, hands down.

You may prefer other tennis players but Serena’s resume clearly is the best of the bunch.

EDIT: Steffi Graf is the only left for her to pass and I think the odds are pretty good that she clears that hurdle in the next year or so…