Clash of Beauty and Bravado feat. Rianne Evans and Drake "Domino" Vyril

[Weonna]

Spoiler

[Scene: L.A.W. Media Event – Backstage Lounge]

The camera cuts to the backstage lounge of L.A.W.’s latest media event, where a group of wrestlers mingle, answering questions and engaging in light banter. Among them is Rianne Evans, dressed in a stylish yet athletic ensemble, casually leaning against a table as she chats with a reporter about her journey in wrestling. Across the room, Drake "Domino" Vyril, is finishing up a separate interview. Their paths are about to cross...


Reporter: "Rianne, you’ve got a strong background in fitness modeling and sports, and you’re stepping into L.A.W. with a lot of buzz. Some people are already comparing you to Drake 'Domino' Vyril, another wrestler with a modeling background who’s been fighting to prove himself in Japan. Do you see a rivalry forming there?"*

Rianne raises an eyebrow, scoffing as she flicks her long hair over her shoulder.

Rianne: "A rivalry? With who? That guy?"(She gestures toward Drake, who is just within earshot.)"Look, I respect anyone who steps into this business, but let’s be real—there’s a difference between being an athlete who models and a model who wrestles. I trained to be the best. He’s just here to pose for cameras and hope for a lucky win."

[CyanDimitrik]

Domino!

Drake, otherwise known as Domino, has had some matches of late - gaining a little more traction, after a lengthy dry spell. But it isn't enough. It'll never be enough until he's claimed gold. Until he's claimed gold and held onto it, at that. But he's starting to feel the momentum, like the churning of a steam engine that's just kicked to life after a dormancy. It feels good. It feels like the way it should be. The way it has to be.

"And that's really all there is to it," Drake says, his Japanese a little oddly accented. But he's gotten reasonably used to the language by now. He just can't shake the Americanisms in his delivery. "I'm here for a reason. A purpose. And nothing's gonna stop me. But I'm sure it'll be entertaining for the fans to watch'em try."

The interviewer seems satisfied with the confident, finalizing remarks, and offers a short bow in conclusion. Drake hurriedly returns the gesture, an earnest attempt to ingratiate himself to the local custom. And no matter which way it's cut, he certainly looks the part of modelesque refinement paired with the form and function of an athletic machine. His sleek physique is wrapped in a breezy tailored white buttonup, with a pair of fitted slacks below. A pair of casual, albeit noticeably pristine sneakers shod his feet, and a pair of gold-rimmed aviator shades perched over his temple.

He's just starting to move on to the next photo op' as he breezes by a blonde, sparing her a passing look - until he hears what she has to say. He halts mid-stride and slowly turns his head, casting her a look over his shoulder at first with raised eyebrow. "A lucky win?," he asks. Trajectory whirls on a dime, and he returns close to her side.

Needless to say, cameras turn to bring the two of them into a wide shot.

"Yeah. I'm a model. And I wrestle. I take out competition while makin' it look good," he counters, locking his dark eyes onto her big blues. "If you're afraid of real competition, that's on you. But don't throw shade my way, princess."

[Weonna]

Rianne scoffs, flicking her hair over one shoulder as she plants a hand on her hip, giving Drake a proper once-over.

"Oh, do me a favor, mate. Spare me the pretty-boy spiel, yeah? You ‘take out competition while makin’ it look good’? That’s proper adorable. Real sweet, that. But see, wrestlin’ ain’t a bloody catwalk, and I ain’t about to take lessons from some posh-lookin’ geezer who spends more time worryin’ ‘bout his reflection than his ring work."

She steps up, chin lifted, them ice-blue eyes lockin’ onto his dark ones with nothin’ but pure challenge.

"You? You’re all flash an’ no fight. A little sizzle, no steak. Wrestlin’s just a fancy side gig for ya, innit? A bit o’ fun between your little photoshoots. But me? I built meself for this. I trained till me knuckles bled, till me body begged for rest, an’ I still got up for more. ‘Cause when I step in that ring, I ain’t worried ‘bout strikin’ a pose—I’m worried ‘bout knockin’ some poor sod’s teeth down their throat."

She folds her arms, giving him a smirk laced with pure arrogance.

"So yeah, love. You win a few scraps. Cute. But ‘til you stop worryin’ ‘bout your wardrobe an’ start worryin’ ‘bout who’s gonna lay you out flat, don’t you dare chat to me about competition."

The energy in the air shifts, the crowd murmuring’ as cameras keep rolling, catching every bit of the tension.

[CyanDimitrik]

"That right? Yeah?," Drake nods, unflinchingly locked onto Rianne. With her heavy Cockney accent, he smoothly transitions to English. He had very little hope of communicating his growing ire and disdain clearly while attempting to navigate a foreign language, and ain't no way he's letting this fly.

"Since you seem to be workin' overtime to justify every blonde joke we've ever heard in our lives," he begins, motioning towards her flaxen hair, "I'm gonna take a second and educate you on something. Consider it charity work. Kind'a like when someone books you for the ring. Ready?"

Drake leans in closer to her, mirroring her challenging posture without hesitation. In truth, her remarks are scorching on a level she likely doesn't even realize. Much of what she is saying is practically parroted from the naysayers who've kept his career low. The ones who've consistently sold him short, regardless of results and performance. And for it to come from another model, it's especially grating.

The tension is palpable. He's not usually quick to anger, but it's clear in the narrowing of his eyes at this tight proximity. "You don't know me. And I'm not gonna carry on about the struggles and hardships like I'm some hardluck case, because the ring is where someone like me," he thumbs tightly to himself, "belongs, and someone like you," he swaps to pointing close to her face, "always comes up short. And it's funny, and I mean funny, how many times an opponent will step on the mat talking like you, then a few minutes later be waking up. Flat on their back. My arm raised. And landing the magazine cover. It's like a joke. And baby, right now, you sound like a comedian."

[Weonna]

Rianne lets out a slow, amused chuckle, shaking her head as she watches Drake’s reaction unfold. Oh, he’s pissed. Good. That means she struck a nerve.

"Oh, you’re bloody precious, aren’t ya? All this big talk, all this chest-thumpin’, like I’m supposed to be impressed. Like I’m supposed to be scared."

She doesn’t back down, not even a fraction. Instead, she closes the space between them, just enough to make it personal. Her smirk turns sharper, eyes gleaming with a newfound edge as she lowers her voice just slightly, making sure only Drake hears her next words.

"Tell me somethin’, Domino. When you’re done playin’ dress-up an’ flexin’ for the cameras, when all that flash fades away—who the hell are ya, really? Hm? Some lad tryin’ to live up to Daddy’s name? Or maybe just some lost little boy who still ain’t got a clue who he is without a mirror or a spotlight?"*

The crowd around them reacts, murmurs spreading. Rianne keeps pressing, her voice dripping with condescension.

"See, that’s the real difference between us, love. I don’t need someone else’s shadow to step out of. I don’t need to fight for approval. I don’t need to beg people to take me seriously. I am serious. And that burns ya up inside, don’t it?"

She leans in just a tad closer, eyes daring him to flinch, her next words delivered in a hushed, venomous tone.

"Face it, Domino. You ain't mad ‘cause I called you a model. You’re mad ‘cause deep down, you don’t know if you’re actually a wrestler."

Her lips curl into a cocky grin, stepping back just slightly, giving him room to react.

[CyanDimitrik]

She moves in closer to his face, earning the loft of an eyebrow. The volume of her voice suggests she's intending this strictly to be for his ear, but somehow, he's still certain this is intended precisely for the cameras. And so, despite the anger boiling, he remains exactly as he is; she gets to invade his space, but she's not met with any yield. He's always prided himself on not lashing out, and despite some wild assumptions being made about his relationship to his family, he recognizes what she's doing. She's making the narrative. And that, that is what irritates him.

"I keep tryin' to tell you this, and I'm runnin' out of ways to say it. You took one look at me and made some really bad calls out loud. Calls that, if you're not careful? Are gonna embarrass you in front of all these people. Because the only thing I don't know here is who the Hell you even are."

His hand lifts again, bringing his index finger close to her chin, now that she's very close. "If I'm mad, it's because someone let the Red Light District into this press forum. But that's beside the point. You're running your mouth like someone who's never had to find out before. And I can tell subtlety isn't something you comprehend. So lemme try to spell this out for you a second time. In small words. Real slow."

"You're. About. To get. Your ass. Kicked. Because, y'know what you've done?"

Drake motions aside to the cameras, continuing, "You demanded it. I'm not concerned with making a believer out of these people. I'm concerned with making a believer out of you."

[Weonna]

Rianne smirks, shaking her head as she steps back just a little, but keeping her eyes locked on him.

"Y'know, for all that tough talk, you still don’t scare me. Not one bit. You wanna know why?"

She leans in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to make it sting.

"Because your not like us! Your not like us! Your not like us!"

The words hang in the air for a second before she tilts her head, mock curiosity laced in her voice.

"Oh, sweetheart, that’s adorable! You? Kickin’ my arse? You ‘avin’ a laugh? You couldn’t even intimidate a bloody puppy!"

She wipes a fake tear from her eye before locking her gaze back onto his, her smirk as smug as ever.

"Mate, lemme tell ya somethin’. Drake—the rapper—is more threatening than you. Hell, I’d be more scared if Kendrick Lamar stepped in here an’ told me to ‘sit down, be humble’ than I am of you tryin’ to puff up like you’re some hard case."

She leans in just slightly, a teasing glint in her eye.

"That’s the thing with you, innit? You wanna be that guy so bad. You wanna be the name people fear, the bloke they take dead serious. But, Domino, let’s be real—you don’t scare anyone. Not me, not the lads in the back, not even management. You’re just another loudmouth tryin’ to convince everyone he’s tougher than he is."

She gestures toward his pristine, designer outfit, then shakes her head.

"All that flash, all that talk, an’ not a single ounce of real menace behind it. You’re about as dangerous as a Vogue cover shoot. But hey, at least you look good, yeah?"

She claps him on the shoulder in a condescending pat before turning to walk away, clearly writing him off already.

[CyanDimitrik]

Drake props a hand to his hip, waiting, politely nodding along as she speaks. He arches an eyebrow when she places a hand on his shoulder, glancing briefly to it, then back to her face. It isn't until she turns to walk away that he speaks up again:

"And yet, you're the one runnin'."

If she turns around, his hands lift in a mild shrug. "I was ready to give you the Darwin Award right here, but if you're gonna pull squid tactics and spew crap and run away, then that makes more sense. That's the only way someone like you survives when you get the attention of something bigger and more dangerous. Best to stick to the small fish, right?"

The hand quickly turns, presenting his palm to her in pre-emptive halting fashion. "No. Shut up. Don't bother. No one's interested in hearing you waste their time. Not me, or them. The only thing any of us care to hear is when and where you'd like to get your ass handed to you."

"Otherwise? Best get back to runnin'."

[Weonna]

Rianne halts mid-stride, her smirk vanishing for a split second before she slowly turns back around. Her icy blue eyes lock onto Drake’s, and this time, there’s no playful amusement—just simmering challenge.

She tilts her head slightly, as if considering his words, then lets out a slow exhale, shaking her head.

"Oh, bless your heart, love. You really don’t know when to shut your gob, do ya?"*

She takes a step closer, then another, until she’s right back in his space. And before he can get another cocky remark in—

CRACK!

she slaps him clean across the face. The sound echoes through the room, causing an immediate reaction from the crowd. Some gasp. Some cheer. Some just stand in stunned silence, waiting for his response.*

Rianne’s smirk returns, but this time, it’s sharper. Meaner. She watches his reaction closely, reading his every movement, waiting to see if he dares to retaliate.

"There. That real enough for ya, tough guy? Or do I need to do it again?"

She leans in just slightly, voice laced with condescension.

"‘Cause from where I’m standin’… you ain't lookin' so big and dangerous now."

The air is thick with tension, the cameras zooming in on Drake’s face to capture his reaction. Will he keep his composure, or has Rianne just pushed him over the edge?

[CyanDimitrik]

She had paused. Drake was waiting. There's no humor here, only an annoyed level of impatience. How long could she possibly keep this going? He'd made the damn challenge twice now, and both times she's gone back to dancing around it. She'd already irritated him, but the more she seemed to skirt the issue, the more he was convinced that for her, this was a defense mechanism. A way to gloat without risking anything. A way to try to one-up a stranger without actually facing them.

He abhored that. It felt more and more like a kind of cowardice. A bullying tactic. But he wasn't about to let it go.

And suddenly, he's slapped. His face is turned from the impact, eyes widened, and he's frozen. He doesn't hear what she says. He hears her voice. He hears the tone she's using. But the words aren't registering. If her picking a fight with him out of the blue was a mistake, this would've been a catastrophe. For however used to berating others she may have been, after he'd already pointed out that he was ready to throw down, putting a hand on him outside the ring in this context would not go unanswered. Her fate was sealed.

The cheers he hears around him are baffling. Who the Hell would cheer for someone like that? It didn't matter. This wasn't about the cameras. This was about her. Her, intent on ruining his career for the sake of walking by.

She doesn't get a slap back. Most people probably would've gone with that. It would've been the predictable response - a quick, hard backhand, five across the eyes to bring her back to reality. But that wouldn't be sufficient. She'd earned more than that. His response is, instead, explosive movement. An abrupt thrust of his foot to plant into the pit of her stomach to force a forward bend; which would feed directly into an over-the shoulder guillotine and drop to collide her jaw with his shoulder in a stunner.