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."