Rianne Evans vs. Drake "Domino" Vyril

[Weonna]

Rianne’s eyes snap open the instant her body is lifted. The world tilts as she’s hauled up and slung across Domino’s shoulders, her stomach pressed over the back of his neck.

“Oi—no, no, NO!”

Her legs kick instinctively, boots flailing as her hands slap against his back, trying to push up, trying to wriggle free. The sudden height and loss of control sends a jolt of panic through her, breath still ragged from the earlier slam.

She twists her hips, trying to shift her weight, her hair falling over her face as she squirms, but his grip is tight—one arm pinning her leg, the other locking her upper body in place!

[CyanDimitrik]

She comes to life in his arms. In any other circumstance, that phrase might be flattering. Even evocative. But in this particular case, Domino would've preferred she remain docile and stunned. Still, it's a good example for why he was right to not waste time with her.

His fingers bite into the flexing muscle of the woman's thigh, dangerously near the base of her hips. The other hand pulls tighter on her long neck, ensuring her body remains bowed perfectly over his shoulders, her abs nestled behind his neck.

Uncaring for her protests, Domino races forward across the ring, bearing his load easily upon his shoulders. But as he crosses the mid-point, he leaps into the air and twists to the side, coming down lengthwise with Rianne captive. The running death valley driver sees the back of her head and the back of her shoulders heavily impact the wrestling mat as they meet the flat surface before he lets her go!

[Weonna]

Rianne’s body jolts violently on impact.

Her back and shoulders slam against the canvas with a sharp thud, the force snapping through her frame and leaving her momentarily stunned. Her arms fling out on instinct, fingers twitching against the mat as the shock ripples through her spine. Her head lolls slightly to the side, blonde hair fanning across the canvas, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

She curls faintly at the midsection, boots scraping weakly against the mat as the pain settles deep into her back and shoulders, her body slow to respond after the heavy drop.

[CyanDimitrik]

The ring's frame shudders from the force of their combined impact. The surrounding sea of voices reach a pitch as they anticipate the end coming soon. Both wrestlers, battered and beaten, both having been put through a kind of Hell. But one has the momentum, now resting on hands and knees.

Domino studies Rianne as he pants, frame rising and falling dramatically with each labored breath. Everything is taken in; from the expression on her face, to the subtle twitches of her fingers. The way the sweat glistens off her skin in the abdominal region, the way her chest heaves with each breath. This may be his best chance to finish her off; and he knows exactly how he intends to do it. A combination of what worked best before, and what will surely put her down for the full three-count.

Reaching out, he slips his fingers through the damp tresses of her blonde hair to grip near the scalp. Pulling, he leads her up to her boots slowly, gradually, on pace with himself. First, it's to one knee. Then, it's pulling along to a slouched position. But once she's standing, he releases her hair in favor of leaning in and tilting aside, his arms wrapping around her waist near the hips to scoop away her center of balance and sweep her into the air. In the same smooth motion, Rianne's body is pulled tight to his own, inverted. Her toned abs are pulled firm against his unyielding pectorals, her breasts pressed into his sleekly chiseled abs. Her hips rest before his face, while his are against hers.

The arms adjust around her, sliding a little lower/higher on her body to settle moreso into the natural curve of her waist. That is, before he begins squeezing. The biceps of his arms flex, the sheen of sweat clinging to him highlighting each clenching contour of muscle as he compresses her stomach into his chest. Naturally, her hips are pulled forward, his head tucked - nose and mouth pressed firmly between her legs.

[Weonna]

Rianne’s world flips, and a choked gasp escapes her lips as gravity asserts its claim. Blood pools in her head, a dizzying rush that makes her vision swim. Her toned midsection is crushed against the hard plane of Domino’s chest, his arms like steel bands cinching her waist, holding her completely immobile. A jolt goes through her, and her legs kick out in a futile, reflexive motion before her muscles seize, crossing at the ankles in a desperate, automatic bid for stability.

The sudden, overwhelming proximity is a shock to her system. The heat radiating from his body seems to seep into her skin, and the sheer, absolute lack of control sends a deep, mortified flush climbing from her throat to her hairline. Her hands fly to his lower back, palms pressing flat, fingers digging into the dense muscle as she tries to push, to create even an inch of space. But her effort only makes his grip tighten, the shift pressing her closer, deeper into the hold.

Her breathing hitches, turning shallow and frantic. Her chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow bursts as the blush on her cheeks darkens to a burning crimson. Suspended upside down, every sensation is magnified. The scent of his skin, the faint rasp of fabric against her cheek, the solid, unyielding pressure of his body against hers...it's an intimate, suffocating cocoon. Her core trembles, not just from the compression but from a jolt of raw, helpless awareness.

Her face is trapped, mere inches from his groin, the reality of her position a dizzying, humiliating finality. The frantic energy in her limbs is replaced by a defeated tremble. Her boots, which had kicked and twitched, now hang still, a dead weight above her. Her hands, once pushing with desperate strength, now rest uselessly against his back. She is completely, utterly trapped, a captive held inverted and helpless, left to anticipate the inevitable, punishing finale she can no longer prevent.

[CyanDimitrik]

The thing about the tombstone piledriver is that it can be utterly awkward, or absolutely riveting. It depends on so many factors. How tall the opponent is, what gender the opponent is, if there's any attraction to the opponent, if you despise the opponent...

Particularly for those latter two, the management of LAW seemed to think it was expressly more interesting to see Domino utilize his finisher in their arenas. It's been encouraged. Not only by them, but by the fans. In truth, however, Domino wouldn't have needed the incentive to pull this finisher out against Rianne tonight. Because the truth is, she earned it.

Domino supports the other model's body securely against his own with ease, his every chiseled muscle engaged against and around her. And as he maintains the position with her, that's what runs through his mind; she earned it. She earned it when she antagonized him. She earned it with her previous cheapshot. She earned it when she tried to derail his momentum, when she - of all people - tried to call him a poser. Her nasty attitude and predatory behavior landed her in this position.

And there's a fine line between hate and attraction. A very fine line. A sometimes blurry one. It becomes more out of focus with each passing second, feeling the way her body melds against his. Her chest, with a hastening rhythm, pressing into his unyielding abdominals, feeling her racing heartbeat thundering against his core. Her abs; sexy, sleek, warm; compressed against his chest. The tremble in her midsection is unmistakable against those pectorals; fear, likely, the muscles straining and spasming as he squeezes her waist to grind her stomach into him no doubt, but possibly more. His own heart hammers against her stomach, unable to do anything to hide it from her. The way her arms resign themselves around his back, hugging onto him in return in a sort of submission to the inevitable.

She's already lost. He knows it. He knows she knows it. Her body is giving itself over to him, and that is euphoric on a whole other level. But it's not enough for what he wants. She's earned her full finish here, yes - but he wants more from her. He wants not only for her to know she's fully his tonight, but for everyone around them to know it. No second-guesses. No doubts.

His left arm slides up from her waist, the hand coursing over the curvature of her backside before finding the back of her thigh. He pulls inwards, guiding her legs forward to rest her thighs over his shoulders, his face nestled warmly between her legs. Then his hand slides downwards again, sliding over the sweat-dewed skin of her back, brushing against the straps of her bralet top, between her shoulders, the fingertips teasing along the baby hairs at the nape of her neck before sifting through those blonde locks to set his palm behind her head.

A firm push. Her face pressed into his hips, unabashed at her feeling everything through the trunks. More than that; that's what he wants. He wants her to feel that mixture of aggression and unspoken desire stoked through this match, to feel that firmness against her lips, her cheek, wherever her face lands. And he wants just as much to feel her face there in submission to him.

[Weonna]

The world didn't just tilt; it collapsed into a single, suffocating point of contact. The firm push wasn't just a movement; it was an erasure of the last sliver of space between them. A soft, shocked gasp was stolen from her lungs, muffled instantly as her face was pressed flush against the taut fabric of his trunks. The thin barrier did little to hide the solid shape beneath it, a fact that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated humiliation through her.

Her nose was crushed against him, the warmth of his skin searing through the material, stealing her breath with every shallow, panicked inhale she managed. The scent was overwhelming—a dizzying cocktail of clean sweat, masculine musk, and the faint, electric charge of exertion. It was invasive, intimate, and utterly inescapable. Her lips, parted in a silent protest, were molded against the firm ridge, the pressure a constant, undeniable testament to his control and the raw, aggressive energy thrumming between them.

This was it. The absolute nadir of her defeat. Her mind screamed in revolt, a frantic litany of get off, fight back, don't let him that her body was no longer capable of obeying. Her limbs were leaden, her muscles refusing to fire, held in check by the crushing weight of his arms and the sheer, psychological shock of the position. She was trapped, not just in his hold, but in this moment, this degradation.

But beneath the tidal wave of shame, something else stirred. Something terrifying and alien. It was a dark, treacherous flicker of response. The undeniable power he held over her, the way his body commanded hers without question, the intoxicating, forbidden intimacy of the hold—it was a primal cocktail that her body, independent of her raging mind, began to process. The heat pooling in her cheeks wasn't just from humiliation anymore. It was a deeper, more insistent warmth that began to spread downwards, a low, betraying thrum that started in her core and radiated outwards.

She felt a distinct, mortifying slickness between her thighs, a sudden dampness that had nothing to do with sweat and everything to do with the twisted, conflicting signals her body was sending. A fresh wave of horror washed over her, so potent it was almost a physical blow. Her body was betraying her, responding to this forced submission with a sick, twisted form of desire.

The tremble in her muscles was no longer just from fear or strain; it was a shudder of conflicted arousal, a silent, shameful admission that a part of her was surrendering on a level far deeper than just the physical. Her mouth, still pressed against him, felt suddenly dry, yet the rest of her body was betraying a slick, undeniable heat. She was losing herself, piece by piece, and the most terrifying part was the whisper in the back of her mind that wondered if, in some dark, hidden corner of her soul, she had wanted this all along.

[CyanDimitrik]

Rianne's pretty face is pressed in, and instantly, Domino feels everything; every line, every contour, the outline of her nose, the softness of her mouth, every delicate feature of the face plastered over magazine covers. It sends electrical sensations coursing through his body, starting low and rushing high, a heady experience that all at once sharpens the the receptors in every point of contact between their bodies, and dulls everything else. But this signal isn't just for his sake, nor just for Rianne's defeat. This is for everyone out there. This is to show everyone that Rianne has been dominated, conquered, and put in her place, in the most viscerally primitive way possible. The pecking order is being established in real time, but it goes so much further than simply overpowering her.

He feels her trembling against him, her arms still secure around him. She could try to turn her face away, he imagines - but he doesn't want her to, and she hasn't yet. The heat radiating from her body could be the natural result of their intense physical competition, the sweat clinging to their bodies being easy testament to it, or it could be what he sensed from her earlier in the match as he squeezed and crushed her. What she no doubt can feel from him with her face. It might be both. He'll find out soon enough.

The arm around her waist tightens, clutching her stomach hard to his chest. The lower hand maintains that steady pressure behind her head, fingers tangled with her damp hair. He begins rocking his hips, not bothering to hide the arousal from her. He wants her to feel it against her face, every pass, every stroke, with only the thin material of his trunks keeping them separated. This match is already over. This is Domino making a point. Staking his claim. Making sure Rianne knows exactly where he stands, where she hangs at his mercy, and where he may take things after the bell rings.

Each roll of the hips sends a pulse of fiery stimulation, his breaths beating heat between her legs in hard, rhythmic bursts. His fingers curl tighter into her hair, gripping the blonde locks as if to keep her face steady as his object, his property. She tried to humiliate him - this is what she gets, he reminds himself. It's just revenge. It's just comeuppance. But it's an animalistic desire beneath, a craving to conquer her the most physical way possible, to take her body.

The end is coming on soon. It has to.

[Weonna]

The rocking started, a slow, grinding roll that dragged his arousal across her face in a possessive, rhythmic stroke. A choked whimper escaped her, her fingers digging into his back in a desperate, instinctive clutch. His arm was an iron band around her waist, crushing her to him as his humid breath pulsed between her thighs in time with his hips.

The friction was a maddening, constant stimulation that shattered her thoughts. The dampness she'd felt before became a flood, a slick, betraying warmth that soaked her. His fingers tightened in her hair, a silent command to stay still, to take it. He wasn't just winning; he was staking a claim, making sure she understood her new place.

The line between hate and attraction was obliterated. She was no longer a rival, but a trembling, yielding thing pressed against him, her own mounting arousal the final, damning proof of his complete and utter conquest.

The end was already here, washing over her in a humiliating, electrifying tide.

[CyanDimitrik]

The feel of her clutching against him, the tremble in her body, and at last, the faint but penetrating sound of her whimpered voice - it all amounts to one single thing: submission. All at once, everything that lead to this moment plays in Domino's mind, from the moment she accosted him at the promotional interviews, the aggressiveness escalating the situation, how he felt backed into a wall with nothing to do but confront her in the ring. Then the match, the barbs, the snark he got from her, the taunting. Then the bearhug, that extended, grinding body contact with her, face to face and that first sensation of her yielding to him; the way her voice sounded, the way her toned body felt against him.

All leading to this moment. What could be seen as humiliating, instead becoming a claim staked over Rianne Evans, with her body betraying her to him. She hates him, but acknowledges him above her. Or is it even still hate? He has every reason to hold malice for her still, but in this moment, the only thing driving him is the full finality of finishing her, and what comes next. Rianne Evans is his. He knows it. This audience knows it. And Rianne knows it.

Finally, Domino's knees bend and he launches himself forward with Rianne's body. They tuck together into a single forward flip, until both come crashing down atop her head jointly in the Total Eclipse tombstone finisher.

The audience erupts.

Domino doesn't waste any time in dropping forward with her, transferring the position from vertical to horizontal. His right arm remains around her waist, seizing her bare stomach against his chest. The other arm hooks her left thigh, raising the leg into the air and hugging it into the gap between his shoulder and neck, fingers pressed into the inner-thigh dangerously close to the base of her hips. His abs press down hard into her breasts, but it's the hips that remain grinding into her, unabashedly feeling over her face with the hardened length straining against the material of his trunks.

Domino's head lifts, his back arches to seal himself against and over Rianne.

The referee-girl drops quickly beside Rianne's head to begin slapping the mat.

"ONE!"