Wrestletober Day 3: Self-Destruction + Sweater

Pairing: Rhea Ripley/Dominik Mysterio

Warnings: vague high school AU, emotional manipulation, emotional abuse, infidelity, alcohol use, drug mentions, explicit sexual content, implied break-ups, allusions to future romances, not Dominik friendly, not Finn friendly, not JD friendly, not Liv friendly, not New Judgment Day friendly actually 😅

This party sucks.

It's just Dom and his loser friends drinking and smoking and carrying on while their cronies laugh and nod along like deluded sheep.

It's so pathetic.

Especially when she could be at Halloween Horror Nights with Priest, but noooo, she got doe-eyed and guilt tripped into attending this lame-o cock fest, instead.

"Come on, Mami, it'll be fun. You know I need my girl with me."

Cut to three hours and two vetoed outfits later, (I want you to look hot, not like a slut), and Rhea's curled up on the corner of Finn's couch with Dom's Armani sweater soft and sweltering over her black corset top. She hasn't seen Dom in ages, having been dropped off here in the living room with the other girlfriends immediately upon their arrival, and no amount of mindless scrolling will make this night any more tolerable.

Her phone dings, and it's another post from Priest. A selfie this time, Damian posed side by side with the scare actor playing Michael Myers, and Rhea huffs out a jealous breath.

She should be there.

She should be there with Priest and Shotzi and Scarlett. She should be there getting spooked and spending cash, but she's stuck here in relationship hell, and she tosses her phone angrily into her bag.

It's time to blow this popsicle stand.

She searches the house for Dom, the yard, and the pool too, but the only important faces she finds are Finn and JD, cuttin' it up in the kitchen like a bunch of court jesters.

"So I tolds the dame that I won't do anything without me brother," Finn says, pausing to throw an arm around JD. "Not even her!"

This really gets them all going, the room quickly filling with the obnoxious honk and snort of boisterous male laughter, and Rhea walks up in obvious disgust. "I guess you're still just picking up Finn's scraps then, huh, JD?"

"Oi," he grins, the sharp curve of it sleek and dangerous like oil bubbling just beneath the surface. "What's good for him is good for me, innit?"

Finn, who still has his arm around JD, jiggles the other boy affectionately, and they clink bottles before each taking a sip of thick Irish beer. "That's the way of it, lad!"

They dissolve into another fit of masculine giggles, the both of them pushing and shoving and grabbing, and Rhea has zero patience for their toxic male rituals. "Whatever," she spits, rolling her heavily shadowed blue eyes. "Have you seen Dom?"

Finn and JD exchange a look, some silent knowledge and agreement passing between them and JD shrugs while Finn shakes his head. "We haven't seen him."

"Have you checked upstairs?" Carlito pipes in from behind them, his eyebrows waggling in undeniable innuendo.

She knows what he's suggesting, knows that there's only one reason to be using the bedrooms, and his mocking suggestion doesn't go unnoticed. "What are you even doing here?" she asks, pinning him to the spot with her butane gaze. "Didn't you graduate like three years ago?"

With that, Rhea turns away, her chunky platform heels stomping loudly over expensive hardwood floors as she exits the room, and she doesn't stick around to hear Carlito mutter something about mouthy bitches, but she does flip her middle finger behind her as she leaves.

For good measure.

Rhea makes her way to the stairs, weaving through the mixed groups of dancers and drinkers, and the haze of smoke swirls grey and white in the wispy dim light. She climbs to the second floor, the plush carpet masking the sound of her steps, and even the music is muffled up here, the beat boiled down to the occasional rumble of bass.

The shadowed hall almost seems to shift as she moves, to warp and tilt and bend like carnival glass, and the faded visual of it only adds to the surreal like situation. It almost feels like a movie, like some slasher horror that Rhea would usually enjoy, but the long trek to the end of the hall is made all the more agonizing by what she fears she'll find.

She reaches for the knob, the door to the guest room swinging open on silent hinges, and for a moment, it's like time stands still.

She found Dom.

But he's not alone, oh no.

He's reclined on the bed, his Versace jeans pulled down to his knees, silk boxers caught twisted around his thighs, and a skinny blonde girl writhing in his lap. She's in the tiniest dress that Rhea's ever seen, skintight and cheek-baring, and the throaty chuckle she lets loose leaves no doubt as to who she might be.

Liv Morgan.

Rhea's ex-best friend.

The same girl who lost her shit and vowed revenge when Rhea wouldn't fuck her anymore, but Rhea's gotta give it to her now.

She's fucking Dom like a champ.

It's all quick, frantic movements, a primal pounding that's matched only by the race of Rhea's heart, and she wants to scream and she wants to die, but she doesn't do either. She just stands there, frozen in grief and terror, and Dom's grip on Liv's hip is a phantom mirror under Rhea's skirt.

Liv let's out a cry, her moan husky with delight, and Rhea knows that she's close, can practically feel Liv gushing on her tongue, the ghost of her lust both sweet and haunted as Dom thrusts into her harder. She claws at his chest, her cherry red nails scraping harmlessly over his Gucci tee, and their rapid rhythm of flesh continues to falter.

Dom throws his head back, his eyes scrunched together almost like he's in pain, but it's nothing compared to the jagged shards stabbing steady in Rhea's chest. He bites his lip, his white teeth pinching pink flesh white, and Dom groans, gutteral and wrecked. It echoes like a bomb in her ears, a hundred other versions of it playing on repeat in her mind, and Rhea's soul shatters even as her core clenches at the memory.

Liv continues to milk his release, keeps riding him with wicked determination, and Dom hisses in warning. He smacks her ass and grabs her neck and Liv shudders to an orgasm on Dom's tenderly leaking cock. She collapses onto his chest, her body cradled there all delicate and petite in a way that Rhea never could, and the bitter tears of insecurity burn in her throat. She watches as Liv burrows into him, their shared kiss followed by a nauseating little nose nuzzle, and Dom's hands are still roaming possesive over Liv's form.

She's not sure if she makes some sound, some noise, or some pitiful wail, but Dom's attention shifts, and he blinks at her, owlishly and confused, until reality sets in.

He tosses Liv onto the mattress, the other girl landing with an indignant huff and squeak, but Dom's already reaching out, stumbling to his feet, and shouting, "Mami, Mami, I can explain!"

Rhea doesn't want his explanation, doesn't want his apologies or his excuses, she just wants to leave, and so, she runs. She runs down the stairs and past the kitchen, heedless of the bodies she topples or the people she ignores, and she doesn't bother slamming the front door, leaves it gaping and open like the knife wound in her back. She runs the length of one street and then the next one and the next, until she's winded and aching and utterly lost.

All the houses look the same here, all the cars and the yards, and Rhea's own car is parked at Dom's place.

Damn it!

Rhea yanks her hands through her hair in frustration, her trembling fingers getting caught in the tangled locks, and she pulls out more than a few knotted strands. She barely feels it, though. The temporary sensation lost under a crushing wave of agony and defeat, and a broken sob escapes her chest. It's followed by another and then another, her devastation and despair shredding her lips as she chokes and gasps for breath.

There are tears on her face now.

A waterfall of them flowing down her cheek to her chin where they drip and pool like acid on her collar.

That's when she realizes.

She's still wearing Dom's sweater.

It's soaked through with sadness and sweat, but she can still smell his cologne, woodsy and expensive and cloying like the man himself. In an instant, she needs it gone, needs it off, needs it obliterated, and she rips it over her head like it burns.

She stares at the fabric, thickly woven and luxurious, and never once has a shackle been so frail. She bunches it up into her balled fists, the supple material like cashmere against her rough skin, and she shreds the nearest seam with muscled strength. She tears the sleeves off, slashes, and destroys the garment with bare hands until all that's left is a hacked pile of yarn.

She tosses it to the ground right there in the road. She can't believe she even wore the stupid thing. She can't believe that Dom would do this, can't believe that she trusted him, and a seething rage starts building in her gut.

She's spent the last two years loving Dominik Mysterio.

She's spent the last two years defending him from his deadbeat dad and his selfish mother, two years protecting him from every fight and bully, two years devoted and loyal to boy who can't even spell the phrase.

She is such a fool.

An ignorant idiot blinded by love and inexperience and another roar of fury claws into the air. She's so embarrassed, so humiliated and ashamed of her own weak behavior and the way that Dominik could so easily control her. All he had to do was flash her a look and a smile, something that started so cute and genuine, but eventually became a manipulation tactic, and then one day, Dom hiding behind her shoulder was no longer adorable.

It was extortion.

Her phone rings, a half dozen missed calls and texts from Dom popping up that she doesn't even register, and she ignores this one, too. She doesn't wanna talk to Dom, doesn't want to talk to anyone, except for maybe one person.

Damian Priest.

She opens her phone, the number stored permanently in her brain, and she's already dialing Damian as Armani garbage smears beneath the toe of her boot.

The line rings.

Once.

Twice.

Wrestletober Day 2: Countdown + Fireplace

Pairing: Rhea Ripley/Damian Priest

Warnings: kissing, groping, orgasm, blood, vampires, vaguely set 1940s AU, use of google translate

Mi amor - my love

Mi alma - my soul

Precioso - precious

Te amo - i love you

Mi vida - my life

Si - yes

Bella - beautiful

There's a fire crackling in the hearth, orange tipped flames dancing along the walls and painting the room in dappled light and shadow. Rhea stares at the clock on the mantle, the ticking of its immortal hands the only sound save the racing of Rhea's heart, and every second that passes only heightens her anticipation.

She waits for these nights with impatient longing, her need and desire growing until she feels about to combust, the blaze before her nothing compared to the inferno roaring between her thighs, and she rubs her legs together in an attempt to find some relief.

It won't be long now.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The hour strikes midnight, the resonant ringing of bells chiming in her ears, and no sooner has the last chord ended than there's a sudden rush of air and the accompanying flutter of curtains, and the silent arrival of her favorite guest.

"Mi amor."

His voice shivers along her skin like liquid silk, the rumbling bass of it quivering in her stomach like flight, and she turns to face him with a gasp and a grin. "Damian!" She jogs toward him, her nightgown swirling about her knees, and she launches herself bodily into his waiting arms.

Damian doesn't flinch, doesn't budge, doesn't adjust his stance or fumble. He simply catches her weight and clutches her close.

"I missed you," she whines, her every atom flaring hotter now that he's finally here, and she wraps her legs tight around his waist.

She kisses him, long and deep and desperate, her tongue twirling with his own as she traces along the line of his teeth, his elongated canines sharp and pointed against her tender flesh. Her hands dive into his hair, obsidian satin tangling light around her fingers, and she swallows his moan like a woman starved.

She's set to devour him, their cores pressed together obvious and lewd, and she grinds against him, his length tented and hard beneath his fitted slacks. He grips her behind, his large palms grasping and groping at her ample flesh, but the quick nick of pain and spill of blood has him wrenching away.

"Mi alma, we must stop." The rapid rise and fall of his chest might lead one to believe that he needs to breathe, but that hasn't been true for over a dozen years, and it is muscle memory alone that carries him through his lustful eagerness. "Please, have mercy."

Rhea shakes her head hard, a single rivulet of ruby slipping from the corner of her mouth, and both their lips are coated in crimson as her tongue darts out pink and delicate to wipe it away.

"Not this time, precioso." He looks like he's about to object, a hundred excuses ready to deflect her request, but she's having none of it. They've been together for over a year, thirteen other meetings playing out exactly the same, and Rhea is tired of waiting.

"I'm ready," she says, covering his protest with a finger over his lips.

Damian looks almost afraid, his apprehension and anxiety making him go statue still. His ageless skin and bone like unsure marble against her, and she goes on despite his uneasy mumbling. "I want to fulfill you, to sustain you, and I know that you'll protect me. I know that you'll stop." Her forehead dips down to rest against his own, their noses brushing together, and she breathes deep of his natural aromatic scent. It's something like roses, something like mourning and rebirth, and she kisses him again, regardless of the finger still separating them. "I just need you to trust me the way that I trust you."

She leans back then, her head falling loose and relaxed against her shoulder, and her exposed neck shines like moonlight. He can see her beating pulse, the rhythm sure and steady, and the gravity of Rhea's offering finally sets in. "Te amo, mi vida."

Damian's fangs slice into her jugular with hyperdermic precision, the incision so clean as to go almost completely unnoticed, were it not for the intense pleasure that immediately follows.

Rhea arches her back and shouts, her hips twitching where Damian is still throbbing against her, and the steadfast brush of primal pressure builds rapid in her core. His mouth is still on her, sucking, drawing, pulling, and the luscious gush of it soaks her panties with cream. She can hear him growling, can feel him feeding and feasting from her porcelain vein, and the suckling vibration of it speeds her toward the abyss.

She teeters there, her entire body poised and tense, and Rhea's control snaps like taut wire as Damian continues to consume her. There's a swoop of joy, a tumbling rapture that shatters in her core and buzzes in her belly, and for a moment, every fiber of her being is coated in cotton candy bliss.

She floats there, cradled safe and secure in Damian's arms, and her head swims with satisfaction and euphoria. Damian is still at her neck, kissing reverently over the pinprick wounds and blushing bruises. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he sighs, grateful and thankful and sated.

"You're welcome," she giggles, still high on adrenaline and pride. "I knew we could do it." She pulls him away from her neck to stare into his eyes once more, gorgeous and eternal, and the smile she sees reflected there is lovingly wicked. "But now, we have to do something about this."

Rhea rocks down into him, the both of them still drenched in her release, and his rigid cock shudders against her cleft. "What do you say?"