krossing the line. karrion kross. part two.
karrion kross x zayn!reader
synopsis: you thought the feud between your brother and karrion had nothing to do with you, until the messages started. backstage monitors glitching to show your name. a torn photo of you tucked into sami’s locker. promos that weren’t aimed at your brother but at you. as kross's war with sami escalated, so did the mind games, twisting your loyalties, creeping under your skin. you tried to shut it out, to stay focused on your own matches, but he was always there. watching. waiting. speaking to you in riddles no one else seemed to hear.
you told yourself it was manipulation. you told yourself it meant nothing. but every time you stood across from him under the flicker of backstage lights, every time his eyes locked with yours and lingered, something in you cracked. was it control he wanted or something darker? and worse… were you starting to want it too?
part one // part two // part three
taglist: @mamis-girly @jordana1008 @jessk23 @spooky-librarian-ghost @akimorbid @myxthix @jihyowrrld @brutal--nightmare @kai-ropractor @flemmardepro @bloxholden35 @eringobragh420 @crystal-clear-writing @brie-mode-activated @abschaffer2 @fandomwritingforyou @nyx---0 @terrortwinunicorn
you should’ve been sleeping.
but instead, you sat cross-legged on the edge of your hotel bed, bathed in the pale blue light of your tablet screen. the tv was muted. the room was silent except for the occasional creak of the hvac and the soft rustle of the sheets every time you shifted.
the glitch had burrowed into your brain.
so you pulled the feed from earlier, sami’s promo. you found the right timestamp. played it at normal speed. then paused. rewound. Slowed it down.
there.
the static.
one frame, maybe two. you leaned closer, freezing it just before it hit.
you, in the performance centre. the handheld camera angle. headphones on. laughing at something off-camera, sweat slicked across your brow, your eyes bright. unfiltered. vulnerable in a way that wasn’t meant to be televised.
your thumb hovered over the play button again. you tapped forward frame by frame, dissecting it.
and then, your breath caught.
you hadn’t seen it before.
but there, tucked into the shadowy edge of the frame, almost blurred into the dark, was a shape. no a man.
still. silent. watching you from the corner of the ring.
kross.
not front and centre. not doing anything. just present, like he’d been stitched into the footage from the beginning. as if he belonged there, just outside your line of sight.
you sat back slowly, the air thick around you.
this wasn’t about sami anymore.
it wasn’t about games or pranks or even some twisted intimidation angle.
it was a message. not to him. to you.
you closed your eyes and leaned back on your elbows, letting the image linger behind your eyelids. kross in the shadows. your laugh echoing across the static. something raw and ancient flickering under your skin.
you should have been afraid.
instead, you felt awake.
like he’d just turned a key in something you didn’t know was locked.
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the sun was already too bright when you stepped out of the hotel’s back entrance. florida heat rising off the concrete, humidity sticking to your skin before you could even put your bag down.
you made it halfway to your car before a voice rang out.
"hey."
you turned. sami was leaning against the trunk of his rental, arms crossed, looking tired and restless. he hadn’t shaved. his hoodie clung to his shoulders, damp with sweat despite the early hour.
he didn't smile.
"you see it yet?" he asked.
you squinted. "see what?"
"the footage. the glitch."
you didn’t answer right away. the truth felt sharp in your mouth.
sami ran a hand through his hair. "i watched it last night. slowed it down. you were right. that wasn’t random."
your stomach tightened. "i know."
he straightened, pacing a few steps before turning back to you. "what the hell is he doing? why is he dragging you into this?"
you tilted your head. "you sure it’s about you anymore?"
that landed like a punch.
sami blinked. "what’s that supposed to mean?"
you shrugged, too casual. "you said it yourself, he manipulates people. gets inside their heads. makes things personal. maybe this isn’t about provoking you. maybe it’s about something else."
his expression hardened. "don’t give him that much credit. he’s not some genius puppet master. he’s just a sick bastard who wants control."
"and maybe he sees something in me."
that silenced him.
you didn’t even mean to say it, not like that, but once the words were out, they didn’t feel wrong. they felt true. they echoed between the cars and the buzzing heat.
sami stepped closer. "okay. no. don’t do that. you’re not part of this. you’re not one of his, whatever the hell this is. he’s trying to isolate you. twist you. you think you're seeing him clearly, but that’s what he wants."
you met his eyes.
"i don’t need you to protect me."
that hurt him more than anything kross ever said.
his voice dropped, tight and real. "i’m your brother."
"i know", you said quietly. "but i’m also a wrestler. and i’ve been doing this long enough to know when something’s real. he’s not playing with me, sami. not the same way he is with you."
he shook his head. "no. that’s what he wants you to think. that you’re special. that this is some connection. it’s not. it’s a setup."
you stared at him for a long moment.
then looked past him, toward the edge of the lot.
you could feel it again, that shadow in the corner of your vision. that presence. like kross was never far. like he didn’t need to speak to move pieces across the board.
you stepped back.
"maybe", you said. "or maybe i’m not the one being played."
then you turned and walked to your car, his silence chasing you down the parking lot.
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the following week the locker room was half-empty when you stepped in. a few women milled around, lacing boots, stretching, checking the match card. you kept your head down, your earbuds in, and didn’t say much. you didn’t feel like talking.
the note was waiting for you.
folded neatly and tucked under the strap of your gear bag. black paper, no name. just a simple envelope, smooth, expensive feeling, like it didn’t belong in a room that smelled like sweat and tiger balm.
you glanced around.
nobody was looking. nobody had seen it being placed there, or if they had, they weren’t about to get involved.
you slipped it out with two fingers and sat on the bench, letting your hair fall over your face as you opened it.
no signature.
"some of us aren’t meant to be protected. we’re meant to be unleashed."
the penmanship was strange, elegant, deliberate, like it belonged in an old book or carved into stone. not rushed. not angry. just certain.
your heartbeat slowed, even as your breath caught.
unleashed.
you ran your thumb across the paper, tracing the groove of ink where the pen had pressed deep. it wasn’t a threat. not exactly.
it was a recognition.
and part of you hated how right it felt.
like kross saw the fire behind your ribs no one else wanted to acknowledge. not sami. not management. not even you, until now. you were always supposed to be the grounded one. the reasonable one. not reckless. not unhinged.
but this wasn’t recklessness.
this was something more ancient. primal.
you tucked the note into your boot before anyone could see.
and when you finally pulled on your ring gear, it felt different. not like armour. like permission.
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the lights hit your face as you stepped onto the ramp. same music. same pyro. but it felt different tonight.
you walked to the ring with purpose, keeping your posture sharp, hiding the churn in your gut. you hadn’t told sami about the note. you hadn’t told anyone. it lived folded under your pillow now, like a secret talisman burning a hole in your sleep.
you were scheduled for a tag match, routine booking. you and liv morgan vs. chelsea and piper. nothing personal. nothing weird.
except you knew he was watching.
you could feel it like pressure between your shoulder blades.
the match started fast, liv went in first, and you leaned against the ropes, trying to breathe. focus. count spots. follow the rhythm.
and then the lights dipped.
not blackout.
just a flicker, like the arena blinked.
the titantron glitched mid-sequence. your logo warped into static for a full second, then cut back.
the crowd murmured. the ref hesitated. your opponents looked confused, but the match continued.
you tagged in.
and something shifted.
every strike landed harder. every movement had weight, intent. you were quicker than usual, more brutal in transitions. you didn’t wrestle like someone trying to win. you wrestled like someone trying to prove a point.
your fists felt heavier.
your breath came sharper.
you caught chelsea with a roundhouse and heard the crowd pop louder than usual. but your eyes weren’t on her. they drifted, unwillingly to the shadows near the stage.
you thought you saw movement. a figure. just behind the curtain.
watching.
you didn’t break stride.
liv called for the tag. you ignored it.
you lifted piper into a neckbreaker that hadn’t been in the plan.
harder than you needed to. she grunted when she hit the mat, and the ref gave you a look, the kind that said pull back before this turns into a problem.
you tagged out after that. mechanically. cold.
when the bell rang and your team’s hand was raised, you didn’t smile. you didn’t celebrate.
you stared past the crowd again.
and this time, he was there.
kross. standing just behind the barricade. no music. no lights. no security cue. just him, dressed in black, arms folded, face unreadable.
staring only at you.
you didn’t flinch.
not even when he raised a hand slowly and traced an invisible line across his throat with one finger.
not a threat.
a promise.
your blood thrummed.
and when you stepped out of the ring, you didn’t walk toward the ramp.
you walked toward him.
but by the time you reached the barricade, he was gone.
like a hallucination you chose to believe.
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you found him in the loading bay.
not by accident.
not exactly on purpose either.
the crowd was still roaring somewhere far above your head. the show was wrapping. security buzzed in radios. road cases rolled past on heavy wheels. but down here, it was quiet. dim. like the air itself didn’t want to be touched.
and there he was.
leaning against the wall, half in shadow, like he belonged to it.
he didn’t say anything when you stepped into view.
didn’t smirk. didn’t posture.
just looked at you like he’d been expecting this exact moment.
you kept your distance. five paces. maybe six.
your arms were still sticky with sweat. your chest still rose and fell like you were in the ring. but your voice was calm when it came out.
"you like the show?"
his eyes didn’t move from yours. "i liked the part where you stopped pretending."
a beat.
you should’ve left. turned around. gone back to your locker and pretended none of this meant anything. that his words weren’t still burned into your boot. that his eyes hadn’t followed you like gravity.
instead, you asked, "what do you want from me?"
he tilted his head, slowly. the way someone might examine a painting no one else understood.
"i want you to look in the mirror", he said. "and see what i see."
you blinked. "and what is that?"
he stepped closer, just one pace. still not touching. but it felt like he reached inside your chest when he spoke.
"fire. rage. a survivor dressed like a soldier trying to act like she hasn’t already gone to war."
your throat tightened.
he studied you, expression unreadable, voice low but reverent.
"they protect you because they think you’re good. but i see what you don’t hide. the sharp edges. the darkness you pretend is discipline."
another step.
close now.
you didn’t move.
"you left something in that ring tonight", he said. "something raw. something real."
you swallowed. "that wasn’t for you."
"no", he agreed. "it was you. that’s why it mattered."
a flicker behind his eyes. something hungry, but not lust. recognition. like he wasn’t looking at you, he was mirroring you.
and it shook something loose inside you. something you hadn’t named yet. something dangerous.
he leaned in just enough for his breath to touch your jaw.
"i’m not trying to control you", he whispered. "i'm freeing you."
you didn’t kiss him.
you didn’t speak.
but when he stepped back, and you finally let yourself exhale, the silence between you wasn’t empty.
it was a decision.
