˖᯽ ݁˖· —train you
when maxim takes you in, petro is assigned to teach you how to survive. how to fight. how to track. how to stand on your own. he does not expect to grow used to the sound of your laugh. he does not expect to notice when others look at you. he does not expect to want you.
and he definitely doesn’t expect to kiss you.
contents: whatever they are to lovers, slowburn, touch starved petro hits different(😛), a bit ooc, YEARNING, heated kissing, mildly suggestive, no use of y/n, x reader, not proofread
it doesn’t happen all at once. if it had, maybe petro would have been able to stop it.
instead, it grows quietly, threaded through the ordinary.
he has always touched you when he trains you. that is nothing new. his hands have always been steady at your wrists, firm at your shoulders, guiding the set of your stance or the angle of your blade. he has always stood close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back while he corrected your form.
for a long time, it meant nothing beyond instruction.
then one afternoon, it means something else.
the air is cool, the ground damp from morning rain. you’re trying to adjust your footing on uneven terrain, frustration creeping into the tight line of your posture. petro steps in behind you without a word, one hand circling your wrist, the other flattening against the small of your back to straighten you.
“shift your weight forward,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear, voice low and even. “you’re leaning away from it. trust your footing.”
you do as he says, adjusting carefully. his hand lingers longer than necessary, feeling the correction settle into your muscles.
“like that?” you ask.
“like that,” he confirms.
but neither of you moves.
you’re still braced between his arms, your back resting against his chest. he can feel the steady rise and fall of your breathing. can feel how close your bodies are aligned. there’s nothing improper about it. nothing that would raise suspicion if someone glanced your way.
and yet.
his thumb shifts slightly against your wrist, not correcting anything now, just resting there. the warmth of you seeps through the fabric between you, unsettling in its intimacy. he becomes aware of the exact shape of your spine against him, the softness at your waist, the way you tilt your head just slightly as if waiting for him to say something more.
he lets go first.
steps back.
tells you to try again.
that night, the memory of it refuses to fade.
you grow older in ways that are difficult to ignore.
your movements become sharper. more confident. you anticipate his corrections before he gives them. sometimes you catch his wrist mid-adjustment and fix your stance on your own, glancing back at him with a small, satisfied smile.
he tells himself he’s proud of that.
what he doesn’t examine too closely is the way that smile lingers with him long after the drill is over.
you seek him out even when you don’t need to. you ask for his opinion on things you could easily decide yourself. you stand closer than necessary during patrols, your shoulder brushing his every few steps as if by accident.
it begins to feel less like guidance and more like orbiting.
one evening, after a long day of training, you approach him while he’s cleaning his blade. the light is low, fire casting warm shadows across his face.
“did i improve?” you ask, crouching beside him.
he glances at you briefly before returning to his work. “you did.”
you wait.
when he doesn’t elaborate, you nudge lightly at his knee with yours. “that’s it?”
he exhales softly, almost amused despite himself. “what else do you want me to say?”
you tilt your head, studying him with an openness that makes something in his chest tighten. “i want to know if you actually think i’m ready.”
he stills at that.
ready for what, he wonders.
ready to stand alone. ready to be sent out without him. ready to not need him hovering at your shoulder.
he looks at you properly then, and there’s a flicker of something unguarded in his expression before he smooths it away.
“you’re stronger than you think,” he says quietly.
you hold his gaze, and for a moment the world narrows to the space between you. there’s gratitude there, yes, but something else too. something warmer. something that makes his pulse slow and heavy.
he looks away first.
the shift becomes undeniable the night he realizes he doesn’t like the way someone else looks at you.
it’s nothing dramatic. just a laugh shared too easily, a hand brushing yours when passing you a cup. you don’t pull away. you don’t seem to notice anything unusual at all.
petro notices.
the rest of the evening he’s distant without meaning to be. his answers shorter. his attention divided. when you finally corner him near the edge of camp, the firelight dim behind you and the trees rising dark at your back, he already knows what you’re going to ask.
“why are you avoiding me?” you say, your voice softer than it was earlier.
he folds his arms, not to shut you out but to contain himself. “i’m not.”
you raise a brow in a way that makes it clear you don’t believe him.
the silence stretches.
“you’re here to focus,” he says at last, though the words come slower than usual. “this isn’t a game. you can’t afford distractions.”
“is that what you think i’m doing?” you ask. there’s no anger in your voice. only confusion. “being distracted?”
he meets your eyes then, and something shifts. the frustration there isn’t directed at you.
“i think you don’t always realize how things look,” he says, his tone lower now, threaded with tension. “how people look at you.”
you take a step closer instead of retreating. “and how do you look at me?”
the question lands heavier than either of you expects.
he could lie. could deflect. could remind you of maxim and of duty and of all the reasons this line shouldn’t be crossed.
instead, he tells the truth.
“not the way i’m supposed to,” he admits.
your breath catches softly.
he closes the remaining distance without fully meaning to, drawn in by the vulnerability in your expression. his hand lifts, hesitates, then settles at your waist. not possessive. not gentle either. simply certain.
“i was told to train you,” he continues, voice roughened by the weight of it. “to make sure you survived here. to keep you strong. i never meant for it to become… this.”
“what is this?” you whisper.
his thumb shifts against your side, pressing just a little more firmly now, grounding himself in the reality of you.
“wanting you,” he says, and there’s no room for misunderstanding in it.
the confession hangs between you, charged and fragile.
you don’t step away.
instead, your hand rises to rest against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric there, feeling the heat of him through it. his heartbeat is fast. unsteady. nothing like the calm control he usually carries.
“then stop fighting it,” you murmur.
the last of his restraint dissolves.
when he kisses you, it isn’t rushed. it’s slow and deliberate at first, his mouth brushing yours in a careful press that feels almost reverent. like he needs to be certain this is real. your lips are warm, softer than he imagined during the long nights he forced himself not to think about this.
you lean into him without hesitation, and the quiet sound that slips from you changes everything.
his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. the kiss deepens, unhurried but no longer cautious. his lips move with intent now, molding to yours, testing, then claiming.
when you part for breath, he doesn’t let you drift far. his thumb tilts your chin slightly, and he kisses you again, harder this time. your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding that breath for years.
heat spreads low and heavy, pooling in your stomach when his other hand slides into your hair. his fingers curl at the base of your skull, guiding you as he angles his head, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your knees weaken.
your lips part instinctively, and the shift is immediate.
it’s still slow, but it’s intense now. hungry. the kind of hunger built from years of restraint and near-misses and almosts. his mouth moves against yours with a controlled desperation, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you and lose himself in it at the same time.
you feel the tremor in his breath when you press closer, when your body aligns fully with his and there’s no mistaking how much he wants this. how much he wants you.
his hand at your waist slides slightly, fingers flexing as if he’s fighting the urge to pull you even closer than physically possible. the kiss turns deeper, hotter, until breathing becomes secondary and the world beyond the two of you disappears entirely.
when he finally pulls back, it’s only because he has to. his forehead rests against yours, chest rising and falling a little too fast.
“you were never just a responsibility,” he says quietly, voice thick, stripped of its usual control. “i just didn’t know what to do with the rest of it.”
your lips brush his when you answer, barely a whisper between you.
“you could start by not letting go.”
this time, when he kisses you again, there’s no hesitation at all.
not sure if u could call this writing😭 but my reqs are open!!! i need more petro and chris reqs😋😋😋😋😋
