#rompru

[shivershin]

this is like a way of prussia basically going after romano because he reminds prussia of Italy, bc he likes germany y

PRUMANO

Prussia x Romano as Ivantill

[baluciarz]

May I interest you in some Romania x Prussia? how do you call it, RomPru? PruRom?

They are both allergic to sun, albeit for different reasons.

[autistichwsamerica]

HWS Romania: My life is a mess.

HWS Prussia: Romania, relax. Go get a beer.

HWS Romania: I don't want a beer.

HWS Prussia: Who said it was for you?

[erzherzog-von-edelstein]

Romania X Prussia tummy kisses for the prompt thingy?

Prussia was exhausted, and he could feel his neck throbbing where Romania had bitten him. It was more pleasant than he expected, like the burn after particularly hard exercise. 

There was the regular sound of rain hitting the windows as a late summer storm raged in Bucharest. The staccato added nicely to the atmosphere. It was occasionally punctuated by the rumble of thunder. 

Prussia was looking down at Romania, who had draped himself around his legs. The man looked incredibly comfortable with the position. He was using a single finger to trace the curve of Prussia’s iliac crest. Romania was softly humming to himself that made him sound like a very large content cat. 

The low light of the flickering fire played off of the ruby set in the ring that Romania wore. It was enchanting, almost hypnotic, as Romania slowly moved the finger like he was exploring.

It was gentle, in a way that always managed to surprise Prussia. Their embraces were rough in a way that he found thrilling, but what came afterwards was always gentle. It made it feel so much more substantial than brief flings.

 Prussia reached down and softly touched Romania’s hair. He asked, “What are you thinking about?” 

The other man had a look on his face that was enigmatically pensive, and Prussia itched to know what was going through his head. He had a certain talent for being charming, but unreadable. 

Romania’s amber eyes met his own, and he smiled like he found the question amusing. Romania answered him, “You have a lot of scars.” 

Prussia realized that his finger was not on a random spot. It was running along a thin white line where a sword had once pierced his stomach. He replied, “That’s what happens in war. Sometimes it leaves its marks on me.” 

Prussia remembered the mantra that a knight had taught him long ago: A scar is a badge of honor because it marked each injury that he survived. Though he suspected that was more true for mortals who could be killed more easily. His scars told the story of his ascent to power, and all the moments he had almost fallen.

Romania moved his finger from one scar to the other, walking his fingers like little legs. The position of his head gave him a very convenient view of Prussia’s scared torso, and he seemed to be surveying them like he found them deeply interesting. 

He asked, with the confidence of a casual lover, “Do you remember how you got each of them?” 

Prussia knew the answer, but he was not certain if it was too intimate to tell him. He stroked Romania’s hair softly as he mulled over the question. They had been friends once, and he had no reason to think that Romania would betray him. But intimacy was so different than sex. 

It felt like Romania was asking because he wanted to make their relationship more than the physical. He drew in a breath through his nose and decided to take a leap, “Yes, I do.” 

Some of the memories were not vivid as others, since time blurred recollection even for immortals. Romania planted his finger in the middle of a round scar above Prussia’s hip and asked, “I was guessing, so you’ll have to tell me if I’m right. What is this from? It looks like a bullet.” 

Prussia nodded before remembering that the angle made it difficult to see. So, he voiced his thoughts, “You’re right. It was. That one is from Waterloo.”

It had been an important fight, and an important victory. He had hardly even noticed the injury until the battle was over and the thrill of defeating France’s little emperor wore off. 

Romania planted a soft kiss on the scar. For a moment Prussia wondered if the man was about to put his sharp teeth to use again. The idea of a few more bites was thrilling, but Romania seemed more interested in sweetness at the moment.

He walked his fingers up to a very faint star shaped scar on Prussia’s side just below his ribs. He asked, “And this one? It looks old.”  He was right again. It was one of Prussia’s oldest scars. Prussia answered, “Toris managed to hit me with an arrow. It was a very long time ago.” 

He took great solace in knowing that neither Lithuania or Poland could threaten him again. The scar was a reminder of when he had been smaller, and weaker. He knew that Romania had known him then, and that he could probably guess how significant the scar was. 

Romania kissed that scar as well. Prussia thought errantly that the other’s lips were pleasantly warm. His other hand was also resting on Prussia’s hip, and was stroking his skin. 

Romania turned his attention to another. His thirst for information about Prussia’s past seemed like it was not yet sated. 

Prussia was uncertain whether he was flattered or if he was allowing closeness that he shouldn’t. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about the future of the relationship. He had yet to tell Germany that he had started to see Romania romantically, though he suspected it was no secret because of the wine colored marks that these visits always left on his skin. 

Romania ran his finger over another longer scar and asked, “And this one?”

Prussia looked at the scar he was touching, and his heart thudded unpleasantly. It was the only memory he would rather not discuss. None of it was pleasant to remember: The Seven Years War. The most devastating defeat, and the injury at the hands of a man who would become a friend and then more. Fritz’s pale face when he realized how severe the damage had been. 

He couldn’t bring the words to explain the heavy memories, so he said, “It doesn’t matter.” 

His voice sounded strangely wooden. Romania immediately looked up and met his eyes. In the moment, he seemed to realize that he had pushed enough for one night. 

He took his finger off of the scar. Then, without a hint of discomfort at the boundary, he said, “Your poor stomach.” 

He kissed the middle of Prussia’s stomach again. Prussia was glad that he was not pushing, because discussing unhealed wounds would surely ruin the mood. Romania slowly kissed up his chest and ended with planting one more warm kiss on Prussia’s jawline. 

Romania said, speaking softly in Prussia’s ear, “Don’t worry, darling, I won’t make you talk about anything.” 

Prussia turned his head to look directly at him. He could see that there was concern in Romania’s eyes. He touched the side of his face lightly and said, “No more talking. Let’s just sleep.” 

He wasn’t certain whether he was being cold, but Romania didn’t seem to mind. He flashed Prussia a smile, and replied, “I don’t mind.” 

He laid his head against Prussia’s chest and cuddled close. Prussia decided not to push him away, since the contact was pleasant. Instead he pulled the blanket up around Romania’s shoulders, and wrapped his arms around the smaller man. He could swear that he saw a little contented smile on Romania’s face. 

Perhaps this arrangement was not as simple as he thought it would be.

[queenofcringe]

Romano is Romeo and Julchen is Juliet. Even their names are perfect!

[autistichwsamerica]

HWS Prussia: When you said you were "magic in bed", this isn’t exactly what I ex—

HWS Romania: *Holds up 8 of hearts* Is this your card?

HWS Prussia: *softly* Holy shit.

[autistichwsamerica]

HWS Romania: Pick your battles. Pick...pick fewer battles than that. Put some battles back. That's too many.

HWS Prussia: *frantically trying to hold on to his armload of battles, battles falling out of his pockets* NO, I need ALL these battles!

[autistichwsamerica]

HWS Prussia: Real quick, what's our antique sword budget?"

HWS Romania: Don't.

HWS Prussia: Is that more or less than 5 million Euros?