Ships with Belarus you like or think are interesting?
Oh! What a pleasant surprise! Belarus is one of my favourite female characters 🥰 I have to confess that I have still yet to read the manga since HimaDaddy return, so I wouldn't know much about Belarus interactions with UK brothers and the southeast asia countries, ... but as for the characters that appear occasionally and interact with other characters, here I go:
Many of the ships below are "opposite atracts" (as Belarus is a complex character and not just a character with a brother complex)...
For example, as it is with CanBela (he is soft and she is sharp, he is sweet and she will take a bite out of him), AmeBela (he likes to go out and super positive attittude, and she would be down to hearth and spoil him), DenBela (something like amebela, but they would be competitive and enjoy much of their free time together... he actually likes her agressive side a bit too much), SuBela (big scary dude with a soft heart, she is the same but harder nut to crack, he would spoil her), FinBela (I like the height difference, but they are both tough and have been through a lot, so even if it was them agains the world... they would win or die trying), NedBela (honestly, I just like the vibes, intimidating and to not mess around... and they would be into super dominatrix role play), BelaWan (Taiwan is such a good girl and I feel like that she would make Bela show best side all the time, Bela in turn would be very protective), BelaMona / MonaBela (they seems like a extravagant couple, but they would definitively survive together to the end of the world), and last LietBela (their dynamic is purelly Liet serving and idolazing her as his master, as for her... well, as long he is a good and loyal dog... she loves big obedient dogs, she will allow him to serve her 🥲 poor boy, he spends most of his time in his knees or in his 4).
I would have liked to explore more and mention more characters as Germany (a really modern couple?), Turkey (into older man?), Poland (bff?) and Cuba (short passionate romance?)... but there isn't much for imagination... 😏🤫
Polyship anon is back and not child friendly this time, bc Its boring.
I am so greatly touched to be called your beloved crackhead.
So here is some more crack to add onto the shit pile
Belarus x monaco x Hungary.
Look we have 3 powerful as fuck girls here, we can make this work and make it horny as all fuck too. We have cold and emotionless but great in bed, a plus if she gets all bushy around her girlfriends when no one is looking. We have France but more risk taking, hotter and female and we have Hungary, who needs no introduction.
Ok and into more wtf is wrong with my mind territory.
New Zealand x wales x New Zealand from SATW
Search up SATW it's like hetalia but even mire stereotypeical somehow.
oops sorry for not getting back to you earlier !!
actually Belarus x Monaco x Hungary... yeah that could work 👀 I did some Hungary x Belarus headcanons a while ago about how they would be in an open relationship and pick up men for their entertainment. But with Monaco.. who needs men when you got three ladies and their store bought dicks?
Monaco is really such an underrated character!! I kinda forgot about her but that will never happen again because you're right she's France but more risk taking, hotter and female and what more could one ask for??
I can totally see Belarus cold demeanour melting when her girlfriends so much as laugh and take her hands to pull her onto the dancefloor or into the new little café around the corner. just down the hall into their bedroom to try out a new toy together (I don't know why but when Hungary or Belarus is involved in a ship there are always toys involved. and you know what they need? those love dice that give you a body part and what to do with it. there's probably a hundred more things I could say about them but I don't want the post to get too long)
moving on! why is satw new zealand a sheep? XD but the comics of him and wales are cute I have to give you that
and hetalia wales x new zealand would be cute! They seem like the kinds of guys to hang out in their pyjamas all day and order pizza or tacos as a date.
Certainly! Uhh I’m not sure what this is, but it was fun to write :0
send me a ship and a number & I'll write a short fic
Sometimes,Ukraine wonders what Monaco is doing with Belarus.
She likes Monaco,she thinks. Most of the time. There is no denying her effortless grace, her eloquence,the confidence with which she holds herself. These are things that Ukraine recognizesin Belarus as well. Her sister, always her little sister no matter how manycenturies pass, has always been more sure of herself than Ukraine is, so sheshould know what she’s doing.
And still.
Ukraine thinksabout myths. Those old Greek ones with gods and goddesses that are far toointerested in mortals, going through them at an alarming rate. She wonders ifMonaco, who’s so old that everyone forgets how old she is, might have been partof those myths, a distant golden goddess on a Mediterranean coast. Because sometimes,she looks at Ukraine’s little sister with eyes that have seen everything, andUkraine is afraid of what she’s seeing now, if it isn’t Belarus crass humor andpassion for gymnastics and love of rock music.
Compared to Monaco,Belarus is young. Although she is confident, maybe she doesn’t know herself aswell, her life always having been wrought with change and uncertainty.
Ukraine hasnever heard her talk about anyone the way she talks about Monaco—even if it isstill not a very regular occurrence, because Belarus just doesn’t talk muchabout her own life—and she wants to be glad, because finding companionship thatmight last beyond the lifespan of a human is great, and rare, but… Well, shewishes it could have been Lithuania she was hearing so much about, is all. Or Romania,or even Belgium. Someone less Monaco, a little more in touch with theworld.
Someone lessmythical.
--
Seychellesknows people don’t take her seriously. Most of the time, that’s fine by her. She’sbarely 500 years old; it’ll come.
She met Monacofor the first time when she was just a girl, and looked up to her immediately.She probably would have fancied herself in love at some point if not for theknowledge of how much of a waste of time it would be, even at a young age.(Younger than now, that is.) Monaco was, and still is in many ways, a bit of amentor to her.
That’s why she’sso confused about Belarus.
Admittedly, shedoesn’t know her well, but she does know that the way she regards Monaco is notlove, she doesn’t think.
They lookbeautiful together, all regal and kind of haughty, but Seychelles doesn’treckon they look in love. The thought that maybe they’re too old forthat crosses her mind, and that makes her kind of sad, so she tries not tothink that anymore. (She has no idea, really, how old Belarus is. Everyone inEurope is just ancient to her, although don’t tell France she said that.)
This sort ofalmost-deference is not what Monaco deserves. (Well, maybe it is, in a way, butnot from a partner.) It’s probably not what Belarus deserves either. Seychelleswouldn’t know.
But they seemhappy enough, when she sees them, which is admittedly almost never. Happy andbeautiful and it’s definitely not her place to interfere, so she doesn’t. Butshe wishes, even if no one will take her seriously, that Monacowould be taken seriously, just for who she is as a person.
There ishumanity to all of them, and even Monaco deserves her flaws, and to be honestlyloved despite them.
--
People talk,obviously, and that includes nations. People always talk. But in Poland’s experience,Belarus doesn’t talk much. Not about her personal life, anyway.
Of course, thismight have something to do with how they’ve only fairly recently started to be ondecent terms, but he does think that it’s true in general.
But she talks arelative lot now, and it’s troubling him. Which, you know, is notsomething he’d ever predicted he’d think about Belarus, but there you go.
It’s Monaco’sfault, somehow. With her stupid upside-down flag.
In a good relationship,these are things Belarus should be sharing with her girlfriend, but she’sdumping them on Poland instead. He tries to tell her, obviously, that he’s notthe one she’s dating—he has no desire to be dating her, thank you everso much—and that maybe she should tell Monaco about her feelings and herweird-ass interests instead, because, you know, she’s supposed to beinterested in that or at least pretend to be, and while Belarus is at it, maybeshe can call Monaco late at night and just breathe into the phone if shethinks that so hilarious, how about that?
Belarus saysshe doesn’t want to burden Monaco, and that doesn’t sound like her at all. Besides,she has no problem burdening Poland, obviously.
So thatconcerns him. He’s pretty sure—admittedly, it took him a while to get to thatpoint, but he knows now, okay—that the whole point of a relationship issharing stuff. Just stuff, all kinds of it, and trying new stuff together. Evenwhen you’re Belarus, and even when you’re Monaco-the-woman-the-myth-the-legend-the-upside-down-flag.
But, in theend, who is he to judge? It’s not as if he has any life experience or anything,right?
He’s just hereto listen.
--
People talk,and France always listens.
He hears whatthey say about Monaco and Belarus, and he doesn’t want to believe any of it,but Monaco is different when he visits her. She might have heard whatthey say. Monaco listens, too. They might not actually be related, but theyshare that trait, and in many ways, they do care about each other like siblingswould.
She pretendsnot to have heard, and he pretends he doesn’t know she’s lying. It must hurt,since she, lovely strong-willed Monaco, always seems to be the bad guy. He doesn’ttell her this, but France is worried, too. Not about Belarus, really, but abouther, about Monaco. She isn’t perfect, he knows this and loves her dearlybecause of it and despite it, but she pretends she is. She always has, so that’snothing new under the sun.
But shepretends even with the nation—the woman—who should love her for who sheis.
He’s anoptimistic person, is France, or he tries hard to be anyway, so he holds outhope that it will grow. It is not much hope, but it is there, so he lets it live.That’s his duty as her brother. All he wants is for people to be happy; for herto be happy, and for Belarus to be as well.
Perfection sorarely equals happiness, though, despite everyone’s best efforts.
I know BelaLiech is already p popular but gosh I love it
But SeyTai, man (or as I call it, Fish n’ Flowers). So good. You have two tropical, optimistic gals. They’d be great buds/girlfriends, and they need more love imo
Natalya had no illusions about her charm, or her immediate likeability. She didn’t care to bother with unnecessary niceties, thinking them a waste of her time. People worth her time would stay.
In this cute and quirky rom-com, the brash and direct Natalya butts heads with the cold career woman Olympe Castil - and finds herself working for her! Coupled with her magical misadventures, disaster seems imminent... “The Pinnacle”, coming this fall.
One of my pieces for the Hetalia Big Bang 2017, for @phyripo ‘s awesome fic, The pinnacle ! Give it a read soon as you can - it’s awesome! :>
I read the sentence ‘your memories belong to the lake now’ while playing an escape game, and immediately decided I should write a fanfic. and I happen to know a song about a lake (the poet and the muse) that I like very much and was inspired by and sO this was born! ft my favorite femslash pairing, because why not
word count: 2841
summary:
The mysterious woman in white brings back the writer's inspiration, but at what cost?
also on AO3
She came wearing white.
She was like a beacon, a specter on the lake, and perhaps she should have been fearsome, incited wariness, but she never did. Not in Olympe.
Olympe lived by the lake, the White Lake, up the slope of the mountain, her cottage nestled between the grey rocks and the evergreens. She wrote. When she didn’t write, she tended to her vegetable garden and wove, or went down to the town in the valley to sell the proceeds of those things on the bustling market, and she thought of what she would write.
Without a doubt, the townspeople thought her crazy – a woman alone in the woods? Not to mention the writing at all. It all wasn’t very ladylike of her. Olympe did not mind.
She minded, though, when her inspiration waned in autumn, when she needed it most. She had to find a new coat for the winter, among other things, and the vegetables were almost all harvested by now, so there would be no selling those. She sat wrapped up by the lake often, with her quill pen and her inkwell and a completely blank piece of paper that stayed that way. Even telling stories to the still water didn’t help.
And then there was her.
She showed up at Olympe’s door the morning after the first frost, like the ice come alive. Everything about her was pale but her eyes, which were instead dark blue like the lake.
“Who are you?” Olympe asked, mind running a mile a minute. This woman was not only mysterious, she was also beautiful, and it seemed to be that she brought some inspiration with her.
“I am here to help,” said the woman. “You can call me Bela.”
“As in beautiful?”
She smiled slowly, wickedly, showing teeth. “As in white.”
And, even though Olympe was not a very trusting person by nature, and all evidence screamed to be wary of Bela, she let her in.
Not just that once, as she had feared. The mysterious woman disappeared in the evening, yes, when the first moonlight reflected on the still water of the White Lake, but she returned the next day, and the next, and many – almost all – days after that. Olympe was curious – how could she not be curious about this woman who had brought her creativity back with her simple presence? – but she also had the distinct feeling she shouldn’t ask questions.
Did Bela have a home? Was she human at all? God knew there were plenty of legends about the mountains, hailing from the medieval times when the town in the valley had just been a small village, some from even earlier dates. Olympe had thought about compiling them in a book at some point, but never had come around to it.
It was perhaps foolish to be keeping on like this, but she didn’t care.
Even as winter set in, the mountains became bitterly cold and the lake froze over, Bela kept coming. She didn’t wear warmer clothes and didn’t want to borrow any off Olympe either, appearing unbothered. She read what Olympe wrote and, increasingly, offered her opinion. Bela was blunt and it made Olympe laugh sometimes just how different she was from her target audience in the cities, or indeed from herself, with her wealthy upbringing.
“This book doesn’t bear your name,” Bela said one dark afternoon, when she seemed the only light.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a woman. No one will want to read a book written by a woman.”
Bela was quiet. It really was as if she was from a different world altogether sometimes. But other times…
“Well, that’s stupid,” she said. Olympe laughed, and laughed more when Bela looked surprised, and pleased.
“The world is stupid,” Olympe said.
“You aren’t.”
She snapped her head up to look at Bela, who was actually looking less pale right now. Was she blushing? That was new. Olympe decided she liked it.
“You aren’t stupid either,” she replied.
Bela only shook her head, dark eyes downcast.
“I am very stupid,” she said cryptically. Before Olympe could push it, she had gone, just like that.
She didn’t think Bela was stupid. Quite the opposite, actually. It was true that the she didn’t know much about social interactions or the finer points of etiquette, and that she had no idea who the current ruler of the country was, but Bela could tell Olympe a great many things about the history of the mountains and their myths and legends, and knew nature in a way that seemed to be becoming increasingly rare.
And, yes, her white dresses were about 300 years out of fashion, all trailing sleeves and embroidered pearls and she never wore a hat, as if she were a woman of easy virtue, but that added to the mystery, and to the things that inspired Olympe to write yet more.
Bela knew much, but her knowledge seemed to stop past a certain point in history, much like her way of dressing did. Olympe had never met anyone like her, and didn’t think she ever would again.
Once, her cousin Francis came to visit her for a few days, and Bela didn’t show until he was gone.
“You could have greeted him,” Olympe said, not knowing how she would actually feel about sharing Bela.
“He didn’t ask,” Bela replied, which made little sense, but Olympe decided to let it slide. She wondered, though; had she asked somehow?
Later, she tried to ask Bela how she had known that Olympe needed help, needed a muse, but, unsurprisingly, the woman only smiled ever so slightly and gave no reply at all. Olympe was not sure she would want to know, when it came down to it.
That was something else she wondered about, if that was all her, because she was a curious woman by nature, whether society liked it or not. It was unlike her to let things slide so often.
“Who are you?” she asked Bela again, one day in spring, as the tall woman was standing in the cold water of the White Lake, which pooled around her ankles and soaked the hem of her dress even though she had lifted it a little. She looked at Olympe with eyes as deep as the lake.
“Whoever you want me to be,” she eventually replied. Her voice seemed hoarser than it already tended to be usually.
“I want you to be yourself.”
Bela bowed her head so that her pale hair fell over her shoulders like rivulets of water and hid her face.
The water rippled around her bare feet but stayed otherwise still.
“Who do you want to be, Bela?”
Now, she looked up again.
“I want to be your inspiration,” she said matter-of-factly. Some unseen force rippled through the entire lake. Olympe thought she might understand.
“You are.”
Bela nodded sadly. “I know.”
With all the writing she had done lately, Olympe hardly had to sell her fabrics anymore, but she liked to interact with the townsfolk every now and then, so she went to the market anyway. Bela never wanted to come along, insisting the mountains were her home. There would be so much to show her, Olympe thought wistfully. And perhaps they could find her a more modern dress, one with a higher waistline and tighter sleeves and maybe a hat to match.
Not that Olympe disliked her mysterious muse’s hair. It was the opposite, in fact. Lately, however, she had been struck more and more often with the desire to run her fingers through it in a way that had little to do with seeking inspiration and everything with how fascinated – one might say infatuated – Olympe was with her as a person, something that she saw more of every day.
Maybe, she thought, Bela never had been herself before and somehow Olympe was her inspiration too, in a much more profound way. She liked thinking that, because she couldn’t actually tell if she was worth as much to her at all.
And so summer rolled into the mountains with the scent of drying grass and wildflowers, and Bela’s eyes seemed to brighten with the sun even as her skin remained pale. They spent a lot of time by the lake, sometimes talking, sometimes silent but for the scratch of Olympe’s quill pen.
One day, Bela said, à propos of nothing, “I have done many bad things.”
Olympe carefully put her quill away and turned to look at her expectantly. Bela just looked out over the lake, her silhouette sharp in the sunlight.
“I have never felt remorse until now.”
“How so?”
Bela looked at her with one light eye.
“I never cared before.”
Warmth blossomed in Olympe’s chest. Much as she wished the circumstances were different, it was good to know that Bela cared in her own way. She didn’t ask what it was she felt remorse over, feeling she would not like the answer, provided she received one at all. Instead, she just put her hand, which looked tiny, softly over hers. Bela breathed steadily. Her skin was cool, but warmed under Olympe’s fingers.
They sat like that for a long time. Eventually, Bela turned her hand over and entwined their fingers.
Long hair whipping in the October wind, Bela walked along the edge of the White Lake. Olympe thought it looked like she was searching for something, but had no idea what it would be, or she would help.
As it were, she could only watch the lone, distant figure in white through her lorgnette, and wait.
After a while, Bela strode up to her cottage, hair wild and eyes dark. Olympe didn’t expect to say anything about what she had been doing, and she didn’t, but what she did do was far more surprising than that. The tall woman dropped to her knees, dress pooling around her, and looked up at Olympe with an indefinable emotion on her face.
“Bela, what is…” She gestured vaguely. “Are you alright?”
“I wish…” Bela started, reaching her hand up as if she wanted to touch Olympe, then letting it fall.
Slowly, almost afraid of startling her, Olympe mirrored her, sinking to her knees. She reached out with caution and wrapped both hands around the one Bela was holding in her lap now. She didn’t speak. She waited.
“I wish I could be more,” Bela eventually said. Her voice was barely audible over the wind that howled around the house.
“You are enough,” Olympe replied. This was true in many ways. She gripped her hand tighter, hoping to impart this message without words. Bela’s eyes were deep and sad. Olympe could almost see herself reflected in them, a small woman in blue with a tight braid, so different from her muse.
“You are more.” It didn’t sound accusing, or jealous. It sounded almost admiring.
“I do not think I am so much,” Olympe said bashfully, lowering her gaze. Bela put her free hand on hers, her fingertips ever so gently stroking Olympe’s wrist. Her next words were barely more than breath.
“Olympe, you are everything.”
When she looked up, Bela was closer than before, and it was all Olympe could do not to gasp. Instead, she followed her instincts, pushed up, and pressed her forehead against Bela’s gently. Her skin was cold; it always seemed to be. Nevertheless, she breathed warm on Olympe’s neck, steady and reassuringly there.
Finally, Olympe could indulge the need she felt to run her fingers through Bela’s long, loose hair, or let her know in other, small ways how she felt about her. Nobody could ever know about this, of course, but most people did not care much for what Olympe did either way. It was good.
And then it ended.
It was the night of the new moon. Olympe jerked awake for reasons unknown in the very early morning – it was silent outside, and still practically pitch dark. Yet, after a brief disoriented moment, she rose from her bed and padded to the window, grabbing her lorgnette on the way. She didn’t expect to see anything.
Maybe the more accurate word, she thought, would be hope. She hoped she would not see anything out of the ordinary.
But, no, there she was, truly looking like a supernatural being this time, a spot of light against the darkness of the lake. Bela, walking into the water every so calmly, barely disturbing its surface. It didn’t seem as though she was looking for something this time – more as though she knew exactly what she was doing. But that made no sense. Granted, many things about her didn’t make sense, but this was truly something else.
Olympe wanted to run outside, but was also afraid of losing sight of her muse for even a second, afraid that she would simply disappear. Indecision and fear paralyzed her.
So she watched, unmoving. Frozen as the edges of the lake, still like the mist over the water. Was that all her?
The very first ray of sunlight falling through the evergreens illuminated Bela in blinding white, and when Olympe blinked, she was gone. The water was still as if she had never been there.
Had she?
Was it a dream?
Olympe called out for Bela in the morning when she didn’t show, walking around the lake with chattering teeth, pressing her lorgnette to her nose as if she could see more that way. It yielded no results. Not a single hint towards the mysterious woman’s presence. The lake was dark, and remained so when Olympe glared at it, yelled and pleaded at the water. It had given her so much… And it had taken everything.
So she wrote, and wrote, and wrote as if it were her final day every day for the lonely next month. She wrote a letter to Francis, asking him to come visit in the approaching spring and to take her manuscripts with him so they may be made into books. But mostly, she wrote about Bela, and about the hateful White Lake. She wrote until she ran out of ink and her fingers cramped and even her lorgnette could not help her see clearly.
It had to be done. Olympe couldn’t say why.
And then, that too ended.
All at once, the new moon was back. The day before had brought a storm that could still be heard in the distance, but the mountains were quiet around her cottage. The lake was still. The lake was foreboding, Olympe thought. She’d thought so many times.
She came wearing black.
At first, Olympe thought she was a dream – a nightmare, perhaps. Everything about her was pale but her eyes and her dress, which were both dark as the night reflected in the water of the White Lake.
“Bela,” Olympe breathed, sitting up in her bed. The woman simply nodded. She dripped on Olympe’s floor, the water like an ink stain in the near-darkness.
She looked away when Olympe tried to catch her eye, and walked to the door when she got out of her bed, tried to reach for her. Olympe followed, somehow unsurprised yet still terrified of what was to come.
Bela stood at the edge of the lake on bare feet, her black dress floating around her calves. Her back was turned to Olympe, but she could still see that her hands were clenched in tight fists.
“Who are you?” Olympe asked. Bela looked at her over her shoulder, wet hair plastered to her forehead. A hint of a smile flitted over her sharp features, but it was a sad one.
“Bela, as in white,” she reminded Olympe. The water of the White Lake rippled out from her feet. Olympe swallowed. She wished she could say something that meant something, but her mind was blank.
“You helped me,” she just said.
“Yes.” Bela waded deeper into the water. Olympe followed her to where the shore became rocky and plunged straight into the deep. It was unwise, she knew that.
“Is there no way for you to stay with me?” she asked. Her own hair fell across her shoulders when she knelt on the rocks, touching her fingers to the freezing stone.
Bela shook her head. “You must understand. The lake demands payment.”
“The lake, or you?”
She raised a hand above the water and ran her fingers through Olympe’s hair, swept her cold thumb over her cheekbone. She didn’t answer the question, but, as with so many things Olympe had asked her, she wasn’t sure whether she really wanted to know the answer. She leaned farther forwards, cupping her own hands around Bela’s face.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. She clutched the fabric of Olympe’s nightgown with her free hand, the grip nothing short of desperate.
“I know.”
“Your memories belong to the lake now.”
Olympe reached forward and forward and forward to kiss her, and the water closed over their heads.
