#baby victoire

[world-of-wales]

Victoire! 🤍 I can’t believe she’s 6 months already

Yess omg! She's six months old and I just 😭😭😭 stop growing. She's such a little sweetheart. And I loved the pics Marie and Louis posted, She's so tiny and the way she fits into their arms 🥺🥺🥺 I adore her. And side note, I love the way they protect her online.

[duchessofostergotlands]

2022 // 2024 → Pancake Ducruet takes centre stage for the gender reveal parties of his little siblings. In 2022 his parents Louis and Marie Ducruet revealed they were having a baby girl - Victoire, born in 2023 - and they recently revealed Pancake will remain the only boy in the family as they are having a second girl!

[lesbianredpanda]

PWHL 2024-2025 Season Let's Go!

Second season of the professional women's hockey league starts next month! Schedule here

[royalchildreneurope]

New : Princess Alexandra of Luxembourg and Mr. Nicolas Bagory have welcomed their first child today, a baby girl named Victoire, in Paris, France.

Both mother and daughter are doing well -May 14th 2024.

[calvins-dad]

i know i make a version of this post every single time i interact with like. anything that’s not Content™️ but god the tumblr tag for things you like can be so bleak. just saw someone compare the endings to The Poppy War and Babel (good, makes sense, rich for analysis) and then claim that Nezha was “condemned” to his ending while Victoire had the same ending but was “allowed to make a choice”??? to quote liz francziak, WRONG-O!

[ameasureofseperation]

An impossible tea party with (most of) the PCs all as babies!

From left to right, across the top, we have: Calder, happy flapping his wings. Echo, falling in love with a cupcake. Pyre, about to swallow a cupcake whole. Clarion, either laying on the charm or blowing raspberries. Hyacinth, getting squished. Lor, happy and amused. Charlotte, being fancy with her pinky out.

And in the foreground: Victoire showing off her newest tinker-toy to a fascinated Kreetha.

[mariesoliver]

Ugh i'm dreading reading the last part of Babel cause I know some horrible shit is gonna happen and I also don't want the story to end

[the-wavesinger]

@ victoire sh**t

[wehaveagathering]

PULLING OUT MY HAIR SHOOT THE FUCKING OUCK SHODJSHSVSNZ !?!?!?!?!

[backtonormallife]

Princess Stephanie of Monaco’s first grandchild is Victoire as well.

[p3ach3snplums]

♪𝙑𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚 𝙒𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙮

Personaje canon | 15-30s | Heterosexual | Harry Potter 3ra Gen | nacida en Borgoña, Francia | sangre pura / Ravenclaw / 1/4 veela / empleada del Ministerio / Primogénita de Bill y Fleur | reside en Londres Inglaterra / Paris, Francia | personaje abierto | fc: Virgina Gardner

♪dress me with flowers | victoire weasley

[secretmellowblog]

One super funny thing about the French Rev (that Victor Hugo even references in Les Mis) is the way it altered naming conventions, resulting in tons of WILD amazing ridiculous names!

Basically what happened was— during the French Rev the laws around registering names were relaxed, so people started giving extremely revolutionary names to themselves and their babies.

Sadly Napoleon’s government later cracked down on this. When Napoleon came into power he passed a restrictive law mandating that people had to choose among a list of “normal” names, banning the weird revolution ones, because he was a spineless coward afraid of the power these names had. The restrictive naming laws weren’t repealed until late in the 20th century.

But anyway here are some of my favorite French Rev baby names (taken from this list):

Mort Aux Aristocrates -“Death to Aristocrats”

Amour Sacré de la Patrie l’an Trois -“Sacred Love of the Fatherland Year III”

Lagrenade —“The Grenade”

Droit de l’Homme Tricolor “Right of Man Tricolor”

Égalité — “Equality”

Régénérée Vigueur— “Regenerated Strength”

Marat, ami du peuple -“Marat, friend of the people”

Marat, défenseur de la Patrie—“Marat, defender of the Fatherland”

La Loi-“The Law”

Philippe Thomas Ve de bon coeur pour la République — “Philippe Thomas ‘Go with a good heart for the Republic’”

Raison —“Reason”

Simon Liberté ou la Mort —“Simon “Freedom or Death””

Citoyen Français—“French Citizen”

Sans Crainte— “Without Fear”

Unitée Impérissable— “Imperishable Unity”

Victoire Fédérative— “Federal Victory”

Vengeur Constant —“Constant Avenger”

[duchessofostergotlands]

I was going to post them but I assumed someone else already did and then I forgot so I appreciate this

As a society, I feel like we never appreciated these photos enough

[charmed-quill]

Burrow Bound// B.W x Reade Epilogue

authors note at end.

originally requested by @littlegreenteacup

summary: Y/N, an American half-blood witch newly arrived in Muggle London, stumbles into the warmth of the Weasley brothers after a serendipitous meeting in Diagon Alley. Drawn into their world, she finds herself at the Burrow more often than not. Meanwhile, Bill Weasley is learning to navigate life as a single father, relying on his mother’s help to care for Victoire. Though their worlds orbit each other, Y/N and Bill’s paths never seem to align—until one evening when fate finally draws them together. Will it be the start of a love story, or will they be left with nothing but heartache?

Last Chapter

word count: 650

5 years later

The bustling platform of 9 ¾ buzzed with the sounds of families saying goodbye, steam hissing from the scarlet train, and excited chatter from children eager for the year ahead. Y/N stood with her hand protectively resting on her rounded belly, her other hand clutching Bill’s tightly as they watched Victoire look around in excitement.

“Do we have everything?” Y/N asked for the third time, her voice tinged with nervous excitement. “Her robes, her wand, her potions kit—”

“She has everything, love,” Bill reassured her with a soft chuckle, squeezing her hand. “We’ve gone over the list more times than Professor McGonagall checks her schedules.”

Victoire rolled her eyes but smiled, her blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “Mum, I’m fine,” she said, her voice filled with both affection and exasperation. “I’ve got everything.”

Y/N knelt slightly, wincing as her growing belly made it a little harder than it used to be. She adjusted the clasp on Victoire’s cloak, brushing a stray curl from her face. “I know you do, sweetheart. I’m just—” She swallowed, her voice trembling. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

Victoire’s confidence faltered for a moment, and she threw her arms around Y/N in a tight hug. “I’ll miss you too, Mum,” she murmured. “But I’ll write every week, I promise.”

“Every week,” Y/N echoed, blinking rapidly to hold back her tears. “And you’d better tell me everything—your classes, your friends, everything.”

“I will,” Victoire promised, her smile wide and reassuring. She turned to Bill, who crouched down to meet her eye level.

“You remember what I told you, right?” Bill asked, his voice calm and steady.

“Be brave and be kind,” Victoire said, nodding earnestly.

“That’s my girl,” Bill said, pulling her into a quick hug.

As the final call for boarding echoed through the platform, her curls bouncing as she hurried toward the train. She stopped at the door, turning to wave furiously. Y/N and Bill waved back, their smiles wide despite the ache of letting her go.

The train’s whistle blew, and the engine hissed as it began to pull away. Victoire leaned out of the window, waving until she was out of sight.

Y/N kept waving long after the train disappeared, her chest tightening with a mix of pride and sadness. When she finally lowered her hand, she blinked rapidly, her vision blurred by tears.

“Are you crying?” Bill asked, his tone teasing but affectionate, a soft smirk playing on his lips.

“No!” Y/N sniffled, dabbing at her cheeks. “It’s the pregnancy hormones. I’m fine.”

Bill laughed, pulling her into his side and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Of course, it’s the hormones,” he teased gently, though his own eyes were suspiciously glassy. “Not because you’re sending our little girl off to Hogwarts for the first time.”

Y/N tilted her head up to him, her lips curving into a smile despite her tears. “I mean, maybe a little. But mostly hormones.”

Bill laughed again, the sound deep and warm as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Come on,” he said, steering her gently toward the exit. “Let’s get you home before those hormones start making you cry about something else—like how many socks the baby will need.”

Y/N laughed, leaning into him as they walked off the platform together. “For the record, you can never have too many socks,” she said lightly, her hand brushing over her belly.

“Noted,” Bill replied, a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced back at the now-empty tracks. “Victoire’s going to have an amazing time.”

“She will,” Y/N agreed, her heart full as they stepped back onto the bustling muggle platformq “And so will we.”

With that, they Disapparated home, ready to face their next adventure together.

tagged: @navs-bhat @neenieweenie @buendiabebeta

a/n: Thank You 💕

Wow, where do I even begin? Writing this fic has been such an incredible journey, and I genuinely couldn’t have done it without all of you who read, liked, reblogged, commented, and sent me messages of encouragement along the way. Your excitement, your insights kept me going through all of this story.

A special thank you to my amazing mutual, @littlegreenteacup for requesting this fic in the first place and being one of its biggest supporters. Your vision for this story was perfect, and I hope I did it justice.

To everyone who stuck with me through Bill and Y/N’s ups and downs (and all that delicious tension 👀), thank you for letting me share this little slice of their world with you.

This story is as much yours as it is mine, and I hope it brought you the same joy and squeals of happiness it brought me while writing it.

You’re all the best, and I love you to the moon and back. 🖤✨

Love, MJ

p.s, keep an eye out for a bonus chapter coming out soon...

[nuzzle]

"victoire" shoes in pink, from the baby classical series ♡

[chilling-seavey]

Even Out of View (pg10, eo31)

↳ A/N I took so much creative freedom with this request from my 1.5k celebration, straying quite far from the modern-vibes song, but once I get a WW1 idea in my head, I can't say no. (Plus shoutout to my girl @starlightiing for not only submitting this request but also helping me to broaden my writing to include different interests, such as undertones of cardiophilia iykyk lolol)

↳ Inspired By: 'Beating Heart Baby' by Head Automatica

↳ Pairings: WW1!FrenchArmy!Pierre x WW1!WarCriminal!Esteban

↳ Word Count: 1824

↳ Warnings: Active historical war setting, some minor descriptions of heart related things, military crimes and their historically accurate punishments, descriptions of execution

Pierre’s footfalls echoed through the abandoned house as he ascended the rickety staircase to the second storey. His muddy boots thudded across the creaking hardwood floors with each step, his rucksack clanking ungracefully against the walls of the narrow upstairs hallway in his rush, past lived-in rooms with their furniture and once-loved belongings coated in layers of dust and gunpowder. All he could hear was his breathing, echoing in his mind, the thudding of his heart and the rush of blood loud in his ears.

He reached the door at the end of the cramped hallway in no time, the bullet holes in the wood overlooked by him in the world that had long since numbed him to the shock of war. Thrusting it open with an unattractive creak, Pierre was met by the sight of a tiny bedroom with a lanky figure sitting on the side of a single bed that was clearly built for a small child. The juxtaposition was a cruel mirth: a reminder of where they came from and the way war ripped their childhoods out of their hands far too soon.

The commotion of Pierre’s entrance had Esteban slowly turning his head to see who entered, keeping his hands folded with his forearms resting on his knees. His face stayed stagnant, pale, even when he noticed who it was. The sight of his expression sent a chill down Pierre’s spine.

“Este-” Pierre’s dry voice caught in his throat and he cleared it quickly before rushing closer, slinging his rifle from his shoulder to let it clatter to the grimy floorboards. In one smooth motion, Pierre helped himself to the side of the small bed beside his friend, his wide blue eyes dead focused on Esteban’s stone expression.

Esteban hung his head, shutting his eyes tightly.

“Esteban, how could you?” Pierre spoke as gently as he could, resting a firm hand on his forearm. He squeezed.

“Go away.” Esteban replied firmly, although his volume was quiet.

Pierre’s concerned expression faltered for a moment, eyes jumping all over Esteban’s face before he answered, “No, why would you want me to go away? In a moment like this?”

Esteban unclasped his fingers and shoved Pierre’s hand off his arm, “I am to be shot at dawn, Pierre, I don’t particularly want to sit here with you and make small talk. I want to be alone.”

Pierre swallowed thickly at his comrade’s bluntness and he turned his body to face forward too so they were sat perfectly parallel, side by side on the little bed with blue gingham sheets. Silence rested heavily on the dust coated room and the soldiers’ shoulders. Across from them, the ripped wallpaper was tacked with a few children’s drawings – or, at least the few drawings that weren’t shot to smithereens – and many of them housed colourful scribbles of stick figure men amongst red, white, and blue. Messy juvenile printing scrawled ‘Vive la France�� and ‘Pour le drapeau! Pour la victoire!’ on the parchment above the subjects.

The nationalistic phrases written proudly by the hand of a likely now deceased French child stared tauntingly back at the two of them.

Long Live France

For the Flag! For Victory!

None of this felt like they were heading towards victory.

Pierre’s shoulders sank, glancing around the abandoned bedroom of some unnamed child. They were supposed to be fighting for the children of France, for their future, for their country, and now, with the world in peril, Esteban was now to be treated as the enemy by his own people.

Despite Esteban’s firm request to be left alone, Pierre spoke up quietly, alerting him gently as if he were a grenade about to go off, “I can’t leave you. I’m your night watch.”

Esteban looked over at him again, eyebrows furrowed, words thick with angst, “Why are you my night watch?”

“I offered…I asked the Lieutenant.” Pierre answered, “I just…I needed to see you.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking back the dampness in his eyes that came with the weight of their hellish reality. He wanted to say more to him: to say that he was worried sick about him when he didn’t return to the trenches a fortnight ago, to say that when he heard he was captured by the military police and was to be tried for desertion Pierre first felt relief, to say that after such a short lifetime together he couldn’t stomach the idea of living without him…of going back out there to the battlefields without him.

But, instead, the silence spoke enough. Esteban simply nodded once.

What else was there to say when he was to be facing his execution in less than twelve hours?

If it were anyone sent to keep an eye on him over night, he was damn glad it was Pierre.

As if that thought physically pained him, Esteban rested his elbows on his knees again and hid his face in his grimy hands. His blue uniform jacket was caked in mud until it looked almost brown and the sweat and blood of the enemy that he was drenched it flattened his midnight black hair across his forehead. Pierre didn't look much better.

Pierre just stared at him like that, wanting to ask so many questions and say so many things.

“I know you don’t want anything to do with me,” Pierre stumbled out, “but, can you let me in your arms just for tonight?”

When Esteban lifted his face from his hands, his mud-stained cheeks were streaked in tears.

He nodded.

Pierre’s heart leapt in his chest at the unexpected agreement and he hurried to shuffle off his rucksack and his utility belt to drop them to the floor before Esteban could change his mind. The tiny metal bed creaked and groaned under the two grown men as they arranged themselves in a hesitant mess of uniformed limbs.

Always the braver, bolder, more assertive of the two, Esteban cuddled up under Pierre’s arm like a weak child. Branded as a coward and a traitor to his country Esteban had just wanted a break. A break from the war, the cries of agony, the death. Here, now, in this abandoned house in the French countryside, in the country they were raised in together, they finally felt a moment of peace for the first time in a long time.

Pierre’s chest shuttered through his calming inhale as he familiarized himself with their newfound position, chest to chest with Esteban, his arms wrapped around his taller comrade. He could feel his rapid heartbeat against his own, the two of them a frantic mess of anxiety and unspoken uncertainties. In a world of darkness and fear and death, the feeling of Esteban’s heartbeat was a reminder of life, of love, of hope.

The two of them kept their eyes screwed shut as if silently willing themselves to be taken back to their childhood town on the beach where summers were joyful and the air was filled with laughter and they raced each other on their bicycles down cobblestone streets. Just like those summer days, their hearts beat firmly in steady time, rapid from exertion and the good company of familiarity.

As the sun set below the horizon to the distant sound of cannons and shells and gunfire, the two men stayed tangled together on that little blue bed. Their heartrates slowed as they held each other, finding a calming rhythm against each other beat by beat. Everything was uncertain – life was uncertain – but them always finding each other? That was always certain.

“In spite of all this, I still love all of you.” Pierre breathed into the night, trying to keep his voice from shaking with subconscious awareness of what the morning would hold, “I do…and I always will.”

Esteban’s hand tightened on the back of Pierre’s matching blue uniform jacket. His heart skipped a beat.

In the morning, they were woken by the officer in charge and two assisting men. Esteban was firmly yanked out of bed by the men of his same rank, each with a stone-like grip on his biceps as they nearly dragged him down the narrow hallway and towards the stairs. Pierre barely had a chance to grab his belongings before he was rushing after them, boots pounding down the flimsy staircase and out into the damp spring morning. It was so cold he could see his panting breath.

He wanted to call out for Esteban as the men let go of him outside of the abandoned house they had slept in that night, letting him fall clumsily to his hands and knees.

“On your feet, Private.” The commanding officer ordered, standing in front of a line of eleven soldiers all armed with their rifles.

As Esteban brought himself to his feet on trembling legs, he looked over at Pierre only a yard away. The officer followed his gaze.

With a cock of his head, the officer called out to Pierre next, “Over here, Gasly, open your rifle.”

Esteban and Pierre both looked at the officer as if he were completely out of his mind.

“Sir-” Pierre started as calmly as he could muster, trying to decline the order.

“We need a dozen men, Private, don’t make me ask again.”

If he argued, he would be put up there against the wall with him, he knew. With a curt nod to his superior, Pierre joined the lineup.

He was supplied three bullets to load into his empty rifle and he loaded it with trembling fingers before clicking his weapon back into place. His red rimmed blue eyes rose to Esteban’s figure standing in front of the stone wall of the house in which they shared their last night together. Out of everyone in that lineup, Esteban’s gaze was locked solely on Pierre.

Esteban was offered a blindfold. He declined.

On the order, the firing squad raised their rifles. Twelve rifles pointed at Esteban.

Pierre had killed a lot of men since the start of the war. He had more blood on his hands than in his body, one might argue. Killing Germans was easy. But this?

Pierre could hardly hear over the ringing in his ears, the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart enough to drown out the officer’s pitch for Esteban’s final words.

Through the deafening noise, he barely heard Esteban’s voice cutting across the misty spring dawn, words off-set from the movement of his mouth as Pierre stared at him, “I defend France with honour and glory.”

Esteban’s dark eyes never wavered from Pierre’s baby blues, staring at him right through the rifle that was pointed directly at him. He raised his hand to set over his heart, a silent reminder of the rhythm they shared so closely the night before and all those years back home. Pierre swallowed the lump in his throat.

Finally, the commanding officer gave his order, “Fire at will, gentlemen.”

Pierre shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.

"You want nothing to do with me, I don't know what to do with you, Cause you don't know what you do to me. Baby is this love for real? Let me in your arms to feel The beating of your heart, baby."