#baby victoire | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chilling-seavey · 6 months ago

Text

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."

#emilys 1.5k celebration!#1031 #pierresteban #pierre gasly #esteban ocon #pierre and esteban #f1 fanfic #f1 #formula 1 #pierresteban fic #ww1 #f1 au #esteban ocon imagine #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly fic #eo31 #pg10 #alpine f1

65 notes · View notes

luveline · 1 year ago

Note

Omg Jade, I’ve been LOVING the asf resurgence ☺️☺️ It hits my heart in all the right ways!!

I was wondering if would please write something showing more of the burrow from asf? Would love to see Molly (alongside Fred ofc!) doting on the reader. Maybe she feels poorly during a gathering? Just an idea - no pressure ofc to respond or to go in this direction. Thank you either way!!! 😊

tysm for ur request!! sorry this took me a whole month ♡ fem!reader, 1.5k

cw mental health issues/ poor eating habits

The popcorn is greasy between your fingers. You look down at a slightly burned kernel without much feeling, giving it a squeeze to listen to the styro-foamy groan as it breaks.

The crumbs fall down the front of your hoodie. The mess is enough to make you feel something other than tired, blinking to attention while you pick tiny bits from your tummy.

Fred's hand reaches over to help. "Whoops," he says, flicking them off of the sofa onto the rug.

"Don't do that," you chastise without any heat, nudging his knee with yours. "Your poor mum will have to clean it up."

"No she won't."

"Are you going to hoover before we go?" you ask.

Fred puts his hand on your thigh for an unapologetic feel. "No. She'd be offended."

It's hard to describe how something as simple and as normal as Fred's hand on your leg can make you feel. Suddenly, you aren't alone in your head, feeling all sorts of awful. There's someone with you.

Fred often laments (with sympathy) that you live in the past. He's not wrong. There are things that haunt you without pulling punches, stuff that makes you feel sick even though you can't remember how it all went anymore. It's like your body has caught hold of the way you felt at the time and is now throwing you into the deep end, no warnings.

George takes the popcorn bowl from your lap, a lazy heist from his positioning on the floor. He, Ron, and Harry play a game of exploding snap that smells like no one's winning by your shoes.

Bill and Fleur sit on bean bags by the fire, their legs interlocked, and the baby (who isn't a baby anymore, actually, a brand new toddler) waddles around the room in footie pyjamas. Every time you see Victoire, you wonder if she's an easy baby, and if you'd be a good mom. If you're even capable.

Things tend to twist from there. Capable in any capacity? You're sure there are a hundred different things that Fred wants from you that he will never be able to have. A girlfriend who doesn't shut down when she's worried. A partner who pulls their weight. You let him down pretty much every day though he doesn't say, in your uselessness. You're awful. He deserves better than someone who's clinging to the bad things that happened to her (though you don't want to cling, you can't seem to make yourself stop).

Fred's hand abandons your thigh. He sits up in his seat on the sofa to wrap his arm behind your neck instead, encouraging your head under his. With the side of his chin pressed to your temple, he doesn't say a word.

Molly appears from the garden with a handful of fresh lemon balm. "Who wants a cup of tea?" she asks.

Her eyes flicker straight for you. Fred told you once that Harry used to be her favourite child. It confused you —family is much more than blood, but still, there's so many to choose from and they're all brilliant, so why Harry?

He was the one who needed the favouritism most, Fred says. Mum has a built-in pain detector. She knows when people need love.

"We'll have a cup of tea," Fred says, rubbing your shoulder.

"Obviously," Molly says, though what's obvious about it escapes you. "Anyone else?"

There's a chorus of requests, most of which you can't keep straight. Molly's brilliant, she doesn't miss a beat. "Lovely," she says with a smile.

"I'll come help you, mum," George says, using your legs as a brace to get up.

You kick him without force in the leg. He turns to you, shooting you an adoring, saccharine smile with hands at his chest curved into a heart shape.

"He's in a mood today," Fred says.

Your sleeves bunch under his hands with every upward swipe. You sit there for a while feeling off. Something is wrong, some pit sucking you in, but nothing's happened. It's been a while since you felt this suddenly sick —you're better than you were, but you aren't better.

"It's okay," Fred says, like he can read your mind. His reassurance kisses warm over your cheek. "Do you want to go home?"

He doesn't seem upset with you. If anything, he's chipper, like he'd love to go home with you. It's a charade for your benefit to erase the guilt that comes with yanking him out of family time, and you don't fall for it.

Yet you can't make yourself smile. You aren't as good of an actor as he is. "No," you mumble, pulling away from his loving embrace to meet his eyes.

He inches closer, hand sliding down your arm.

"I love you," he says very quietly. He's at risk of being heard by three different brothers, each of which might rip him to shreds for being as whipped as he sounds.

You don't not want to say it back. Sometimes it's hard. Fred isn't telling you for a parroting, anyhow, and he doesn't care when you fail to answer.

"Let's go help make tea," he says, standing up. You don't want to move, but you'd rather not stay by yourself. You've no choice but to follow him through the living room and into the kitchen.

"Hi, dearie," Molly says. You realise she's talking to you, not Fred. "You look like you need something to eat. I'll make you something sweet, how does that sound?"

It sounds like a bad idea. "That sounds great."

She nudges George off with his tray of tea to stand in front of you. "There's a good girl," she says, squeezing your elbow. "Fred says you're not eating, but you were fine at breakfast. Feeling better?"

"Mum," Fred says, sending you an apologetic look. "Sorry, I don't mean to gossip about you–"

"No, it's okay. It's nice, it's… a privilege to be worried about," you say, though you wish he wouldn't.

Molly shakes her head, ginger kinks swishing over her shoulders. "It's not a privilege, lovely. That's just what family does, mm? You worry about Freddie, he worries about you, and I'll worry about both of you."

"You don't have to worry about us, mum."

"I know. It's a privilege, though, to be the one worrying," Molly says, offering you a gentle smile.

"Right," you say.

"So stop pretending you're okay and have a seat. Freddie, you better go and get her one of your blankets, I think."

Fred grins and exits the kitchen quickly to avoid giving you time to protest. Ever a people pleaser, you sit down at the table in one of the chairs with a tall back. Molly puts down a cup of tea in front of you, swiftly followed by a plate of biscuits, a toasted, buttered currant scone, and a blueberry muffin sliced down the middle.

That's what gets you. The muffin cut in half, paper peeled away. Molly has no reason to like you; you make Fred happy, but you know you've made him so, so sad, sometimes. You've weighed him down. You're not the best he could've had, but his family don't care. He doesn't care. He loves you enough to breeze into the kitchen with a throw blanket, wrap it around your shoulders, and nestle a kiss behind your ear.

You scramble to grab his arms rather than let him stand again. He startles at first, but he recovers, and his arms curl around your front with enthusiasm that can't be faked.

"I love you," he murmurs. Words slid together like he's tipped them out, impossible to deny. "Try not to wind yourself up, alright? It's a normal day. The only people who matter are you and me, yeah?"

"Yeah," you say through a lump.

"I'll be just in the living room if you need me," Molly says.

"Thanks, mum," Fred says, perching his chin atop your head.

He waits for her to leave and plants a kiss on the highest point of your cheek. When you smile, he tracks them all over. Kiss to your head, your ear, the soft line of your jaw.

"Do you want to talk about something? Or should we think about other things?" he asks.

It's a strange, coddling way to ask if there's something in particular that's upset you, but it's nice to be coddled. Truthfully, there's nothing concrete that hurts. A little bit of everything. The world is busy and life is hard and people aren't always kind, and you'll always be unbalanced by that. Luckily, Fred's there to hold you up, together, whatever you need.

"Do you want half of my muffin?" you ask.

"I'm eyeing up your scone, honestly."

"You can have it if you want it."

Fred hugs you tightly. "And deprive you? No way. I'll settle for the muffin if you feed it to me," he says hopefully.

You twist in your chair, holding a bit of the muffin up for him to eat.

"I love you," you say. In a horror story, a nightmare, your nearly constant thoughts, he scoffs in your face.

Fred swallows roughly. "I know. S'why you're gonna let me have half the scone, too."

It's awfully cheesy, but you'd give him much more than a scone. You'd give him anything he asked you to give.

"Greedy," you say.

"I resent that, ghost."

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #a special friend universe

300 notes · View notes

harryissuchalittleshit · 7 months ago

Note

The next gen kids and...

- who they look like the most (which parent)?

- who are they like the most when it comes to personality (which parent)?

- who (except their parents) are they simillar to?

Victoire

Victoire looks a lot like Fleur when she’s younger and grows to look like her Tante Gabrielle, especially after having children. She’s tall and beautiful, and she grows into her curves and figure.

I would say her personality is a lot like Bill’s and he hates it lol. She’s a rebel with a cause and also a mother hen to her siblings. She does come off as a bit standoffish like Fleur can, but she means well in the end.

I would say she is the most like Ginny, headstrong and stubborn and not afraid to fight for her own rights and happiness.

Dominique

She looks so much like Fleur, just throw on some freckles and a wild mass of red curls she likes to call her lion mane. She is tiny and is often mistaken for being the premee baby of her siblings, not the one that was over ten pounds.

She is just like Bill, a Weasley through and through. She makes fast and rash decisions and it does bite her in the ass, but she grows from it

Speaking of which, I would say she is most like Percy. When it comes down to it, he is defined by his two biggest moments in canon, leaving and coming back. Dominique is made of the same stuff, fitting for the godfather/goddaughter duo

Louis

If you held up a photo of Louis and Bill at sixteen, even Molly would have trouble telling who was who.

He is quiet and calm and delicate, Fleur’s baby through and through. He loves art and to dance and to live his life the way he wants to, even if he has to burn some bridges

Not only is he named after Charlie, they are great friends and pen pals. Louis takes after Charlie like a duck to water and they both enjoy it

Molly

She looks like Audrey, but with those Weasley freckles and brown eyes and that unmistakable shade of gingery-orange hair. Really she and Lucy are the perfect mix of their parents

Molly is so bright and happy and hopeful, very much like her mother and the Hufflepuffs she finds kinship with. She has had so much pain and sadness thrown on her that she needs some happiness and lightness in her life

She’s like George, they both have this warmth and happiness they can bring out of themselves while also holding onto a deep trauma

Lucy

She looks like Percy the same way Molly looks like Audrey. She does have Audrey’s blue eyes but Percy’s eyesight and she does tend to walk a little taller than she really is, but sometimes she needs that extra confidence

Lucy is very emotional, she’ll cry at the drop of a pin and her moods change so quickly from happy to sad to confused to happy to angry, she tends to just let everything out because for so long Molly didn’t or couldn’t

Lucy takes after her “Uncle” Oliver Wood, one of her dad’s closest friends and quite the emotional man (when it comes to his Quidditch team lol)

Freddie

He looks like George, a bit tanner and a little taller, but he looks just like George.

Freddie is a bit troublesome, but not as bad as his dad. He’s playful and silly, but has a tendency to doubt himself at times. He loves deeply and fiercely and will fight for those he does love. He’s a good son to his parents even if he made them grandparents much too young

He takes after Ron really, his confidence goes up and down and he can crack a good joke while being in love with the smartest girl he knows

Roxanne

She looks like her Aunt Roxie, but with some dark red curls she loves to braid and play with

Like her brother she is a bit troublesome and does have some confidence issues. Her issues manifest into a horrible eating disorder and an abusive relationship, but through a lot of work and love she comes out on top

I really feel like she takes after Hermione, she’s stubborn and headstrong and used to being listened to as the smartest person in the room, but her insecurities do hold her back at times

Rose

She looks like Ron, red hair and blue eyes, freckles and that playful smile, but Hermione’s curls and her short stature

Her personality is a great mix of her parents, the good and the bad. She also tends to mother hen her cousins, which they jump on and take advantage of at times

She takes after Harry, he’s her godfather and uncle and in many ways her third parent. She learns so much from him and he’s a great source of comfort to her

Hugo

He looks like Hermione, but he does have the Weasley red hair and he’s sooo tall, the tallest of the Weasley grandsons with only Louis within inches of him

He’s happy, he’s hyper, he loves to have fun and joke around but come exam times, his head is in the books and won’t come out until it’s all over. He is very competitive, but who can blame him when he wants to be the smartest person despite his set backs

He’s like Fred, funny and sweet but sometimes with a mean streak that he hates and a hyperness that holds him back until he overcomes it

James

James is the perfect mix of Harry and Ginny, he has the messy red hair and tan skin and brown eyes and freckles and lanky limbs that are both Potter and Weasley

He is definitely a goof ball, but also has a heart of gold. He is protective and loving and often doesn’t think before he talks, but it doesn’t matter because he’s so good and honest to those he loves. He has made his mistakes, but he honors them and lives up to his names and the men his mother named him after

He is very much like Bill, taking the weight of all the family in his shoulders with pride and love even if he sometimes puts his foot in his mouth

He looks just like Harry, but he had freckles on his nose and cheeks and it reminds Ginny of Fred. She will never compare her second son’s looks to Harry, always her brothers

Al is dramatic and moody and always rolling his eyes, but he loves his family and gets along with everyone despite his dramatics. Rose is his ride or die and she is the reason he made it to adulthood and he knows it

Honestly, I want to say he’s most like Ginny, but if I can’t pick a parent I would say Percy. He is a bit high strung and prideful, he’s ambitious and wanting from the world, but his family comes first over and over and over again

Lily

Merlin she looks like Ginny, she has hazel eyes like her grandfather James and can’t see anything closer than her outstretched hand without her glasses, but honestly she and Ginny could be twins if they were the same age

She is a bit of a brat, being the only girl in her immediate family and then the youngest granddaughter, she takes full advantage of being the baby. But she does grow up and levels out and becomes more than just her wants. She ends up finding a peacefulness in being unknown and called out on her more selfish behavior, and it’s good for her to see reality a bit

He takes after her Grandad Arthur, taking interest in something small but oh so important to her and finding her own ways to be brave and just in front of not only herself and others. She also takes a bit of happiness in hiding away at times, even if she’s always watching

Bonus:

Scorpius

He looks like Draco, but Astoria’s features have made there way in. It’s in the slight tan of his skin tone and the curls of his white blond hair, but otherwise he is all Malfoy

He is literally the kindest and sweetest person, sure he’s also ambitious and cunning, but people notice his presence through his polite and kind demeanor

He takes after Theodore Nott, who has proven himself to be kind and wholesome and a great father. He loves every lost child that comes into his home and has made his home open and accessible to anyone that needs a place to stay, but especially his children’s friends

#next gen harry potter #head canons #harry potter #victoire weasley #dominique weasley #louis weasley #molly weasley #lucy weasley #Freddie Weasley #roxanne weasley #rose weasley #scorpius malfoy #hugo weasley #james sirius potter #albus severus potter #lily luna potter #family

56 notes · View notes