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Francoeur is a flea after all

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Tw:blood đЏ
Francoeur is a flea after all

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taken from a little comic i made for them a while back
oh to be a nonverbal autistic silly little flea dehumanized by everyone i encounter and called a literal monster.
francoeur is a fucking brilliant character.
their setup for his true reveal is genuinely phenomenal.
the way she falls and he immediately catches her. the music stops like everything is resetting. because up until that moment everything visual and auditory in the film has been trying to depict him as a monster. his adorable chirps warped into terrifying alien growling and his gentle sweet appearance stripped down to just his eyes and towering silhouette. one of most textbook ways to dehumanize a person is to remove their face. we dont get to see his face until the big reveal, already serving to make us rethink him as a character.
and then she falls
and he immediately catches her
THE WAY YOU CAN REWATCH AND SEE HOW HES JUST TRYING TO PEACEFULLY INTERACT WITH PEOPLE. HE WAS DRAWN IN BY THE SOFT MUSIC OF THE OLD LADY'S PHONOGRAPH AND PERCHES ON HER BALCONY TO LISTEN, BUT SHE SCREECHES AND HE JUMPS AWAY, PETRIFIED.
HE TRIED TO PUT HIS HAND ON THE MANS SHOULDER TO CALM HIM DOWN, BUT HE PULLS BACK UNTIL ALL FRANCOEUR HAS IS HIS COAT, AND HES JUST SO CONFUSED. HE JUST STARES AT THE COAT, CURIOUS BUT ABSOLUTELY DUMBFOUNDED.
HE DESERVES THE WORLD HONESTLY.
based off that barbie redraw going around twitter :}
HES DONE HES DONE
He has his orange-yellow eyes, freckles, spines on legs arms and back and ridges on his chest plate

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The Stories We Cannot Tell
AO3 Summary: an alternative ending to Un Monstre Ă Paris.
There was once a monster in Paris.
People whispered its stories across well-lit kitchen tables and around warm fireplaces. The tales told of a beast as black as the night sky, with eyes made from glowing red embers. With sharp teeth and talons that could rip you to shreds with a single swipe.Â
Some say the beast was brought here from a hellish otherworld- to teach us a lesson that we had long forgotten. Others say that it was a lonesome sort of creature that traveled between towns, in search of a home it would never find. But all stories were quite clear on one thingâ the monster had fallen in love with an angel.
Paris was a city of romantics at heart, and no other option made itself viable for why the creature had not harmed her, and so it came to be told that she was the reason it was ultimately slew. They say that she had seen the hideous face of the beast and had not flinched; had tempered its fury with her cool, lilting voice; tamed itâ saved itâ with her grace. And then they would give in to sleep knowing that all was right with the world, and that even monsters could be pardoned in the end.
But the stories were only half-truths dressed in white lies, failing to mention many thingsâ things that, of course, the public would otherwise choose not to dwell on. For example, they failed to mention the sudden surge of reporters and citizens alike, flooding the doors of the Rare Bird Cabaret, vying for the chance to see the blessed angel in person.
They failed to mention that only melancholic music poured from her lips now, and that despite the ivory creams and powders that dusted her skin, the angelâs eyes were always rimmed red.
They failed to mention that the Hero of Paris (its once-illustrious mayor) was carted away into an asylum; his maniacal laughter haunting the ears of all who dared a glance at him when he was taken.Â
They failed to mention the torn red scarf lying on the cobbled pavement, victim to the downpour, and the wheels and hooves of carriages alike. Or the man that reached out and gently folded it away into his coatâ his tears bleeding into the raindrops that trickled down his cheeks.
They failed to mention that the monster had a name.
âFrancoeurâ
It was a breath in the wind; too quiet for any of the townspeople to hear, but too loud an echo in the angelâs barren heart. Lucille pressed her forehead against the window glass with a sigh and felt the cold leech into her skin.Â
It was days like these where she wanted nothing more than to stand under the teary grey sky and feel the rain caress her face, her soul. And not for the first time that day, she wondered wether that is what it felt like to die.
âLucille?â
The rain had not let up since his death, and it was not long before the people of Paris had begun to wonder wether they would have another flood on their hands.Â
Alarms were raised and the Government had been alerted, but there seemed to be little they could do to prevent a disaster that had not yet occurred. It was one of the few long-running conversations sheâd picked up from the patrons of the Cabaretâ when they werenât discussing the âmonsterâ or the mayorâs sudden disappearance from the office, of course.
Paris, she knew, loved to gossip. Everyday (for the past few months now) people had come to hear her singâ her Aunt couldnât have been more thrilledâ and to ask her about the rumors.Â
Did it hurt you? How did the monster die? You saw its face didnât you? Did it have fangs? Claws that could rip you in half?
He was gentle, she would say to anyone who stayed long enough to listen. He was gentle and he was kind. He would never hurt anyone.
They would smile at her, pat her arm or nod sympathetically and then they would go home with tales of the angelâs famed forgiveness and how she couldnât help but see the good in everyoneâ even a monster. They would hear her, but they would never listen.
She wore her mourning like she had all her lifeâ blatantly upon her sleeve for all to gaze upon. If they chose to, that is. After all, people would only ever see what they wanted to see; and no one had wanted to see that the angel had loved the monster too.
âDarling?â
Lucille peeled herself away from the soothing chill and turned to find her Aunt Carlotta beaming at her as though she had just won the loterie. In her hand was a crisply folded piece of paper to which she kept glancing.
âWhatâs wrong?â Lucille asked finally, turning towards the dressing table to grab the most cumbersome portion of her costumeâ the snow-white wings. Somehow they had never felt heavier.Â
âWhatâs wrong? No my dear girlâ whatâs right! What is absolutely right!â Her aunt said excitedly as she tucked the piece of paper away and reached over to help her into her getup.
âIndeed?â
âThereâs a man outsi-â
âOh Aunt Carlotta, not this againââ the girl groaned.Â
Since the disastrous proposal from the mayor, Carlotta had been actively seeking a husband for her niece; her search consisting of only the most influential men in France. Lucille had rejected every suitor that had come her way so farâ even Raoul hadnât dared yet approach her.
âMa chĂŠrie, I know that youâre not willing to be married yet, but this man is a Duke! He would make sure you want for nothing!â
âOr so he saysâ, Lucille thought peevishly.
They all had promised the same thing; fortune, security, a loyal heart that would not stray, but Lucille was no fool. She had seen the way their eyes had lingered a little too long on her waist or the curve of her chestâ and had made sure they knew where she thought rats, like them, belonged. But dismissing the hope in her auntâs eyes was too heavy a burden this time.
âVery well, Aunty,â she caved, âI shall give him a chance.â
Carlotta nearly shrieked, pressing a quick kiss on her nieceâs forehead before she lead Lucille out by the hand; exchanging sly smiles with the waiters going in the opposite direction.Â
The Rare Bird Cabaret was swathed in red silk and darknessâ making it seem like perpetual nighttimeâ lit only by the warm glow of the candles that lined the stage and dotted each table. A heavy velvet curtain was draped across the stage, signaling that the show had not yet begun and Lucille repressed a bone-deep shudder at the sight of it.
Lately, she had been losing her desire to sing or even set foot on stage again. Its worth had begun to wear thin, or perhaps Lucille had not quite realized how vast the stage was; or how empty. She refrained from telling her aunt for fear of causing her any more worry, but waking up each morning to stand in front of the crowd had become a trial in itself.
Her next show began in five-and-ten minutes, so she wasnât all surprised to see the numerous tables already filled with men and women from the farthest corners of the country, trading smiles and stories alike. Everyone, from shifty-looking reporters to even shiftier-looking politicians were there.
Carlotta led her backstage, pressing another kiss on her nieceâs forehead with the promise of meeting the elusive âDukeâ after the show.Â
âHe wants to hear you sing,â her aunt grinned. Lucille tried her best not to roll her eyes. Of course he did.
Then the rich, crimson curtains sprung open and the angel stepped forward and began to sing.
âŚ
The audience hardly stirred as the song came to a close, their eyes limned with tears and Lucille took a small bow as the curtains swept back into place and hid her from view.Â
Hastily drying her own stained cheeks with the sleeves of her ivory gown, Lucille shrugged off the wings and mentally prepared herself to meet her suitor. One of the waiters ushered her down the stage and up the stairs, into one of the more private balconies, informing her that her mother would meet her hereâ apparently with her choice for Lucilleâs husband-to-be.
The guests had begun shifting, talking amongst themselves again, and Lucille peered over the balcony, hands firmly clutching the rail, trying to happen upon anyone she recognized. She thought she saw Emileâs trademark olive-green top hat and Maudâs luscious black curls, but before she could get a closer look, a voice startled her from behind.
âCareful,â it sounded distinctly masculine, âyou donât have your wingsâ
Lucille pursed her lips and turned, ready to scold him for sneaking up on her like that, but when she beheld the figure her heart very nearly stopped. A man ducked under the balustrade entryway; dressed in a white three-piece suit with a soft blue scarf around his neck, a broad white hat covering most of his face. He almost looked likeâ
âFrancoeur?!â
The figure stopped for a second, bemused, before carefully removing his hat from his head and pressing it to his heart with a small bow; revealing a strong-jawed, dark-eyed, and entirely human face. Any ember of hope Lucille had been harboring, flickered out in her chest.
âYou know my name,â he sounded surprised, raising from his bow to meet her defeated gaze.Â
âI- uh.. of course!â Lucille fumbled, gripping the balcony railing in order to steady both her heart and her legs, the latter which showed signs of giving out from underneath her.
âWho wouldnât recognize the Duke of.. ummââ
âSauvilleâ he cut in smoothly, the twitch of his lips betraying amusement.
âRight, of course,â she managed to choke out, quickly pulling out a chair to sink into. It felt as though her lungs were collapsing under the weight of her whole body at that moment.
âPlease!â she gestured, a little too enthusiastically, âhave a seat!â
He sat gracefully, his brown eyes studying her, like a cat, as she composed herself.Â
He was not her Francoeur. Her Francoeur was dead. The thought alone drove the redness from her cheeks and the flutter from her heart. Cautiously, Lucille returned his gaze.Â
Now that the initial shock had worn off, she was able to make out an olive-toned complexion and a head full of night-dark hair. The Duke was quite handsome.Â
âForgive me,â he said, once the silence wore thin, âIt was rude of me to startle you soâ
And, apparently, a gentleman.
Lucille waved away his apology as gracefully as she could; she was glad he couldnât see her legs quaking under the table.
âA curious ensemble for a Duke,â she pointed out, finally getting a grip on her voice. The manâ Francoeurâ smiled, as though they were sharing a secret.Â
âWell, I do have a soft spot for the theatricalâÂ
Was he teasing her?
âWhat brings you here, Monsieur?â
âThe same as everyone else, I suppose.â
A glint of mischief in those dark eyes. Oh, he was most definitely teasing her.
Lucille frowned.
âAnd what might that be?â
âI came to see the Angel of Montmartre,â he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if daring her to ask. So she did.
âAnd?â
âShe is beautifulâ he said simply.
Lucille couldnât stop the heat from rising into her cheeks now. Suddenly glad for the dark ambience of the Cabaret, she hid her embarrassment behind a cloth napkin, dabbing uselessly at her mouth in an attempt to get her bearings.
âI hope you do not intend to propose, Monsieurâ
âWhatever gave you that idea, Mademoiselle?â He seemed to be trying very hard to suppress a smile.
âJust a hunchâ
âHow wonderful,â Carlotta barged in before he could reply, âYou two have already met!â
âMadame!â
âAunt Carlotta!âÂ
Both of them rose at the same time to greet her aunt, who gestured for them to sit down for heavenâs sake, and hurried away, insisting that the staff uncork their best bottle of champagne because Lucille hadnât spent more than five minutes with any of the other suitors and he was the one, Iâm sure!
The couple exchanged glances and Lucille was pleasantly surprised to find Francoeur noticeably pink, akin to a scolded child.Â
âAunty can be little too enthusiastic sometimes,â Lucille smiled, easing away the tension as they both resumed their seats. Francoeur ducked his head gratefully, relieved from the task of replying. For the first time since he arrived, Lucille looked past him and caught a glimpse of an instrument lounging against the rouge wallpaper.
âForgive me for asking,â Lucille ventured, âbut do you play?â
Francoeur caught her pointed glance at the guitar behind him and smiled.
âNot for everyoneâ
Lucille had to keep her lips from twitching at that and leaned a little closer to her white-clad companion.Â
âWill you play for the Angel of Montmartre?â
He met her gaze with one of equal playfulness, and winked.
âFor you, Mademoiselle? Anything.â
âBut firstââ her grin faltered, âI think this belongs to youâ
Lucille gaped as the man pulled out a bedraggled red scarf, worn thin by rain and Parisian streets, from inside his white coat. She hardly dared to breath, as he held it out to her under the buttery glow of the candle.
It was the scarf Francoeurâ her Francoeurâ was wearing when she first met him; and the same one he had on when he died. Tears lined Lucilleâs eyes and for a brief, terrible moment, she thought she was going to cry.
âWhere..â She couldnât finish her sentence.
Francoeurâs eyes twinkled again.
âMademoiselle,â he began, placing the red piece of cloth on the table between them.
âIs it too late to tell you a story?â
Attention My (and soon to be yours) Monster boyfriend resume: This is FrancĹur from A Monster in Paris (you can watch it on tubi for free)
FrancĹur the total package he sings, he sweet , tall, he make the cutest noises, also he's french. Buggy Boyfreind material. For example
IMAGINE: Days ago you encountered a monsterous flea creature that terrified you so much, you leave the city and when you come back you find out hes now a singer named FrancĹur at the local cabaret then you start seeing him every where at the market, on walks and so on. You start hanging out with him then you know him, you find out how much of a softy he is despite having an exoskelton. Slowly but surely you start to fall in love and you see love's hold on FrancĹur first hand.
Like there is so much potential for fanfics heres some more pictures.
God he tall
Also his French voice actor, Matthieu Chedid could probably stir some feeling inside yall too. He's also very sweet and tall.( âĄâżâĄ âĄ) insert diagram of my crush on FrancĹur to my crush on Matthieu Chedid timeline.
Here's his channel on youtube for some musical inspo.
Go crazy. And Happy writing
@badlywritten-stuff2
For mentioning this earlier and inspiring me to write this post