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Gaston was many things. He was a lover and a fighter. He was a hunter, and a drinker, a sparkling conversationalist and a nearly godlike specimen of masculine beauty. He was not a florist.
But when the girl he intended to marry told him she’d reconsider his suit if he brought her a rose from the ruined castle in the woods, that was a different story. And when she’d slammed the door and muttered, loud enough for him to hear, “That’s gotten rid of him for a few days at least,” that was a different story altogether.
He’d get her a rose. He’d get her a dozen roses. He’d fill her bedroom with roses, and present himself on the bed, artfully strewed with petals—he’d get LeFou to do the artful strewing. No one got rid of Gaston that easily.
Still—he wished he’d left the village a bit earlier in the morning. The walk through the woods had been pleasant enough, with the sun shining and the birds singing. Gaston had manfully stayed focused on his mission and not taken a shot at any of them. And climbing over the castle walls had been invigorating. The only problem was, it had taken him all afternoon. The sun was setting by the time he found the shattered greenhouse. Wind whistled mournfully through the cracks, and the jagged teeth of glass glinted red and orange. It was—well, it was spooky.
But damned if he was going to go back empty-handed now. He slipped through one of the broken panes, getting half-a-dozen shallow cuts in the process. Brambles caught at his hair as he strode along the weed-choked paths. Finally, swarming up a trellis and over the remains of a domed roof, he saw what he was looking for.
The trellis creaked and swayed under his weight when he started to climb it. Swallowing, Gaston took another step and reached out for a rose. A low growl erupted behind him, and he promptly fell on his ass into a clump of thorns.
In another moment, he was back on his feet, blunderbuss in his hands, scanning the bushes where the noise had come from. A flash of dark fur, of pale curled horn, and Gaston shot. Screw roses, anyway—what girl could resist the freshly severed head of some majestic forest creature? He raised his blunderbuss for another try when a great clawed hand struck it away from him. The other hand was around his throat, lifting him off the ground seemingly with no effort.
“You’re trespassing,” rumbled the beast in a deep and sexy voice—Gaston meant a deep and scary voice—which is to say that the voice had no effect on him whatsoever. “And you shot at me.”
“No—please—” Gaston tried to say. It came out more like “Ngh—ghlz—” Gaston had once wrestled a five-point stag into submission with his bare hands, but this beast dragged him along with no more concern for his struggles than if Gaston had been a kitten that the beast intended to drown. Thankfully, Gaston didn’t see any ponds on his jouncing journey across the grounds. Instead, the beast took him to a dungeon, threw open the door of one of the cells, and tossed him in.
Gaston landed in a heap in the corner, and rubbed his abused throat. “What . . .” he coughed and tried again. “Whatever you’re planning to do with me, you won’t get away with it.”
“Do?” snarled the beast, slamming the door shut again and fastening the bolt. “I’m not going to do anything. You can rot, for all I care.”
Gaston flung himself against the bars of his cell. “Wait!” he cried. But there was no answer, except echoes from the empty dungeon.
***
“You must have a word with him,” said Mrs. Potts sternly.
“Don’t want to have a word with him,” the beast sulked. “I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”
“But you ‘ave to do somesing!” wailed Babette. “‘E nearly pulled out all my feazers!”
“What were you doing there, anyway?” said the beast. “I don’t need my dungeons dusted.”
Babette tossed her head. “Zat is not ze point.”
The beast snorted. It was easy enough to see why Babette had been risking her feathers in the muck of the dungeon. Babette had always had an eye for handsome men; she would not have overlooked the prisoner’s lean, muscled legs, his broad expanse of chest, his thick, dark hair that you itched to run your fingers through—not that Babette had fingers, as such, nowadays.
The beast looked at his hands and turned them over unhappily. His own fingers were not much good for running through hair, either.
Lumiere unwisely chose this moment to speak. “Enh, Master,” he said, “zere is somesing in what zey say. You cannot simply—”
“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do,” barked the beast.
Lumiere went even paler than wax, and began to edge backwards, gesticulating rapidly. “Of course not, Master,” he said. “I didn’t mean to say—”
“Then why are you still TALKING?” the beast roared. “Get out! All of you! Leave me ALONE!”
They did, and the beast took out his feelings on inanimate furniture instead. In about half an hour, he had a fair pile of kindling, and felt somewhat calmer.
That afternoon, his tea was cold, and the biscuits stale leftovers. His dinner was late, and burnt. His bed, when he retired to it, was unmade, and the books on his bedside table pointedly un-dusted. Grumbling under his breath, the beast went to visit his prisoner.
He made his most terrifying entrance when he got to the cell—creeping along on all fours, then drawing himself up to his full height with a roar. But the prisoner just settled against the wall, tilted his head back, and began to pick his teeth. And where in those tight pants or shirt had he found room to hide so much as a toothpick—the beast hated being ignored. He hated it so much it was giving him an erection.
“You,” the beast snarled, “have been interfering with my servants.”
“I haven’t seen a single servant since you brought me here,” said the prisoner. “I’m in a dungeon, remember? Or is the whole castle this much of a dump?”
The beast refused to be distracted, either by the prisoner’s insults or by the way the torchlight played on the chiseled planes of his face. “A teacup,” the beast said, holding his hands slightly apart, “this high. Chip on the rim. His mother found him passed out in a puddle of cheap brandy. He didn’t get that from my cellars.”
“I’m not responsible for how your dishes decide to spend their time,” sneered the prisoner. “Do I look like a busboy?”
The beast dropped his voice to a quiet rasp. “You look,” he said, reaching through the bars to trace one claw along the prisoner’s jaw, “Delicious.”
The prisoner swallowed, unsettled at last. “Whereas you,” he said, nearly succeeding in regaining his former cool, “would look marvelous stuffed and mounted next to my fireplace.”
That did it. The beast threw open the door of the cell and stalked inside. “The only one getting mounted around here is you,” he growled.
The prisoner scrambled to his feet and backed up against the wall, but his clothing was entirely inadequate to hide his body’s response to this suggestion.
The beast grinned and moved closer, close enough to feel the heat of the prisoner’s skin. “Magnificent man like you,” the beast whispered, “how many delicate young maidens have you bedded, how many slender, blushing boys? But none of them could have held you down with one hand and taken you, whether you wanted it or not. And you do want it. Don’t you?”
The prisoner’s breath was coming hard and fast, now. “No!” he said. The beast backed off, fractionally, and they stood like that for a time.
“Well?” said the prisoner.
The beast laughed, and it shook the bars of the cell. “I’m many things, little man,” he said. “I’m a beast, and a slob, and a terrible companion when I’m in a temper. I am, I suppose, a kidnapper. But I’m not a rapist.”
“Fine!” the prisoner snapped. “I want it! Satisfied?”
The beast pulled the prisoner toward him. He wasn’t gentle with his claws this time, and the fine fabric of the prisoner’s clothes tore and shredded beneath them. The prisoner gave a low grunt, half pain, half lust. “No,” purred the beast, “but I will be.”
It had been so long since the beast had—well, the beast had never, come to that. Never fucked anything other than his fist. Before the beast, that was a different story. Then, young and—let’s face it—obnoxious as he had been, there were courtiers willing enough, as much for his golden looks as for his princely station. But that was past and gone, an impossible fairy tale. The only real thing now was this: the sour mildew smell of the dungeon, and sharp tang of sweat, the uneven stone floor biting against his legs, and the man pushing back against him, lovely and strong and slick and hot. It wasn’t fair—but it was something better—and the beast howled and raked one hand down the man’s chest as he plunged again and again, faster, deeper, past resentment and memory and everything other than pleasure.
Afterwards, spent and nearly relaxed, the beast trailed his fingers along the prisoner’s body where he lay sprawled on the floor. His legs were well-furred, for a human, and his ass was a firm, warm handful. The beast casually flipped the prisoner over to find a thick pink cock very much ready for action. But his chest—“You’re bleeding,” rumbled the beast.
“No shit, Newton,” hissed the prisoner. “Hey! What are you doing? That’s filthy—don’t stop,” he said as the beast licked at his wounds. The salt, metallic blood was tasty, and watching the prisoner writhe beneath him was tastier. “Jesus,” the prisoner breathed, “have you got opium on your tongue—” and then the words dissolved into soft incoherent mumbles. The prisoner bucked against the beast’s chest, the hands curled around his horns shoved insistently downward, and eventually the beast complied. The thick pink cock was tasty as well.
The prisoner grunted and thrust himself desperately, four times, five times, smooth skin against the beast’s raspy tongue, and then went limp. The beast swallowed and straightened his back. The prisoner was already snoring, in a heap on the floor with his clothes in tatters around him.
Lumiere was right—the beast couldn’t just keep the prisoner in the dungeon forever. Sex in a bed would be ever so much more comfortable. He resolved to speak to the candlestick about it—a bedroom for the prisoner, that was, not sex—first thing in the morning. But before he lumbered off to bed, he stopped to check on his rose.
“One petal left,” he sighed, leaning a hand heavily against the glass.
“Yes, Master,” said Cogsworth—damn it, was he to get no peace from his servants? “Your birthday is in a week, and we thought—that is, all of us were wondering, er, if you’ve made any progress on the whole, ah, falling in love thing.”
“Forget it,” growled the beast. “It’s not going to happen. Enjoy being a clock.”
“Yes, Master,” said Cogsworth. “But—”
“But you do seem to be, ‘ow shall we say, somewhat fond of ze young man in ze dungeons,” Lumiere put in smoothly. “Per’aps ‘e . . .”
“HIM?” shouted the beast. “That trespassing, rose-poaching, insulting—” infuriating, exciting, sexy—?
“Well,” said Mrs. Potts reasonably, “it’s not as if there were anyone else.”
“OUT!” roared the beast, and the three servants fled. Beneath them, the floor shook with—not more shouts, as usual—but laughter. It was twice as disturbing as the shouts, and they were almost relieved when the laughs turned abruptly into sobs.
“Well! Who would have thought?” said Mrs. Potts. “I was sure a girl would do for him—a sweet young lady to gentle his temper. It’s a tale as old as time, you know.”
“Per’aps,” Lumiere said, draping an arm around Cogsworth’s shoulders, who winced at the dripping wax. “But zis is a different story.”