Thanks to a stupid bet, Gaston must get Belle to accept his proposal of marriage in one week or less, or else he has give up hunting for good. But when Belle's father goes away, and Gaston starts laying on the charm, things get... out of hand. (Belleston. Mature-ish AR.)

UPDATED A/N: I told y'all I would finish this story some day. Enjoy the ride. ;)

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Gaston's signature guffaw echoed throughout the tavern, nearly drowned out by the screams of the other patrons. His last joke had ended on a rather risqué note, projecting the entire pub into a riot. The beer had been flowing freely since the sun went down and already everybody was feeling the rush of being tipsy, so they were more susceptible to the hunter's off-color brand of humor than usual.

LeFou had left the tavern some time ago, as the pork loin they'd had for dinner hadn't agreed with his stomach, but even without his hype man Gaston managed to have the entire pub in tears, hanging onto his every word. He was the de facto king of this castle, and he presided over his domain with pride. All his life, he'd had the entirety of the village eating out of his proverbial palm. The nights he spent at the tavern were especially his favorite, when all eyes and ears were on him, and anything he did or said was treated as gospel.

Gaston would've been cut out for politics. With his charms, as well as his luscious hair, debonair smile, dimpled chin, and dashing good looks, he'd fare just as well as any of those stuffy, out-of-touch aristocrats. Probably even better.

Maybe he'd consider running for mayor in the next election.

As the bar quieted down, the conversation began to shift to the subject of Gaston's last punchline: women. One woman, in particular, was always a hot topic in the village, and the discussion seemed to shift naturally to focus on her, as it often did.

"That girl is strange, no question," one man said.

"Strange, but special!" another added.

"No denying she's a funny girl, that Belle," a woman near the front muttered wistfully.

"It's a pity and a sin, she doesn't quite fit in," the older woman beside her agreed.

Belle, the inventor's daughter. Arguably the most beautiful girl in their poor provincial town in France, she was also the most unusual, with an unbecoming habit of always reading.

"She's always got that dreamy, far-off look."

"And 'er nose stuck in a book!"

"Well, it's no wonder that her name means 'beauty!' Her looks have got no parallel."

"But behind that fair façade, I'm afraid she's rather odd."

A pensive look came over Gaston's face where he sat at the head of the room, his blue eyes narrowing as he listened to the side conversations as they happened around him. It was true: for a woman, Belle was odd, but what did a little abnormality mean to Gaston? Aphrodite's legendary beauty surely paled in comparison to Belle's, and that's all that mattered: beauty. Attractiveness. Good looks.

Good looks meant good breeding. Good breeding meant strong, healthy sons. Heirs to Gaston's name and lineage. His bloodline deserved–nay, required–the best brooding mare there was. And Belle certainly fit the bill.

But Belle was a challenge, a closed book that Gaston couldn't read even if he managed to pry the covers apart. Prior to meeting Belle, he'd never encountered a conquest that he couldn't… well, conquer. That's what Belle was: a conquest. Something to be conquered. A prize to be both won and possessed. She'd be the perfect trophy to add to his collection.

Trophy wife, that is.

The thought had never occurred to Gaston before, and he slowly straightened up in his seat as it dawned on him. It only made sense that the two handsomest people in town should marry, and then go on to have handsome children together. The bulging hunter could see it now: waltzing about town with Belle on his arm, showing her off. She'd be the perfect barefooted wife, content to spend her days cooking and cleaning and breeding. Doting on his every whim.

He could picture her: reaching up on tiptoes to polish his hunting trophies above the fireplace, her tight little behind straining against the fabric of her house dress, the hem of her skirt lifting just enough from the effort to show a teasing taste of lacy bloomers…

And then she'd turn and catch him staring, and she'd smile as she patted her pregnant belly, happy to see her husband. Happy to serve him.

And his chest would swell with pride at having such a beautiful wife, who bore him such beautiful sons.

Gaston's mind was made up: he deserved Belle and Belle alone. There could be no other.

But her nose was always stuck in those damn books, filling her head with useless stories and ideas, ruining any prospects of marriage she may have had. She was so distracted, in fact, that she had yet to notice Gaston for the prime male specimen that he was. It seemed that, unlike the other maidens in their town, Belle wasn't preoccupied with finding a suitable match for a husband. In fact, she didn't seem concerned with finding a suitor and getting hitched at all.

He'd have to concoct a way to get her to notice him.

After all, he could be her very last chance at ensuring a good-looking, youthful husband for herself. She wasn't getting any younger, and the other eligible bachelors in town had all written her off as a lost cause long ago. Hell, Gaston would be doing Belle a disservice if he didn't try his damnedest to court her now. Otherwise, she could end up with some miserly old widower with nothing but gambling debts to his name.

Or she'd remain a spinster for the rest of her days. Despite her quirks, Belle deserved better than that for her beauty alone. It would be a shame, Gaston reasoned, to have such beauty go to waste.

Yes, he would be doing her a favor. How charitable of him.

"What's on your mind, Gaston?" someone from the back shouted out. It was unusual for him to sit on his throne, silent rather than regaling them with tales of the hunt or bragging about the stories behind his trophies. The talk in the room simmered down and a few people chuckled as everybody looked to the alpha male expectantly. Gaston smirked, enjoying the attention as he prepared to announce his plan.

"I've decided," he started, slowly, rubbing his chin. "I've decided… to make Belle my wife."

The tavern was still for a moment before everyone burst into laughter. A couple of exceptionally drunk men rolled to the floor, giggling and screeching and holding their guts to keep them from splitting open. A flood of anger rushed over Gaston and he rose to a defensive stance, flexing his muscles.

No one laughed at Gaston!

"What's so funny?" he demanded, his voice overtaking the buzz. When no one responded right away, afraid of saying the wrong thing, he whipped his mug across the room. A swaying man unfortunate enough to be in its path was struck directly in the dome, and he went down like a bag of sand. Shocked, everyone in the room looked to see if the man was okay. When he began snoring on the floor, they turned back to Gaston.

"You think she's the marrying type?" a woman asked.

"You must've had a hunting accident!" a man shouted.

Gaston scoffed as an old man began waving money in the air.

"I have ten francs on Belle!"

"I'll bet five on Maurice!"

"Five on her horse!"

"I bet she won't even talk to you!"

"I bet she'd rather marry a book!"

"I bet she's already married to a book!"

"I hear that's legal in Germany!"

People began drunkenly voicing their opinions left and right, placing bets and throwing money down in good humor, and Gaston hollered for them to shut their mouths. He was almost insulted. This was his idea, and that meant it had to be a damn good one.

"I bet I could win her!" Gaston retaliated when they refused to stop. More chastising followed.

"Oui, in seven years!"

"More like seventy!"

"Only if you bought her a library!"

The hunter's thick fist hit the table. His ego spewed forth like a thunderous waterfall before he could stop it.

"Seven days!" Gaston challenged. The crowd gasped in a collective wave, before falling deathly silent all at once. Some money hurriedly exchanged hands.

A short man near the bar was the first who dared to speak: "Seven days?"

"Seven. Days," Gaston reiterated.

"Only one week?"

"One week," he reassured them.

"Wha's the wager?" a drunken man questioned as he stumbled up to Gaston, looking him squarely in the face with a single open eye. The rest of the pub watched with bated breath, waiting for Gaston to lay the stakes.

"If I succeed, and Belle agrees to become my wife by the end of the week, then every single one of you–" he scrolled a finger through the air, drawing his accusing point from left to right, making eye contact with every soul in the room, "–then you'll all attend the wedding, and openly declare how great I am in front of my new bride. You'll all grovel at my feet, publicly, and pay five francs each."

A murmur went through the crowd.

"And… if you don't succeed?" a new voice piped up.

Gaston scowled. "I'll buy every man here a round."

This elicited a dissatisfied response.

"We can get our own beer," a man with a gravelly voice spat. "Them's hardly stakes worth gamblin' on!"

Both agreement and argument rippled through the rancorous group; Gaston's frown deepened.

"Fine," he acquiesced, squeezing the arms of his antlered chair. "If I don't succeed in making Belle my wife by week's end, then I'll… give up hunting."

A loud gasp shook the room. Somewhere at the end of the bar, a glass toppled to the floor and shattered.

"Forever?" the drunken man asked, wide-eyed, from where still leaned against the beam nearest to Gaston.

"For. Ever," he confirmed, an unworried smug plastered across his face; he was confident he wouldn't fail, therefore he needn't be concerned with taking such a gamble. He'd never lost a bet before, and he definitely didn't plan to lose this one. Winning Belle for a wife was a challenge that was low risk, high reward.

Right?

An older gentleman in the back raised his beer in a toast. "The name of the game: win Belle's heart. You have one week from today, M'sieur Gaston. Here's a drink to you!"

"Hear, hear!"

Everybody cheered and toasted, clinking their glasses together. The jokes and jabs at both Gaston's and Belle's expense started coming in droves, causing Gaston's attitude to sour quickly. They didn't believe he could do it. He would show them.

Gaston never failed at anything he set his mind to.

He marched for the door, receiving words of support and enthusiasm and slaps on the back for good luck along the way. A trio of blonde women informed him that they'd agree to be his wives in only one day, but Gaston shrugged them off. As he reached the bold, oak doors of the tavern and gripped the wrought-iron handle, he turned back to the room.

"I'll have Belle for my wife. Make no mistake about that!"

And with that, he stormed out of the tavern and slammed the door, leaving behind a crowd of roaring, piss-drunk imbeciles. He fumed the entire walk home, his fists pumping at his sides as he marched through the darkened cobblestone streets. When he stopped on the outskirts of town and turned back, he could see the faint light coming from Belle's cottage in the opposite direction. He wondered what she could be doing at that moment, but didn't have to wonder long before deciding that she was probably doing what she always did: reading some godforsaken book.

He snorted and shook his head; she was so predictable. Luring such a simple woman, with such a one-track mind, into the trap of marriage would be easy enough. All Gaston needed to do was guide her in the right direction, like a shepherd herding one of his wayward lambs, pushing and prodding her until she saw his side of things.

Belle would be his. The idiots of the village would see soon enough. And, once he succeeded, Gaston would be sure to lord it over all of them for as long as he lived.