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Dear Karma: Fuck You	By : Madame_Lazla Category: +1 through F > Beauty and the Beast (Disney) > Beauty and the Beast (Disney) Views: 4890 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: : I do not own Gaston, Le Fou, Adam, Belle, Lumiére, Cogsworth or anything from the Beauty and the Beast fandom. I only own the dirtiness and the occasional OCs. I also gain no monetary satisfaction from this.

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- 1-Dear Karma: Fuck You
- 1
Title: Dear Karma: Fuck You
Author: Madame Lazla
Rating: R - M
Warnings: AU; slash; swearing; explicit sex; bondage; bits of BDSM; voyeurism; threesome; humiliation; hipster!Belle my poor attempt at American college life and first-person narrative.
Fandom: Beauty and the Best
Pairing: Adam/Gaston; Adam/ a LOT of OMCs…, Gaston/??
Disclaimer: I do not own Gaston, Le Fou, Adam, Belle, Lumière, Cogsworth or anything from the Beauty and the Beast fandom. I only own the dirtiness and the occasional OCs. I also gain no monetary satisfaction from this.
Summary: The universe has a sick, twisted sense of ‘justice’. Take that scrawny little shit I used to mess around…
A/N: This was a little experiment of mine - a University AU of Beauty and the Beast. I'm currently still writing it so updates may be sparse. It also takes place in Dallas, Texas (been watching too much A-List...). Note that the B&B cast is still French - just French-American now! ^_^
Also, a million apologies if it sounds bizarre. I am unaware of how Americans speak (being South African and all).
****
1. Status Quo
“Good run boys. Keep this up and we might actually make it into the league this year,” coach McDonald yells at our backs as we head for the showers. His name’s really not MacDonald or anything – we just call him that because he’s ginger, he has an afro and – well – he’s a bit of a joke in general. And you know what they say: a football team is only as good as their coach...
I wouldn’t care about it so much if my future didn’t depend on a major-league scout watching me play. ‘Cause I have the talent to bag a position with, say, Dallas Cowboys – I know I do. Hell, MacDonald knows I do or he wouldn’t have made me the best damn quarterback this college has ever seen. All I need is just one shot at the big time, otherwise it’s good ol’ Accounting and Economics for me. And I am not built like a god to sit behind a desk for 60 years of my life.
“Boy, am I beat!” we’re not even safely stashed in the locker rooms, but LeFou’s got most of his kit off, grinning like a maniac. He punches my forearm lightly, “What do you say, Gaston? Wanna grab a few beers?”
I punch him back, harder so he stumbles and trips. I hate it when he jokes around, as if we’re on the same level. I don’t care if we’ve been best friends for, like, years – linebackers don’t get chummy with quarterbacks. They just don’t. Don’t look at me like that. I’m a good friend. Just, y’know, not when we’ve got our uniforms on. Gotta keep work and pleasure separate.
As expected, the loveable fool straightens up, smiling as if nothing happened, “Well? Whaddaya say? Only a few ones, though. Potts sent us a heck of an assignment and I haven’t even touched the readings!”
“No,” I rip my shirt off and yank my locker open. I take a moment to gaze into my reflection. I don’t mean to brag or come out arrogant or anything, but I’m – what’s that word that English Lit one-night-stand said? – Adonis incarnate. Which means I’m pretty hot – I researched it. Girls LOVE me. Guys want to BE me. And yet, I make it all look simple. And I’m humble as fuck too.
LeFou does that thing with his lips where he sticks out the bottom one and makes it shake. On a girl, it’s cute. On LeFou…it’s a pass-the-barf-bag kind of thing. “But Gastoooooooon! When was the last time we actually hung out? C’mon, it’ll be fun! We’ll grab a couple beers, grope a few girls and get home in time to copy-paste something off Google!”
“What part of ‘no’ were you not clear about? Because I swear I said it in English!” I wriggle on my skintight black T-shirt. Not that I’m an ass-plugger. Gross. I just, y’know, love to flaunt my abs around a bit. LeFou’s still at my locker, looking three kinds of betrayed. A part of me wants to go, really. It’d be good to sit in a bar for a bit, get a cutie, fill her tank if you know what I mean…but Potts is randsoming my pass – and thus my sport scholarship – for a relatively decent essay on something or other about a subject I won’t actually need to know when I’m rich and banging models. Have you ever noticed that – the sheer amount of shit we learn but never need? And in the end, it’s who you know that lands you a comfy job – not what you know.
“Potts gocha by the balls, huh?”
“Shut up.” I slam my locker door and barge past him – this is definitely not my day.
***
Well, now, maybe it is my day after all…
She’s been perching on the balls of her feet, reaching for some book shelves above her for the past ten minutes. Yeah, I know, I should help, but under that boring blue dress she’s got a gorgeous body. Damn. If I knew the library would be like this…
Fuck this…reading…shit. Now, I want sex.
I stand up and saunter over to where my evening entertainment’s wriggling her fingers in the air. She’s got that good-girl look, from the ribbon in her hair down to her pumps. Mousy brunettes aren’t usually my taste, but tonight I’m hankering for the bookish type. I quickly pull my pocket mirror out (shut up) and do a once over. Good. Time to turn on the charm.
Of course, I’m tall enough to reach it. Hell, any man could – all she had to do was ask. Which means she’s begging for it. Unless she’s one of those bra-burning man-haters.
“Oh, thank you!” she even sounds cute. Wait….I know that voice…
Bodacious Babe turns around and her shy smile turns into a scowl: “You!”
“Bonjour, Belle,” I cock my best smile. She huffs and tries to grab the book from me but, of course, football reflexes.
I can visibly see my childhood sweetheart count to ten. “Gaston, may I have my book please?”
I hold the book higher and look at her hard. “And who are you being today? Yourself? How rare.”
She’s counting to ten again: “Gothic wasn’t for me.”
“Neither was being a cheerleader, a hippy, a musician, a painter, a philosopher, a party animal…” I cock my head to the side and smile wider. And also raise the book higher so she has to jump against my chest for it. I grab for her waist, pull her closer and plant the wettest, fattest kiss I can manage on her lips. Totally worth the yelp and slap I get. ABSOLUTELY worth the shame on her face when the librarian passes by with a noted “Shhh!”
“You animal!” she hisses. She takes advantage of my snickering to snatch the book back and rush out the aisle. I could go after her and apologise, but that would mean I’d have to go after her and apologise. I don’t even feel sorry though – I knew I wasn’t getting any the minute I discovered it was Belle. We know each other too well for anything like that. Still, can’t blame a guy for trying – call it my life’s purpose.
Instead, I watch her emphatically stomp further away, that gorgeous derriere swaying with her. She’s beautiful, just as she is. Just like this – awkward and bookish and looking like an extra for Sound of Music. Sad thing is, this is her between-cliques look. I won’t say she’s not a benefit to any group she finally chooses, but Jesus can she just fucking choose already? It was cute when she was finding herself in high school – now, it seems like she’s doing nothing these days but running away from who she is. And it’s sad that I – who doesn’t care two ticks about the psychological state of any woman – have no choice but to care.
I shrug it off and head back to my cubicle. I guess you get emotionally attached to people you’ve grown up with.

And thinking about Belle isn’t going to make this essay go away.

***
A/N: Just wanted you to get a hang of Gaston’s life and the relationships between the characters, Pre-Adam. Let me know what you think? I’m not a Belle-basher (in fact, I’m quite partial to her), but I’ve had this idea of Belle flitting through social groups, getting bored with them, then trying something new. She’s got that wander-lust spirit, y’know?
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Dear Karma: Fuck You