“Hon, hon, hon,” laughed Lumiere in a French-ly manner. “We’ve got you now, mon ami.”

Gaston lay on the ground before him, injured from his fall off the top of the castle, his hair in artful disarray and his lip split open.

“A talking candlestick!” he gasped.

Cogsworth raised one clock-y fist and backhanded Gaston, who whimpered in pain as his head smacked against the cobblestones.

“We’re gonna fuck you up, by jove,” said Cogsworth.

He held Gaston down while Lumiere loomed over the handsome, broken man, his eyes narrowed menacingly.

“W-what will you do to me?” asked Gaston. “Why... the furniture is talking...! Is this some sort of sick Demetri nightmare?”

He was already starting to weep from fear; water leaked from the corners of his eyes as he stared up at these strange, monstrous medleys of man and machine.

The clock and the candlestick laughed lowly.

Without answering him, Lumiere undid the laces on Gaston’s expensive Gucci wool pants (red piping, viscose lining, horn buttons, $980) and pulled them down to Gaston’s muscular calves.

His fiery hands left little burns all down Gaston’s legs, with the worst of them at his thighs and hips.

“Oh, please let me go first,” said Cogsworth, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve always wanted to furniture rape a handsome man like this.”

“By all means,” said Lumiere.

Eagerly, Cogsworth hurried forward and positioned himself in between Gaston’s legs.

Weak from the fall, Gaston could do nothing to fight back.

He felt the candlestick holding his legs apart, its flaming hands making Gaston’s skin blister, but all he could do was wail in agony.

“Please,” Gaston begged, barely coherent. “Don’t--”

But then he felt the clock’s stumpy hand pushing into him with no preparation, with no hint of gentleness.

He felt his skin stretch and tear, everything too dry, too painful to bear.

Gaston heard himself screaming, heard the hoarseness of his voice before it suddenly gave out.

Then, no matter how hard he tried to scream, all that came out was a faint, desperate rasp.

Cogsworth pushed his entire arm into Gaston, relishing every flicker of pain across the human’s face.

He smelled the burning of Gaston’s flesh and snickered, twisting his fist inside Gaston before pulling out.

“Your turn,” he said to Lumiere.

“No!” Gaston said, eyes wild.

He bucked, trying to escape, but his limbs were useless -- broken, dislocated, weak.

Lumiere wasted no time; he took Cogsworth’s place between Gaston’s twisted legs and held his burning hand to Gaston’s asshole.

Gaston arched his back, head hitting the cobblestones again as he let out a wild, inhuman shriek.

The little nub of flesh between his legs blistered, then charred as Lumiere slipped his white-hot metallic arm inside.

Perhaps it was a mercy when Gaston finally lost consciousness, his eyes still open and glassy, but his mind entirely gone.

“Ah, I’ve enjoyed this,” Lumiere sighed.

He held his other hand to the tip of Gaston’s limp, fear-shriveled cock, watching his flame engulf the head.

It turned red from heat, white curls of skin rising and then popping. “It will be such a shame when we’re human again.”

“A shame, indeed,” said Cogsworth. “For now, we have the Belle’s furniture.”