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(ANTM verse)
Apr. 26th, 2012 04:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sheeps"You have no idea how glad I am to see a man," Bonten would sigh, dropping himself in Cross's lap, heedless of the newspaper that crumpled sadly beneath him.
"A man, huh," Cross would reply, wisely acknowledging the newspaper as a lost cause and letting Bonten wriggle it out from underneath him and let it fall to the floor in a limp sheaf.
"Yes." With a derogatory sniff, Bonten would nestle himself against his husband's chest, nuzzling up under his uncomfortably prickly chin. "I am so tired of looking at gawky, underfed girls try to not cry all over my dresses." Bonten was a famous fashion designer and photographer. He was skilled beyond belief, having clawed his way up the ladder of the fashion world with such calculated, stubborn skill that he couldn't be ignored. He and Ginshu had become famous together, the genius model and the beautiful designer -- they'd made one hell of a team. The only problem with it was that now, years later, Bonten had been so thoroughly spoiled by his years working exclusively with Ginshu, that no model could ever please him.
Cross would always huff in amusement, not at all impressed by his lover's ire. "You could always stop," he'd point out helpfully. And he'd be right, of course, Bonten could stop. They could live off their collective savings comfortably, despite their burgeoning family. Bonten wouldn't, though. It would just make him angry to see the fumblings of lesser minds and clumsier hands spread across the glossy covers of magazines. He had little girls, after all. He needed them to grow up in a society that wouldn't try to stuff them in burlap sacks and drape them in puce or something equally wretched. His babies were gorgeous, and they were going to grow up gorgeous, and they would do it under Bonten's watchful eye.
"You could always not be an ass," Bonten would retort, equally helpful.
"You've never complained about my ass before." If Cross had had a good day, or if Bonten had had a particularly bad one, Cross would pinch him at this point in the conversation, fingers pressing into a rear-end that models everywhere would kill for. (Such a waste, they would whisper amongst themselves, that horrible creature hoarding more than his fair share of good genes.)
"That's a lie and you know it." And it was true. Bonten had, on more than one occasion, complained about every single part of Cross's anatomy, including his ass. He was ornery and exacting, finding fault in places where most people would have clawed out their eyes, crying from the perfection of what they were seeing. And if there really was no fault to be found, Bonten would fabricate one, chastising Cross for his hair being too red, his hands being too warm, or his stomach being too hard.
Evenings typically went like that for them.
"A man, huh," Cross would reply, wisely acknowledging the newspaper as a lost cause and letting Bonten wriggle it out from underneath him and let it fall to the floor in a limp sheaf.
"Yes." With a derogatory sniff, Bonten would nestle himself against his husband's chest, nuzzling up under his uncomfortably prickly chin. "I am so tired of looking at gawky, underfed girls try to not cry all over my dresses." Bonten was a famous fashion designer and photographer. He was skilled beyond belief, having clawed his way up the ladder of the fashion world with such calculated, stubborn skill that he couldn't be ignored. He and Ginshu had become famous together, the genius model and the beautiful designer -- they'd made one hell of a team. The only problem with it was that now, years later, Bonten had been so thoroughly spoiled by his years working exclusively with Ginshu, that no model could ever please him.
Cross would always huff in amusement, not at all impressed by his lover's ire. "You could always stop," he'd point out helpfully. And he'd be right, of course, Bonten could stop. They could live off their collective savings comfortably, despite their burgeoning family. Bonten wouldn't, though. It would just make him angry to see the fumblings of lesser minds and clumsier hands spread across the glossy covers of magazines. He had little girls, after all. He needed them to grow up in a society that wouldn't try to stuff them in burlap sacks and drape them in puce or something equally wretched. His babies were gorgeous, and they were going to grow up gorgeous, and they would do it under Bonten's watchful eye.
"You could always not be an ass," Bonten would retort, equally helpful.
"You've never complained about my ass before." If Cross had had a good day, or if Bonten had had a particularly bad one, Cross would pinch him at this point in the conversation, fingers pressing into a rear-end that models everywhere would kill for. (Such a waste, they would whisper amongst themselves, that horrible creature hoarding more than his fair share of good genes.)
"That's a lie and you know it." And it was true. Bonten had, on more than one occasion, complained about every single part of Cross's anatomy, including his ass. He was ornery and exacting, finding fault in places where most people would have clawed out their eyes, crying from the perfection of what they were seeing. And if there really was no fault to be found, Bonten would fabricate one, chastising Cross for his hair being too red, his hands being too warm, or his stomach being too hard.
Evenings typically went like that for them.
