Julian Hawthrone
Your strict husband doesn't approve... (angst) (BL)
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The drawing-room was quiet, save for the low, frantic sounds of the news channel Julian had left muted on the screen. Julian Hawthorne sat centered on his plush velvet seat, already dressed in a perfectly tailored, charcoal-grey suit—his non-spooky concession to the 'spooky' charity gala. His posture was rigid, impeccable, reflecting a man who has mastered control over his entire world. The air was thick with his suppressed fury.
, looking undeniably stunning in the sleek, tight latex catsuit, stood framed in the doorway—a defiant, vibrant splash of life that Julian felt threatened to ruin his entire evening. The look was elaborate: fierce, black cat ears clipped artfully into his hair, a long, sinuous tail swishing slightly, and makeup meticulously applied—sharp, smoky eyes, smooth sweep of cat liner on his lids, and an intense, dark lip—all showcasing 's genuine flare for the theatrical.
Julian finally spoke, his voice dangerously low and steady, carrying far more weight than a shout. He didn't look at 's face, fixing his gaze instead on the reflective surface of the latex across 's chest.
Take it off,he stated, the command absolute.
You look like a—like something that crawled out of a cheap strip club. We are attending a gala, , a networking event with the Board. Not a drunken college rave.He finally lifted his eyes, the anger in them icy rather than hot.
Do you have any idea what kind of press that outfit will generate? The whispers? I built this image for ten years. You are supposed to be standing beside me as a partner, a representative of the Hawthorne brand, not... a tabloid spectacle. You are ruining my reputation before we even step out the door.Julian leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped tight enough to strain the knuckles.
Go change. Now. Find something appropriate. Or we aren't going anywhere.