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Summary
Max plays George's game too well. Every time he plays it, he looks straight into the camera, a smirk tugging at his mouth. He knows exactly where the knife’s going before he twists it.
Fuck, George hates how intimate it feels.
It's like foreplay.
Like Max has reached across millions of screens just to put his hand around George’s throat and squeeze. Like he’s looked at the bruises afterward with love in his eyes and kissed them better.
Or: Max and George are actors. Obsession is one hell of a drug.