Touch Me, I Dare You

by Sweet_Kiwie

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a billionaire tech king, emotionally constipated, built an empire so no one could ever control him.

George Russell is a smart mouthed, hoodie wearing hacker, chaos reincarnate who lives on instant noodles and nerve.

Their worlds collide.

Chapter 1

Max Verstappen had never needed to raise his voice to command a room. Presence, he believed, should never be begged for. It should simply exist — like air, like gravity, like inevitability. And Max had long since become inevitable.

He stood before the floor to ceiling windows of his penthouse office, thirty-six stories above the choking noise of the city. The view was a glittering sprawl of digital ambition, blue toned skyscrapers blinking with data pulses, drone traffic weaving between buildings like mechanical birds. Below him was the cradle of modern civilization — a city built not on faith or freedom, but on code.

And Max owned the code.

Verstappen Technologies — or just VTech, as the world called it — was more than a company. It was the backbone. From encrypted cloud systems to autonomous traffic control, from AI-managed hospitals to biometric financial verification, Max’s work was stitched into the skin of the world. Silent, seamless, omnipresent. Everyone used his systems. Everyone relied on his mind.

And he never let them forget it.

He’d built the company from the ashes of other men’s arrogance. Born to old Dutch money but raised far from it — the kind of paradox that crafted cold ambition and sharper instincts — Max had never been interested in legacy. He wanted sovereignty. Total, ruthless control. Not out of malice. But precision.

He had joined the International Cybernetic Society at nineteen. Published his first paper on quantum linked encryption by twenty. Had foreign governments — governments — quietly offering him contracts with more zeroes than morality. And by twenty-five, he turned them all down, launched his own closed system, and forced the world to follow.

Max didn’t ask.

He led.

He disrupted.

And if he stepped on anyone to do it, well — they should have moved faster.

That evening, he wore tailored black. No tie. No logos. Just a suit that whispered money and confidence with every fold. His cuffs gleamed platinum — not gold, never gold — and the ring on his right hand was etched in binary. If you translated it, it read: “Everything Breaks Eventually.”

His PA, Freya, followed silently two paces behind, holding a tablet and listing off the gala logistics.

“Guest list has been security cleared. The Minister’s assistant tried to bring a second device — handled. The AI protocol team will demo the new guardian system after your speech, and you’re slotted for seventeen minutes at the podium.”

Max barely nodded. His gaze remained locked on the window. Below, the gala hall shimmered with imported crystal, polished onyx floors, and security guards in custom VTech suits. Nothing flashy. Everything expensive. The world’s richest, most powerful, and most paranoid minds would be in that room tonight — and every one of them would stand to applaud him.

Not because they liked him.

Because they needed him.

The launch of the Sentinel Core system was more than just a product drop. It was a declaration: total digital integration, AI-managed safety infrastructure, biometric border defense, data sanctuaries, energy regulation — all governed by Max’s newest neural-encoded OS.

Nothing would move without him.

Nothing would breathe online without his fingerprint.

He was a king. Crowned in invisible wires and machine language.
And tonight was his coronation.

Freya spoke again, softly. “Sir, the press will be behind the glass barrier. No direct questions unless pre-approved.”

Max turned, finally, his expression unreadable.

“And the others?”

She hesitated. “The Society sent two observers. Neither have confirmed allegiance to the Core Initiative. They’re watching. Quietly.”

Good. Let them.

Max’s mouth tilted — not quite a smile. It wasn’t arrogance, not exactly. It was inevitability, again. Of course they would come. Of course they would watch. Of course they would bend. Everyone did. Eventually.

The elevator doors opened behind them with a soft chime. Max moved toward it without looking. He didn’t need to. He was the center of gravity. Everything moved around him.

The ride down was silent, lined with holographic displays scrolling lines of code, analytics, and live surveillance from the gala floor. Freya tapped through protocols. Max said nothing. His mind was already inside the code, calculating responses before they were spoken, testing weaknesses before they formed.

When the doors opened onto the main floor, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Every head turned.

Every eye followed.

Soft jazz filtered through the speakers, and the air was thick with perfume and unspoken wealth. Dresses shimmered like oil. Tuxedos glinted with hidden tech. The entire space was lit in sleek, glacier tones — sterile, elegant, designed to intimidate.

He stepped onto the black marble floor and the sea of conversation parted. People stood straighter. Glasses were lowered. Even the most powerful men in the room adjusted their posture when Max passed.

Some greeted him.

Some watched him.

Some hated him.

But every single one of them needed him.

He moved like someone who had nothing left to prove. And maybe he didn’t. But that never stopped him from trying. He thrived on dominance — not just of markets or governments or innovation — but of control itself.

Freya handed him a folded card. “Opening remarks. Final version.”

He didn’t look at it.

“I don’t do final,” he said. “Only real time.”

She didn’t argue. She never did. She just followed him as he walked down the center of the hall, toward the stage that rose like a throne at the far end of the room. Behind it, the company insignia spun gently in soft white: the VTech emblem, a glowing helix loop.

People clapped as he ascended.

But Max didn’t pause to bask.

He stepped to the podium.

Looked out over the crowd.

And didn’t say a word.

Not yet.

His fingers curled against the edge of the podium.

And his eyes — always calculating, always calm — flicked, just once, toward the back of the room.

The room had quieted the moment Max stepped onto the stage. No one asked for silence. It simply happened — a natural reaction, like pupils adjusting to sudden light, or prey going still when the predator moves.

He stood behind the podium, tall in his tailored black, fingers light against the dark glass surface. Behind him, the VTech insignia spun slow and unbothered, like it already knew it would outlive them all.

Max didn’t speak for exactly seven seconds.

He let the quiet stretch — not for drama, but dominance.

And then, smooth as silk and sharp as a scalpel, he began.

“You are all here tonight because of fear.”

His voice carried easily — rich, clipped, low. He didn’t need to shout. The system made sure every syllable was heard in crystalline clarity.

“Whether it’s fear of being left behind, fear of collapse, or fear of irrelevance — it doesn’t matter. The result is the same. You came.”

He paused. A beat.

“And I welcome you.”

There was a thin ripple of laughter. Not genuine. Nervous. Perfect.

“Tonight marks the beginning of Phase One implementation of the Sentinel Core protocol. You’ve seen the papers. The projections. But you’re not here for numbers. You’re here to be convinced.”

His eyes scanned the room — cold and unreadable. Politicians, CEOs, foreign diplomats, rival founders, whispering security officials — all seated neatly in the rows of power.

“So let me convince you.”

He stepped slightly out from behind the podium. Not pacing. Not unsure. Just moving the way only someone with complete authority could.

“Sentinel Core is not just a platform. It’s a redefinition of governance. A redefinition of trust. One that doesn’t rely on human oversight. One that doesn’t bleed when it’s stabbed. One that cannot be bribed, blackmailed, or overthrown.”

“You’ve built empires on faith and chance. I offer you precision.”

A click of his fingers. Behind him, the main display lit up with quiet power — no dramatic music, just clean data visuals, minimalist and elegant. The new city grid. The biometric fusion layer. The live predictive risk maps. Real-time adaptation protocols. Self-regulating AI logic trees.

Every system they feared. Every tool they wanted.

“You don’t need to understand it. You just need to accept that it will work.”

A short pause, then his gaze landed — piercing — on the Society observers at the back. He didn't name them. He didn’t have to.

“And if you don't… well. You can keep trying to build firewalls out of cardboard.”

A few chuckles. This time, darker. More appreciative.

Max gave the faintest hint of a smile. The kind that tasted like steel and smoke.

“This isn’t the future. This is the present. You can either join it — or get archived.”

He let it hang. No further visuals. No pitch. Just that.

And then he turned back to the podium.

“Drinks are being served on the upper mezzanine. As always, if you can’t find me — it's because I’ve already found you.”

A final look across the room.

And then he stepped down.

Applause followed, but it wasn’t loud. It was… stunned. Like watching a thunderstorm pass. Or a wolf make eye contact with the herd.

Max didn’t linger.

On the upper mezzanine, the light was softer, the atmosphere looser. Strings played softly from a live quartet. Servers moved like shadows, glasses never half full for long.

He stood near one of the angular display cases holding the original Sentinel prototype. Black casing, no buttons. Smooth and silent. The press had called it "unhackable." Max had simply called it "inevitable."

Around him, conversation buzzed like flies to a kill.

He endured them.

“Incredible launch, Max. The Norwegian delegation nearly pissed themselves during the demo.” One said.

“When can we see Sentinel integration with off-grid security systems? We’ve got some black ops deployments who—”

“I heard the Society tried to bid on you. Tell me that’s not true.” A minister interrupted.

Max gave them smiles. Tight, polite. Polished.

“If I sold out, you wouldn’t be able to afford me. Off-grid deployment’s six weeks out. Assuming no interruptions.”

“But—”

“Norway’s been pissing themselves since 2017.”

Freya kept near, filtering the noise. She fielded names, deflected handshakes, rerouted conversations with surgical efficiency. She was brilliant at this — loyal, unshakeable, fluent in five languages and fluent in bullshit.

“Minister,” she said smoothly at one point, “if you want to talk about frontier testing, perhaps save it for after the second drink? Max gets allergic to bureaucracy before 9 p.m.”

Max said nothing. Just sipped from his glass. He didn’t drink much — just enough to look social, never enough to get distracted.

Somewhere in the background, another round of guests arrived.

Politely overdressed. Expensively dull. Meaningless.

He exhaled.

A man in finance tried to brag about quantum coin mining. A woman from Tokyo’s robotics lab hinted at a buyout. The US diplomat rambled about cyber-moral ethics.

Max let it wash over him. He didn’t feel tired. He just felt... still.

He hated still.

He turned slightly away from the crowd, gaze flicking to the lower level of the gala — the grand entrance, lined with columns of glass and light.

Max caught Freya's growing anxiety out of the corner of his eye. He was always calm and collected, even during catastrophes, but Freya’s composure was shattering by the minute. As his PA, she usually kept her feelings tightly in check, yet now her panic was clear and public. This wasn't like her at all.

His eyes narrowed. Not quite focused.

There was a ripple. Somewhere in the air. The kind that came before lightning.

And before he could name it — before he could even turn fully toward it —

Freya leaned in. Quiet. Calm. But her voice, in his ear, had that tone.

“Sir,” she whispered.

He barely tilted his head. His glass paused mid-air.

“There’s been a breach.”

The crowd of socialites was thick and the air felt suffocating, filled with relentless, probing questions. Their attempts to engage him felt less like conversation and more like an annoying interrogation.

Yet, Max moved through the throng with practiced ease. It didn't take much effort for him to slip away from the persistent line of questioning and the sticky smiles. Freya was already there, a silent guide through the masses, her hand subtly leading him toward the exit and away from the suffocating attention.

The hallway leading to the private lounge was lined with matte black security glass, utterly silent except for the soft whir of pressure-sealed doors unlocking at Freya’s voice command. The air here was colder. Thinner. Not because of the temperature, but because this part of the building was never meant to hold people. Only systems.

Freya walked two steps ahead of Max, her expression unnaturally tight, fingers gripped hard around her tablet. Her heels echoed slightly, the only sign of nerves she ever allowed. Max, by contrast, looked as unbothered as ever. Hands in his pockets, suit uncreased, mouth relaxed. Observing. Quiet.

The world might’ve been tilting, but he didn’t rush.

He never did.

“It’s… not a regular breach,” Freya said finally, as they passed through the final biometric lock. “Not a ping, not a probe. There were no red flags. The decoy files weren’t touched. But…”

The doors opened with a soft hiss.

The lounge, if one could even call it that, was not a space built for comfort. It was a minimalist chamber of precision: black floors, digital walls, a long touchscreen interface that stretched from floor to ceiling on the far side. No art. No furniture. Just a single low console embedded into the wall, glowing faintly.

It was here Max ran simulations. Drafted weaponized logic. Stored prototypes of systems that weren’t meant to exist yet. This room didn’t appear on blueprints. This room had its own operating system, disconnected from the rest of the network.

“This room doesn’t even talk to Sentinel,” Freya muttered under her breath. “No one knows it’s here.”

Max didn’t answer. His gaze had already flicked to the interface. It was glowing differently now — not corrupted, not damaged.

Just… marked.

“Show me,” he said simply.

Freya swallowed and stepped forward, tapping into the override. The screen shimmered, then obeyed — revealing a set of system logs scrolling across the glass.

Max’s eyes tracked instantly.

No anomalies in the entry queue. No alerts. No deviations in pattern behavior. The locks had never been triggered. The firewalls, untouched. And yet—

There.

A single custom-built line of foreign code embedded right into the dormant core.

Not malicious.

Just… taunting.

It pulsed softly in a language not taught, not sold. A private syntax. Something brilliant, handcrafted, laced in wit.

Freya tilted her head, visibly trying not to freak out.

“It activated thirty eight minutes ago. Didn’t trip any flags. And I swear to God, Max, it wasn’t there before—”

She tapped again. A different screen opened.

A message.

Text rendered in glitchy animation, sleek and stylized:

Well. That was cute.
Took me 3 minutes. Your vaults need a hobby.
PS: Nice encryption on the biometric gate. Almost had me impressed.

Then, as if to twist the knife, a tiny little emoji appeared.

A cat.

Wearing sunglasses.

And beneath that — somehow worse — a redirect link to one of Max’s own archived data sets.

The very first whitepaper he ever wrote at age sixteen.

“They just left it here,” Freya said, eyes wide. “Went through the most secure system we have, touched nothing, and just… left that.”

Max stared at the screen. For a long, long moment, he said nothing.

Freya stepped back, visibly rattled.

“How did they even get in, Max? This OS isn’t even connected— I mean— how—”

She was pacing now. Tablet trembling in her hand. Voice tight, low, urgent.

“We’ve never had a breach that didn’t get caught at the first gate. Not ever. Even internal test strikes trip flags in less than four seconds. But this— this thing— whoever it was— it didn’t just avoid detection— it humiliated the detection.”

“Max, this was a message. Not theft. Not damage. A message. Someone’s trying to take you down with mockery.”

Still, he said nothing.

He was staring at the code. Not reading it anymore. Reading beyond it.

Freya turned toward him, frustrated.

“Are you seriously not worried?”

And that’s when Max finally looked at her.

Calm. Steady. With that slow, familiar tilt of his head that meant the gears were already moving a hundred miles an hour.

Then—

He smiled.

That rare, blade like smile.

The one that had preceded every hostile acquisition, every ruined career, every "unhackable" system he'd turned inside out.

And he said, “No.”

His voice was soft. Amused.

“I’m entertained.”

Freya blinked. “Entertained?”

He took one step closer to the screen. Tilted his head to the side. Studied the syntax like it was art.

“You think I’d be worried about someone who wanted to get caught this badly?”

Freya’s breath hitched. “You think they are just, what, flexing?”

“No,” Max said. “They wanted me to see it.”

He raised one finger to the glowing cat emoji.

Tapped it once.

And watched it wink.

Then turned away.

Completely calm.

Freya stared after him like he’d gone mad. “What do we do then?! We’re just letting them walk? You’re not even going to—?”

Max adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with deliberate slowness, his expression settling back into a practiced mask of indifference. He looked profoundly bored, as if nothing around him held his interest.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, a calculated pause of anticipation. And then, finally, finally, he broke the quiet and said what needed to be said.

Quiet. Cold.

“Track the fucker down.”

Then he left the room.

The door slid shut behind him.

And the cat on the screen kept winking.

Notes:

I do be doing anything but fucking studying. But anyway welcome to my age gap gax yaoi😔

Chapter 2

George Russell didn’t believe in God, but he did believe in deadlines.

Or rather — he believed in missing them dramatically while cursing every deity ever invented.

His laptop screen glared back at him, three tabs frozen mid crash, another four scripts still compiling, and the gentle, ominous hum of a fan that had not stopped wheezing since Friday.

“George,” Lando called from the kitchen-slash-hallway-slash-living-room, “this thing is hissing again. Is it gonna explode?”

“No,” George muttered, stabbing the keyboard. “That’s just the emotional support rice cooker.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

The flat smelled faintly of soy sauce, expired deodorant, and the ghost of a fire alarm that had once screamed itself into silence. Three rooms, paper-thin walls, and furniture that either came from a curb or Alex’s weirdly rich cousin’s storage unit.

George’s mattress sat directly on the floor. His desk was a plank of wood balanced on cinder blocks. His chair was technically a camping stool. He had two pairs of jeans, twelve hoodies, and one working charger between him and total collapse.

But God — when his fingers flew over the keyboard, when the terminal obeyed him like muscle memory, when the world narrowed to the clean rhythm of logic and rebellion?

He was fucking invincible.

“Oi!” Alex called from the doorway. “Did you touch my monster stash?”

George didn’t even look up. “No. Your boyfriend did.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Then who keeps texting you ‘yes daddy’ with four y’s?”

Alex went quiet.

Somewhere in the corner, Lando let out a strangled laugh.

George finally looked up from his code. Hair a mess, hoodie half zipped, legs pulled up into the desk chair like a wrecked prince. There was a noodle cup balanced on the windowsill, three empty ones on the floor, and a pair of socks mysteriously hanging from the ceiling fan.

He looked like the final boss of a caffeine fueled breakdown.

And yet, somehow — he still looked good.

It was unfair.

Pale skin, sharp jaw, eyes that always looked five seconds from rolling — George had that accidental hot vibe, the kind that made people do double takes in libraries, the kind that professors hated because he could sass them in Python and then make them feel old.

“Lando,” George called, stretching lazily, “do we have anything edible that isn’t shrink-wrapped in plastic or older than my will to live?”

“No.”

“Cool. I’ll starve.”

“Or,” Alex said, holding up his phone, “you could actually sell one of those custom scripts you write in your sleep and stop living like a cryptid.”

George scoffed.

“Sell my code to a bunch of half baked start ups run by LinkedIn bros named Chadwick? Nah thanks. I’d rather die violently.”

Lando grinned from the kitchen.

“You could always make that OnlyFans.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

And honestly?

He was tempted.

Old men flirted with him in cafés. TAs accidentally stuttered when he leaned over their desks. One time, the campus director had slipped him a fucking business card.

Was it degrading? Maybe.

Was he broke enough to consider it? Also maybe.

“It wouldn’t even be nudes,” George muttered. “Just me eating popsicles in thigh high socks while whispering binary.”

Alex looked horrified.

“I could make six figures.”

“I’m calling your mum.”

“She’d prolly subscribe.”

“Oh my God.”

Now, University was… tolerable.

George was in his final year. The school didn’t matter. The professors didn’t matter. He skipped half his lectures, never took notes, and still broke every grading curve with scripts he wrote at 3 a.m. while crying into a keyboard.

He was a ghost on campus. Known. Feared. Occasionally worshipped. Girls wanted to fix him. Boys wanted to be him. Professors wanted to throttle him. George, in return, wanted funding.

He was one of those freak prodigies they let do anything because the tech department couldn't afford to lose him. Built his own operating system last year. Cracked the school’s firewall just to stream porn on every projector screen during finals.

And got suspended for a week.

Also got invited back with a scholarship increase.

“You’re wasting your potential,” one lecturer had once snapped.

George had smiled, full teeth.

“Good. I’d hate to accidentally meet it.”

He didn’t want to work in Silicon Valley. Or for some data bloated hedge fund. He didn’t want to be someone’s golden boy.

He wanted to build things that scared people. Things that lived in shadows. Systems with teeth. Beautiful, untraceable mechanisms of control and collapse. But mostly?

Mostly, George wanted to be free.

To do what he wanted, when he wanted, and tell every power hungry, tech hoarding billionaire to choke on their servers.

He tapped his keyboard. The script purred. The logic flowed.

Outside, the sun dipped behind the city skyline. Inside, the light from his screen turned his face pale blue.

Lando walked by and dropped a new noodle cup in front of him. George blinked.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Borrowed it from the first years upstairs.”

“You mean stole it.”

“No. I promised I'd get them in the parties I dj at.”

George snorted. “They’ll regret that.”

“Oh, they already do.”

George grinned, teeth sharp, hoodie falling off one shoulder like some sort of slutty, dangerous tech imp. He spun in his chair once, cracked his knuckles, and went back to coding.

The noodles were barely edible.

George was halfway through it, sitting cross-legged on the floor with one chopstick because he’d lost the other in Lando’s backpack. Steam curled around his face as he stared at his screen, dead eyed, hoodie sliding off one shoulder like a morally bankrupt anime protagonist.

Across the room, Alex was pacing. Again.

“It’s fucking pathetic,” he snapped, throwing an empty can into the corner. “Rich fuckers just get richer while we rot in moldy apartments trying to earn enough credits to survive.”

“Amen,” George mumbled around a mouthful of noodles.

“Like—get this. You know the elite circle thing? The hush hush one with all those old bastards playing monopoly with the global economy?”

George looked up, interested. Lando, who’d been filming something for class with his phone propped against a cereal box, glanced over too.

“The what now?” Lando said.

“That weird society,” Alex said, waving his arms. “Like… secret council? Think tank for billionaires? You can’t even Google it properly. Well guess what? One of those bastards just got made director of the economics unit.”

“What unit?” George asked.

“My fucking department, George.”

“Oh,” George said, then frowned. “Wait. Isn’t that a teaching position?”

“Exactly!” Alex barked, indignant. “The guy’s like, sixty something. Never seen him in a lecture, never published jack shit. And suddenly he’s handing out assignments and approving thesis budgets like he’s God.”

“Are we sure he’s not just some crusty nepotism grandpa?”

“Worse,” Alex snapped. “He’s got zero academic credentials. Not a single one. My rich cousin said it’s because he’s ‘connected to something bigger.’ That’s code for illegal shit.”

“Sounds like a supervillain,” Lando said, chewing on a cold chicken nugget. “You should seduce him for grades.”

“If I had the emotional capacity to fake attraction to a crusty looking hag, I wouldn’t still be here,” Alex growled.

George chuckled and turned back to his screen. The code was clean. Elegant. A script he'd been working on for fun — if your idea of fun involved illegal backdoors and quantum resistant encryption loops. Which, for George, it did.

“You know who’s worse than that guy?” Alex continued, flopping onto the couch with a groan. “VTech.”

George’s fingers froze mid keystroke.

“Those psychos practically run the world now,” Alex muttered. “Fucking tech monopoly disguised as a public service. They’ve got security contracts with three governments and an AI that can predict riots. And that’s just what’s public.”

“They make cool shit though,” Lando offered. “My cousin’s drone cam uses a VTech core.”

“Yeah, and your cousin’s an influencer who thinks AI is a skincare brand.”

George huffed a laugh into his hoodie. But Alex was still going.

“It’s terrifying. No one even knows how they operate. No leaks, no exploits, no press scandals. Just this blank, black wall of money and silence. Like a void. With a logo.”

“They’re not that impenetrable,” George muttered without thinking.

The room went silent.

Alex sat up. Slowly.

“What’d you say?”

George didn’t look away from his screen. “I said they’re not that impenetrable.”

“Mate,” Lando said, blinking, “you cannot be serious.”

“Dead serious,” George replied, slurping his noodles. “They’re fancy. They’re cocky. They hide behind structure and predictive AI, but underneath that? Same basecode flaws as everyone else. Just fancier wrapping.”

Alex gawked. “Are you suggesting you could breach VTech?”

George finally looked up, face deadpan. “I’m not suggesting it. I’m stating it.”

A beat passed.

Then Lando snorted.

“Bullshit.”

“I’m literally right here,” George said.

“You’re also half-drunk on noodle broth and haven’t slept in thirty hours.”

“Your point?”

“VTech, George. The same VTech that broke six exploit attempts by actual government agents last year. The VTech whose founder got invited to Davos, declined, and then launched a competing summit just because he could.”

“And?” George asked.

Alex squinted. “So you're saying that with your little janky laptop and a mood swing, you could do what no one else has done in over a decade?”

George raised his half-broken chopstick like a sword. “Absolutely.”

Lando grinned. “Okay. Prove it.”

George blinked. “What?”

“You heard him,” Alex said, crossing his arms. “You’ve got your little coder throne, your chaotic evil hoodie, your massive god complex. So go on. Prove it.”

“No way you’re scared now,” Lando added, smirking. “Unless you’re all talk.”

George narrowed his eyes.

The dare hung in the air like a live wire. Dumb. Reckless. The kind of dare that usually ended with someone crying or being arrested.

George smiled slowly.

“Fine.”

He pushed his empty noodle cup aside, turned back to his screen, and cracked his knuckles.

“Let’s play.”

Three minutes later, George was still typing — casual, even graceful, like he was writing a sonnet instead of slipping through logic walls built by the world’s richest corporation.

Alex and Lando watched in fascinated silence as strings of code flew by like digital poetry.

And when George leaned back and exhaled, satisfied?

He looked utterly unbothered.

No fanfare. No celebration. Just another day.

Alex swallowed. “Did you just—?”

“Might wanna tell your cousin,” George said lazily, “that his elite little cult has shittier walls than a high school firewall.”

Lando’s mouth dropped open.

George yawned. Closed his laptop. Stretched his arms behind his head like this had been a mild inconvenience.

“So,” he said. “What’s for dessert?”

---

George wanted to die.

Or at least dramatically lie in traffic until someone brought him a croissant and told him it would all be okay.

It was only Tuesday.

The sun had dipped below the skyline hours ago, leaving the city bathed in low amber and the smell of questionable food carts. George walked with one earbud in, hoodie up, head low, backpack slumped off one shoulder. His limbs ached. His brain felt like mashed potatoes. His soul had already applied for resignation.

“I swear,” he muttered to himself, “if one more man looks at my arse like it’s a public buffet I will commit a legal grey area.”

He hadn’t even dressed that provocatively. A cropped hoodie and joggers — his comfy hoodie. Okay, yes, the joggers were a little tight, but they were the only clean ones he had left. The rest were still in a laundry bag that Lando promised to “maybe do, if I don’t forget, or die.”

Women weren’t much better. They either ignored him or treated him like he was some kind of glamorous, enemy NPC in a teen drama. Too pretty. Too sarcastic. Too good at coding for someone who looked like he should be on a magazine cover under the words “skincare secrets that will ruin your life.”

George sighed, dragging his feet down the narrow side street that cut between the back of the student union and a row of expensive office towers. He took this way home sometimes. Less foot traffic. Fewer weirdos.

Allegedly.

“I am so tired,” he groaned aloud, tugging his hoodie lower over his face. “I am so broke. I am one unpaid electric bill away from a war crime.”

And then.

A car pulled up.

Sleek. Black. Definitely not a taxi. Too quiet. Too smooth. Windows tinted darker than a billionaire’s conscience.

George instinctively stepped to the side, barely glancing at it. Rich people existed. It wasn’t his problem.

Except.

The back door opened. Not slowly. Not threateningly. Just… casually. Like the car already knew he’d get in.

George stopped. Eyed it. Then scoffed and kept walking.

“Wrong twink,” he muttered under his breath.

And then.

Two arms grabbed him.

Fast. Clean. One over his shoulders, the other around his waist — not bruising, not rough, but firm. Practiced.

“Hey—HEY! WHAT THE FUCK—?”

He barely got the words out before he was being lifted. Off the ground. Pulled into the car. The door shut behind him before he even had time to throw a punch.

“YOU ABSOLUTE FREAKS!”

He kicked. Elbowed. Bit. Nothing worked. The guy across from him — in a black suit, plain shirt, earpiece — didn’t even flinch. Another one was beside him, blocking the door.

George breathed heavily, heart thundering, shoved back into buttery leather seats that smelled of money and war crimes. His backpack was gone. His hoodie half off one shoulder. One sock was inside out.

“Oh great,” George snapped. “Fucking phenomenal. Love this. Gorgeous kidnapping. Top tier service.”

Silence.

“You guys even know who I am?”

Still silence.

“No? Cool. I’m a broke uni student. My parents don’t even like me. My roommates will probably think I wandered off and joined a cult.”

He paused. Glared.

“Which this feels like, by the way.”

The man across from him blinked once. Said nothing.

The car was moving now. Smooth. Too smooth. George couldn’t even tell which direction they were going.

“Just so we’re clear,” George said, adjusting himself like this was a business meeting. “I have nothing of value. I can’t even afford real shampoo. Unless you’re here to harvest my organs — and, in that case, jokes on you, I’ve been living off noodles for three weeks and I’m probably 98% sodium.”

The guy next to him twitched. Maybe. Like he was trying not to laugh.

“What the fuck do you want?” George snapped. “Ransom? My mum will send you five quid and a passive aggressive voice note.”

Nothing.

No threats. No duct tape. No chloroform. Just… expensive silence. Like these men didn’t need to threaten him. Like they already had him.

Which — okay — terrifying.

But George was also too tired to panic properly. The adrenaline had burned off fast and now his brain was just playing elevator music.

He looked around. Took in the sleek leather interior. The hidden panels. The smell of whatever soap the guy next to him used — faint pine and something synthetic.

“Are you with the government?”

No answer.

“Cartel?”

Nope.

“Secret sex cult?”

The guy beside him exhaled. Just a little.

George slumped down in his seat with a groan.

“Well this is fucking stupid.”

And he meant it.

Because nothing about this made sense. He wasn’t rich. Wasn’t important. Didn’t know anyone worth kidnapping over.

He peeked toward the window. Still blacked out.

He was stuck.

Trapped in a luxury coffin on wheels with two men who looked like they could kill him with a Bluetooth signal.

And still—

He refused to show fear.

“You know,” George said, voice cool, pulling his hoodie back over his shoulder like he wasn’t mentally writing his own obituary, “if this is some dumb intimidation tactic, I’d like to file a complaint. The vibe’s mid. Zero stars. Kidnap me better.”

No response.

Of course.

He sighed. Loudly. Then leaned back, arms crossed, eyes closing.

“Fine. Whatever. Wake me when you decide whether I’m getting murdered or inducted into a pyramid scheme.”

And with that, George Russell — exhausted, mouthy, and slightly crooked — took a nap.

Because honestly?

He was still more afraid of finals than this.

And sleep he did. He didn’t dream. He dropped. Like a stone into sleep — deep, heavy, absolute. His body had long stopped asking for permission. Between finals, caffeine, and life as a part-time digital terrorist, his brain took unconsciousness wherever it could find it. Even, apparently, while kidnapped in a luxury car.

When he finally stirred again, the first thing he registered was the warmth.

No — the absence of it.

Something was tapping at his cheek. Light. Repetitive.

Annoying.

His brows pinched.

“Mmffghhh… fuck off.”

He cracked one eye open.

There was a man crouching over him. The same man from the car — square-jawed, black suited, still wearing that expressionless mask like he moonlighted as someone’s trauma.

George blinked.

Then looked past him.

Then froze.

He wasn’t in the car anymore.

He was on the floor.

Carpeted. Thick.

Some place that smelled like expensive air and generational wealth.

The lighting was soft — low, amber-gold. The walls were smooth matte, probably fake marble. A sculpture sat in one corner that looked like it cost more than his tuition. The ceiling had inbuilt sound-masking panels. The kind you only saw in places where billionaires whispered secrets about off-shore accounts.

“Oh,” George said aloud, blinking slowly. “So this is how I die.”

The man gave a single nod. Then stood and stepped back.

George stayed on the floor, trying to piece things together.

He was… lying on a Persian rug, probably real, probably worth more than the entire apartment he shared with Lando and Alex. His hoodie was still on, thank God, though slightly wrinkled from his nap of trauma. His joggers were bunched at the knees. He was still sockless on one foot.

The AC was blasting.

His bare skin prickled instantly.

“Okay, I have questions,” he muttered to no one in particular, hauling himself upright. “Number one — where the fuck am I? Number two — is this legal? Number three — is there food?”

No one answered.

The suited man was gone.

George blinked again. The room was empty now. The silence felt wrong. Artificial. Like something was watching. Or listening. Or both.

“Hello?” he called out, brushing a curl from his face. “Anyone want to explain why I’m suddenly in a Bond villain’s penthouse and not, y’know, dead in a ditch?”

No answer.

He stood fully now, brushing imaginary dust off his joggers and taking in the room. Minimalist. No doors he could immediately see — just dark panel walls. Seamless. One long table. A set of screens embedded into the wall. No branding. No windows. Nothing reflective.

“Okay this is so above my paygrade,” George muttered. “This feels like the kind of place where people get quietly shot for asking too many questions about water privatization.”

Then—

A voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo. It didn’t need to. It was low. Smooth. With an accent. European, but not British. Clipped. Authoritative. Measured in the way only people with power could afford to be.

“You took quite the nap.”

George spun.

No one there.

He narrowed his eyes. “Cool. Talking walls. Love that.”

“Comfortable?”

Still just voice.

No footsteps. No shifting. No air change. Just that voice, bleeding into the room like smoke.

“Do you always sleep this deeply in strange cars?”

George rolled his eyes. “I don’t usually get abducted by men in suits, no. But I was exhausted and emotionally bankrupt, so… seemed like a good time.”

“Are you hungry?”

George paused. Considered. “...A little.”

Silence.

George crossed his arms, getting annoyed now.

“Look, voice from nowhere, if this is some weird rich person kidnapping roleplay, I’m not into it. Also — just to reiterate — I’m not rich. My net worth is negative. I live off powdered soup and vibes. Whatever you think I have, I don’t. So if we could wrap this up—”

“Oh, we know what you have.”

That made him stop completely. George’s stomach twisted. Just slightly. Just enough.

“...What?”

But the voice didn’t respond.

He swallowed hard. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said, quieter now. “I’m just a uni student.”

Nothing.

“Like—barely. I failed my first year calculus module three times. I write code for free food. I have a Pinterest board for OnlyFans concepts. I’m not anyone important.”

Still.

Only silence.

George looked around. Finally started walking, tracing the wall with his fingers, checking for seams, buttons — doors. He found none.

“Okay seriously,” he snapped, voice high with nerves. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it before I start spiraling. I’d like to die hot and composed, not halfway through a breakdown.”

“Why would we kill you?”

George froze again.

That voice.

Right behind him now.

Except when he turned—

Still nothing.

His eyes flicked to the dark panel behind him. No reflections. No shadows. But the feeling was back — the prickling, cold sense of being watched. Not with curiosity.

With calculation.

George took a shaky breath. Tried to summon the old confidence.

“Well,” he said, louder now, “that’s usually what happens in situations like this, right? Mysterious kidnapping, ominous furniture, vague threats. I’ve seen Netflix documentaries. I know how this ends.”

There was a pause.

And then, finally, the voice again — lower, slower this time.

“You’re… interesting.”

George blinked. “That’s not comforting.”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Yeah, people say that a lot. Usually before they ghost me or call me a ‘chaotic slut.’”

“We’re not here to ghost you, George.”

That.

That made his heart stutter.

Because no one had said his name. Not once. Not since he woke up.

“...How do you know my name?”

Still no answer.

George’s fingers curled into his sleeves.

“Are you the government?”

No reply.

“Private corp? Mob? Cartel?”

Silence.

“FBI? MI6? That new one Elon made up on X?”

Nothing.

He ran a hand through his hair. Started pacing again. He wasn’t scared, exactly. But he wasn’t calm either. He just didn’t know. And George hated not knowing.

“You can’t keep me here,” he tried, half hearted.

“We can.”

Okay. Yeah. Terrifying.

George sank back down onto the carpet, folding his legs under him. His hoodie bunched around his waist again, and he shivered under the blasting AC.

He muttered something about human rights.

The voice didn’t care.

He leaned back on his hands, stared up at the ceiling. “Do you at least have coffee?”

No answer.

George sighed.

And then—

Just before the silence stretched too long, just before he gave up and screamed—

The far wall moved.

A whisper of a shift. Seamless. Silent.

A panel slid back.

And a shadow stepped through.

Tall. Dark. Composed.

Expensive suit. Quiet shoes. Nothing rushed.

No guards.

No introductions.

Just presence.

George stared, mouth parting. Not in fear.

In confusion. Because this man didn’t look like a villain. He looked like a storm in human skin. Finally the shadow stepped fully into the room. And George—

George’s heart fell out of his arse.

Because it wasn’t just anyone walking toward him. It wasn’t some hired thug or anonymous billionaire board member.

It was Max. Verstappen.

And George had seen his face before.

Everywhere.

TV, headlines, shareholder meetings streamed live with forced smiles and terrified executives. The reclusive CEO of VTech. International. Director of Black Halo. Private consultant for agencies that didn’t even have names. One of the youngest billionaires in the world. Ruthless. Brilliant. Untouchable.

And, most importantly—

The exact man George had breached less than twenty four hours ago.

George’s brain short circuited.

He stared. Gawked. Blinked. Then stared harder.

Max didn’t look like someone who should be real. He looked sculpted. Sharp. Ridiculously composed for someone whose security system just got embarrassed by a twenty-something in socks.

His eyes were pale, icy, calculating. His mouth was unreadable — not cruel, not kind, just controlled.

And hot.

Which, frankly, was not helpful.

George’s internal monologue was screaming.

No. Nope. Stop that. Stop thinking that. He’s going to kill you. This is not the time to notice cheekbones. STOP BEING A SLUT, GEORGE.

Max stepped closer. Slowly. Calmly.

George instinctively leaned back on his hands.

“Do you know who I am?” Max asked, voice low and deliberate.

George snorted. He couldn’t help it.

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

Max raised a brow. That subtle, terrifying twitch of amusement.

George’s mouth moved faster than his common sense.

“You’re Max Verstappen. Everyone knows who you are. You probably wake up to Google alerts and blood oaths. Your name’s on the spine of every tech monopoly lawsuit filed in the last five years.”

A pause.

Max didn’t react.

George kept talking. Because his survival instinct had, unfortunately, always been replaced by sarcasm and poor decisions.

“You’ve got more money than God, less empathy than a calculator, and I’m pretty sure your security team could assassinate someone via Bluetooth.”

Silence.

George blinked. Realized he hadn’t breathed in thirty seconds.

Then he exhaled. Slowly.

“And I’m fucked.”

Max tilted his head slightly. “That would be accurate.”

George groaned and dropped his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

“Let me guess. You traced me. Found my digital signature. Had your robot army scoop me up while I was halfway to a mental breakdown over an overdue thesis. You brought me here to make an example of me.”

Max’s eyes didn’t move from him. “Not quite.”

“So you’re not gonna kill me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

George stared at him. Then sat up straighter, arms crossed tight around his ribs.

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. It was a dare. A stupid one. My friends thought I couldn’t do it. And yeah, okay, maybe I was a little smug, but in my defense, your firewall practically begged me to spank it.”

Max blinked once. Slowly.

George went pale. “Wait—no—forget I said that—”

“Too late.”

George groaned again, tugging his hoodie sleeves over his mouth. God, why couldn’t I have just stayed home and cried into a noodle packet like a normal student? He peeked through the hoodie. Max was still watching him. Not with rage or even with contempt.

Just interest..?

Like he was trying to decode him. Piece by piece. Decide whether he was worth dissecting or preserving.

“You really didn’t know who I was when you wrote that script?” Max finally asked.

George gave a tired laugh. “No. I knew. That’s what made it fun.”

Another pause.

“You’re either very brave,” Max said, “or very stupid.”

George shrugged. “Why not both?”

Max didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there. Like a god carved in tech and ice and very expensive cologne.

And George—

God help him—

George was staring again.

He’s gonna kill you and you’re still checking him out. You're mentally undressing a man who probably owns a private satellite. YOU NEED HELP.

George shook his head. Tried to refocus.

“Okay,” he said. “So what now? Do I get executed in a cyber themed escape room? Or are you gonna sell my organs on the blockchain?”

Max just looked at him.

“You’re not what I expected.”

George snorted. “You said that already.”

Max stepped closer.

George froze.

“You’re dangerous,” Max said softly.

George blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You,” Max said, “are dangerous. And you don’t even know it.”

George’s breath caught.

Because Max wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t joking. He probably never does. He looked almost intrigued. And that, more than anything?

That scared George the most.

Notes:

basically george is my own projection. ahem. cus fuck the system. anyway... can you guys guess the age gap...

Chapter 3

It had taken less than a day.

Freya was good. No—Freya was the best. By the time she'd walked into his office and dropped the location pin, Max was already halfway to London.

He hadn’t even needed to ask twice.

He'd expected a challenge. A rival company. Maybe a bitter ex partner trying to sabotage VTech's upcoming launch. Someone with a motive.

What he didn’t expect—

Was a twenty one year old university student living in a shared flat with a film major and an economist. Someone who lived off cup noodles and sarcasm. Someone who breached Max’s security fortress—not for espionage, not for profit—

But because his friends dared him.

Max hadn’t believed it at first.

But he had seen the logs. The script. The signature.

It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even clever in the traditional way. It was elegant. Smooth. A ghost sliding through layers like he was born in code. Max had read it twice. Then he booked a private flight.

He didn’t need to see the boy.

But Max Verstappen wasn’t in the habit of letting things go unseen.

Now—

Now he was standing here. In a sealed room far beneath one of his safehouses. Watching the boy wake up on a designer rug, dazed and barefoot and completely unaware of what he’d just stepped into.

The first time Max saw his face in full—

He stared.

Not because he was pretty. But because he looked so unbothered. Tired, yes. Slightly lost. But not afraid. Not even after waking up in a place built to terrify. The boy blinked at him, registered who he was—

And gawked.

Max could practically see the realization flash across his face. The slow, painful oh fuck expression.

Max almost smiled.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, just for the fun of it.

The boy scoffed. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

That was the moment. The precise moment Max knew—

He’s not like the others.

Not a threat. Not a rival. Not desperate for money.

Just… someone too smart for his own good. Too reckless. Too bored.

After what felt like an excruciatingly long five minutes of the guy's relentless yapping, a slow realization dawned on Max—this kid didn't fear him.

Not yet, anyway.

Max had mentally muted the droning voice ages ago, his attention drifting. He could almost taste the audacity of it. This entire breach, the audacity of it all, wasn't about money or power. He'd figured how to crack one of the hardest firewall in the world. The one Max himself created. And it was done purely for the thrill, just to prove he could.

The guy had held the keys to valuable information, capable of selling secrets and becoming rich overnight. But no. Instead, he’d left a fucking cat meme.

It was more than just a prank. It was a deliberate, mocking gesture, nothing but a pretty package of a gift, expertly wrapped in pure venom. And Max, well... Max had always had a very particular knack for collecting souvenirs, especially ones with an edge.

“You’re dangerous,” Max said finally.

“Excuse me?”

“You,” Max repeated, “are dangerous. And you don’t even know it.”

The boy gulped and blinked twice.

Good.

Let that sink in.

Because Max wasn’t angry anymore.

He was interested.

This—George Russell—had done something most professionals wouldn’t even attempt. He’d poked the monster. Just to see if it would bite.

Max stepped closer.

“You breached VTech’s architecture. My systems. My private sandbox. Because your friends dared you.”

The boy opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. Smart.

Max gave a slow nod. “You didn’t do it for money. Or leverage. You did it because you could.”

He paused.

“I want to offer you a job.”

The words landed like a bullet.

George blinked. Then laughed. Actually laughed. “Sorry—what?”

Max didn’t repeat himself.

George stared at him. “You kidnapped me.”

Max raised a brow. “I retrieved you.”

“You’re offering me a job.”

“Yes.”

“After implying you might kill me five times?”

“Technically, I never specified I would.”

George gawked again.

Max didn’t look away.

“You’re wasted in that university. You’re working with scraps. Teaching assistants who couldn’t write half the script you did. Eating MSG and burning your eyes on a cracked laptop.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

George’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

“You want to hire me. Just like that.”

“Not just like that,” Max replied, stepping closer. “You’d be under me.”

Pause.

“Professionally.”

George choked.

Idiot. Max almost rolled his eyes.

“Why?” George asked, quieter now.

“Because you’re smart. You’re fast. You think outside the logic tree. And you weren’t scared.”

George swallowed again. There it was. The offer of a lifetime. Power. Prestige. A place at the top of a tower no one else even saw. All George had to do was say yes. And then—

“No.”

Max blinked.

“Excuse me?”

George stood, finally. Hoodie half off his shoulder, eyes wide but burning now with something hot and stubborn.

“I said no.”

Max stared at him. “You’re rejecting me.”

“Yes.”

“You’re rejecting me.”

George shrugged, arms crossed. “I don’t work for people like you.”

“People like me?”

“Corporate overlords with satellites and egos and murder rooms for decor. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Max’s jaw flexed once.

He hadn’t planned for this.

No one ever said no to him. It was a word Max almost never heard, let alone from some insolent twenty one old. Max rarely showed his anger anymore; he'd long outgrown that volatile phase, those fiery twenties spent proving himself to his father. A decade later, he had everything. But because of this little shit… Max felt those old urges stirring deep within him.

The raw, primal need to snap, to break, to claim.

“You’ll regret it.”

George tilted his head. “Probably. But at least I’ll do it on my own terms.”

Silence.

And then—shockingly—Max gave a nod.

Just one.

Then turned and walked away.

“Freya,” he said into the comms, “release him.”

“Sir?”

“Let him go.”

“...Seriously?”

“He’s not ready yet.”

And just as Max had ordered, Freya called in the guards. The kid, once again, let out a shriek like a startled raccoon before hissing that he could walk on his own. "At least buy me dinner first, Mr. Hulk," he shot back, just before they led him away.

The soft click of the hidden door sliding shut echoed once.

“What the fuck was that?”

Freya emerged from the far end of the room, arms crossed, brow raised like she was preparing a legal case against him. Her heels clicked sharp on the floor, and her mouth was already twisted in suspicion.

Max didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look up from where he was adjusting the cuffs of his suit.

“He’s gone,” he said simply.

“I saw.”

She folded her arms tighter. “You flew here in the middle of a gala. Left diplomats and sponsors hanging just to see some anonymous system breach—”

“It wasn’t anonymous.”

“—and then you let him go. No NDA. No threat. Just… escorted him to the curb like a fucking Uber driver.”

Max looked up now. Calm. Too calm.

“Your point?”

“My point,” she hissed, “is what the hell was all that drama for if you weren’t going to lock him up or blackmail him or offer him anything useful?”

Max didn’t answer right away.

Just loosened his cufflink. Clicked it back in.

“Was it…” Freya stepped closer, voice lower, deadlier. “Because he was too pretty?”

Max glanced up. Brow raised. “Seriously?”

“I saw that look. Don’t give me that poker face bullshit. He spoke and your head tilted like he was a chessboard.”

“He breached my system.”

“And you looked intrigued.” Her voice dropped. “Did you feel something? In that little stone heart of yours?”

Max gave her the flattest look possible. “I don’t do feelings, Freya.”

“You don’t do mercy either,” she shot back. “Yet you let that twink go.”

Max turned away. Walked to the wall screen. It flickered with soft light as his fingerprints activated the hidden interface.

“Who said I let him go?”

Freya blinked.

“...What?”

He didn’t repeat himself. Didn’t look at her. He was already tracking George’s route. Already watching him walk down the rainy street with his hoodie half on, muttering curses under his breath.

Max’s eyes narrowed.

Freya threw her tablet onto the glass table with a clatter.

“So what’s the plan now? Kidnap him again? Hack his phone and text his professors for him?”

Max didn’t look up.

“No.”

“Then what, exactly?”

“He said no.”

“Yes, I recall. You’re very dramatic. Very offended. Very brooding.”

“He said no because he thought he had other options.”

Freya raised an eyebrow. “So you’re going to take them away?”

A slow smile crept onto Max’s face. Cold. Satisfied.

“Exactly.”

Freya groaned. “You’re going to ruin a poor student’s life because he bruised your ego.”

“No. I’m going to ruin a promising student’s life to give him a better one.”

“That is so much worse, Max.”

He tapped the side of his cup thoughtfully. “Pull his university record. His current scholarships. Job applications. Any part time income streams.”

“Already on it,” Freya muttered. “Because I live to enable your techno predatory courting tactics.”

Max kept going, like she hadn’t spoken.

“Reject his internship proposals. Blacklist him from every major firm in the city. Make sure he gets no callbacks from anywhere reputable.”

“And if he tries to go abroad?”

“We’ll handle visa blocks. Quiet ones. Red tape.”

Freya blinked. “You’re blackballing him into working for you?”

“I’m giving him clarity.”

“You’re pushing him to the edge.”

“Exactly to the edge,” Max said smoothly. “And when he’s standing there, with nothing left—when his pride is too bruised to crawl back to anyone else—then I’ll offer him a choice.”

He looked up at her now, smiling like the devil in a tailored suit.

“Not an offer. A choice.”

Freya narrowed her eyes. “And when he finds out you’re the one who sabotaged him?”

“He won’t.”

“And if he does?”

Max took another slow sip.

“Then he’ll hate me.”

“...You’re okay with that?”

Max set the cup down. His gaze was sharp. Steady.

“He won’t hate me forever.”

Freya stared. “You’re insane.”

“I’m patient.”

She leaned forward, hands on the table, staring him down.

“You really think this twink hacker will crawl back into your lap after you crush his entire future?”

Max didn’t blink.

“He’s not going to crawl, Freya.”

He stood. Adjusted his cuffs. Straightened his jacket.

“He’s going to run.”

Freya didn't utter another word after that, her lips pressed into a thin, knowing line. She didn't have to. The moment Max's voice had dropped to that tone, a low, almost imperceptible shift, she knew instantly what it meant. It wasn't just anger, but a quiet, dark promise that hummed with a dangerous certainty. She'd spent years by his side, navigated countless crises, and had come to understand him with an intimacy that few others possessed.

She knew precisely when to keep her mouth shut, when to fade into the background, and, more importantly, exactly what her next, critical move needed to be without him having to spell it out.

Her silence wasn't fear, but absolute, efficient compliance born of deep understanding.

Because Max Verstappen was not sentimental.

He didn’t “start over.” He expanded. He multiplied. He evolved.

And now?

He was settling in London.

Not because the numbers told him to. Not because of VTech's EU expansion initiative or the board's polite suggestions.

But because George Russell lived here.

The decision had been easy.

He already owned several properties in the UK. Old family assets, purchased by his father during their days of investment laundering and political “networking.” But those weren’t suitable.

Max needed something quieter. Central and custom built.

He chose a penthouse overlooking the Thames. Three floors. Bulletproof glass. Private helipad. Elevator access keyed to his retinal scan.

And on the top floor— A private surveillance room disguised as a minimalist library.

Freya liked to call it his “stalker cave.”

He didn’t correct her.

It was late afternoon. London rain tapped against the glass like an impatient lover. Max sat in his usual seat—black leather, angled slightly toward the triple screen display mounted on the far wall.

His espresso was untouched. Cooling.

He wasn’t paying attention to the monitors today.

Well—not all of them.

One screen displayed security data. Another displayed ongoing simulations for VTech's neural OS interface.

The third?

George.

At this exact moment, George was walking out of a Tesco with a bag of frozen dumplings and instant ramen.

No umbrella. Hoodie up. One earbud in. He looked mildly pissed off. Max didn’t need audio to know he was probably swearing under his breath at the rain.

Max watched him. Unblinking.

Freya had called it obsession.

Max called it interest.

I just want to know what he does when no one’s watching.

A quiet thud sounded behind him. One of his guards entered with a tablet and a note.

“Updates.”

Max didn’t look away from the screen. “Speak.”

“Academic interference underway. Three internship offers revoked. One funding board denied his research request. Visa blocks filed under Level-3 justification codes.”

Max nodded. “Any pushback?”

“None yet. He thinks it’s just bad luck.”

Good.

He leaned back in the chair, finally sipping his espresso.

On screen, George bumped into someone while scrolling his phone. He apologized instantly—then flipped the man off once he passed.

Max’s mouth twitched. Just slightly.

Behind him, on the fourth screen—quietly running in the background—was a sparring match on loop. Two men, lean and fast, brutal with their hits.

Sweat. Blood. Precision.

It wasn’t just entertainment. It was metaphor. Adapt. Strike. Fall back. Then hit where it hurts most.

Max muted the audio, letting only the soft slap of rain fill the room.

His attention flicked back to George’s flat feed. The boy had returned home. Thrown his soaked hoodie onto the couch. Collapsed onto the floor with a bowl of dry cereal and a frown.

He looked exhausted.

Frustrated.

He’d started checking his inbox more obsessively lately. Watching every rejection come in like a slow bleed.

Good.

Max crossed one leg over the other.

He didn’t believe in chaos for chaos’s sake.

He believed in control.

“Sir,” Freya’s voice echoed into his comms. “You know this is going to backfire eventually, right?”

“He’ll thank me for it later.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You’re watching a boy eat cereal in his pyjamas.”

“He eats like he codes. No discipline. No defense.”

Freya sighed so hard it crackled the comms.

“Let me know when you start writing poetry.”

Max ignored her.

Instead, he watched as George tossed his phone aside. Lay on his back. Closed his eyes.

For a moment, he looked soft. Still. Vulnerable.

Max leaned forward. Tapped a key. Pulled up the audio feed. Just in time to hear George mutter—

“What the fuck is happening to my life?”

Max’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You’re evolving,” he whispered.

The sparring match behind him replayed the final scene— One man on his knees. The other pressing a blade to his throat.

Victory.

But only for the one who stayed standing long enough to strike.

Notes:

you lot are so funny😭😭 ones who said 33 and 20 year age gap... yall are freaky😔🙏🏼

Chapter 4

George was used to being unlucky.

That was just a fact. Some people were born under stars. George was born under a flickering bathroom light. If it rained, he didn’t have an umbrella. If the Wi-Fi died, it was always during his submission deadline. If a rich old man flirted with him online, it was always a scammer and not a sugar daddy.

“It’s just my brand,” he’d tell Lando and Alex, chewing sad cereal.

But even he had to admit— The last few days had been… ridiculous.

His inbox was a graveyard. Five internship rejections. One research cancellation. Two scholarship responses still pending but already feeling like a slow, inevitable no.

His laptop was glitching again. His part time café job cut his hours. And to top it all off, his favorite instant ramen brand was out of stock for the third week in a row.

At this point, the universe wasn’t testing him.

It was just bullying him.

“Dude,” Alex muttered from the other side of their shared table. “What did you do? Kick a priest? Piss in a sacred river?”

George groaned, forehead pressed to the table.

“I swear to God I’m cursed.”

“You’re dramatic,” Lando mumbled, eyes on his editing software. “You’ll be fine.”

“Wanna pay my rent then?”

Lando went suspiciously silent.

George sighed. Sat back. Rubbed his face.

“Okay, no, seriously. What the fuck is going on?”

Alex clicked his tongue. “Maybe it’s karma for all those fake sugar daddy profiles you catfished for fun.”

“I never took money!”

“You sent feet pics for fake bitcoin!”

“That was a social experiment!”

Alex tossed a pillow at his head.

The truth was—

George wasn’t really surprised by the rejections. Not deep down.

He’d always known he wasn’t polished enough. Not connected enough. His professors liked his brain, sure. But his resume was a mess. He didn’t own a blazer. His only professional photo was a filtered selfie.

He wasn’t prodigy material. He wasn’t any tech firm material. He was a freelance disaster. Hacker by impulse, coder by insomnia. No one wanted a guy like that.

“You’ve got the skills of a god and the resume of a cursed Pokémon card,” Alex had told him once.

He knew that.

He’d made peace with it.

Sort of.

Still—

It was weird.

Things he was overqualified for? He didn’t even get interviews. Opportunities that begged for creative coders suddenly got “funding issues.” His phone felt haunted. His emails cursed. He even checked Reddit forums for “tech hiring freeze UK 2025.”

Nothing.

“God,” he muttered that night, curled in a hoodie burrito on the floor. “Maybe I am cursed.”

Lando, from the kitchen, “Want some leftover curry?”

“Do curses eat curry?”

“You do.”

But even as George dragged himself to class the next morning, late again and running on cold caffeine. Even as he got another auto-generated rejection for a project he’d spent three weeks polishing—

He didn’t suspect anything bigger.

Because why would he?

What, was there some secret evil billionaire targeting him personally?

Some global conspiracy to make sure he failed?

George snorted at the thought.

“If some rich psycho’s gonna ruin my life,” he muttered to himself, “he better at least buy me dinner first.”

He paused.

“Or like. A new laptop.”

It was 2AM now and George was upside down on his bed.

Literally.

Head hanging off the edge, feet kicked up against the wall, eyes burning from six hours of job board scrolling and absolutely zero progress.

The ceiling stared back at him like it was judging his entire existence.

He sighed.

“I am so. Fucking. Doomed.”

He flicked his phone on again, even though he’d checked it two minutes ago. Nothing. Same rejections. Same ghosted applications.

He’d started applying to random listings now. Not even tech stuff. A part time data entry position for a fish company. Something called “influencer analytics” at a company that looked like it sold skincare and mild cult vibes.

“Should I just sell feet pics,” he mumbled. “Might be my only marketable skill. I've got pretty big feet.”

And then—

Ping.

New email. No subject line.

George blinked.

He opened it.

From: [email protected]

Subject: (none)

Body:

Mr. Russell,

You have been shortlisted for a private technical consultancy position.

Your previous digital projects have been reviewed through industry channels.

This position is remote first, contract based, high value, and requires discretion.
No formal interview will be held. All qualifications have been verified through alternative metrics.

Starting package: £210,000 base per annum.
Non-disclosure terms apply.

Please respond within 24 hours if interested.

— FranzCore Recruitment Office

[APPLY | DECLINE]

George stared at the screen.

Read it once.

Then twice.

“What the fuck.”

Alex, from across the room, “You say that every time you get an actual email.”

“No, listen to this—”

He read the whole thing out loud.

Alex blinked. “...You getting recruited by the army or some shit?”

“That’s what I’m saying! What the hell is FranzCore Labs?!”

Lando poked his head in from the bathroom. “Sounds like a start up for either illegal cloning or AI girlfriends. Like who the fuck is Franz?”

“Exactly,” George muttered. “This is sus as hell.”

Alex shrugged. “Could be real. That pay’s insane though.”

“That’s the problem. What kind of company hires me out of nowhere, no resume, no interview, and throws 200k at my face?”

“A desperate one?”

“A murdery one.”

He stared at the APPLY button. Hovered his thumb over it.

And then—

Hit DECLINE.

With no hesitation.

Later that night, after brushing his teeth with expired toothpaste and reusing yesterday’s towel, George flopped back onto bed and sighed into his pillow.

“I could still live, yeah? I’m scrappy.”

He thought about it. The rejections. The breakdowns. The £210,000 he just threw away like a dumbass with no self preservation instinct.

“I’ve lived off £20 for a week before. I’ll survive.”

Pause.

“...Right?”

Right.

He couldn’t sleep that night.

Again.

Nothing unnatural. But still. This time he was awake actually thinking about something other than assignments or deadlines.

The walls of his room were starting to look like padded cell wallpaper. The uneven poster of a blonde anime girl stared down at him with eternal disappointment.

George tossed. Then turned. Then kicked the blanket off like it had personally wronged him.

The fan on his desk buzzed quietly. His laptop light blinked. A bowl with dried ramen stains sat beside his bed like a ghost of poor life choices.

And his phone screen still glowed with the last thing he wanted to see.

Mum:

-Your dad says if you don’t get a job by next month he’s pulling support.-

-He’s already stretched thin with your brother and sister.-

-You’re the youngest, George. -

-Be reasonable.-

George laughed.

Laughed so hard he nearly snorted.

Support?

What. Fucking. Support.

The last time his father “helped out,” it was £60. For textbooks that cost £120. And then he had the audacity to ask for receipts.

“Barely pays for three days of life and suddenly thinks he’s Daddy Warbucks.”

George grumbled and slammed the phone down on the pillow beside him.

“I didn’t ask to be born, Janice,” he muttered at the ceiling. “Especially not hundred goddamn years after your other kids.”

He always knew he was the accident baby. The afterthought.

The oh we still work? surprise!

And sure—he tried not to let it bother him. He had Lando and Alex, and his stupid coding skills, and his little patchwork independence.

But sometimes—

On nights like this—

It felt like his life was some side quest his parents forgot to log.

He sat up, rubbing at his face.

The blue glow of his laptop reminded him of everything he didn’t want to think about.

He’d deleted the email.

The one that offered him a salary that could wipe out all his stress in one swipe.

£210k.

No interviews. No corporate ass kissing.

It had smelled suspicious. It was too clean. Too slick. Like a perfect Tinder match that asked you to meet behind an abandoned warehouse.

“Of course I fucking said no,” George muttered, flopping back again. “I watch documentaries. I’m not gonna wake up in a bathtub missing a kidney.”

But still...

Still...

What if it had been real?

What if he had said yes?

He’d be making real money. Wouldn’t be stuck rationing peanut butter for breakfast. Wouldn’t be panicking over his dad’s threats like they even mattered.

“God,” he whispered to the ceiling. “Please give me one win. Just one. I’m not asking to be Bezos. I just want to not want to die when I check my bank account.”

The fan buzzed again. Useless.

He turned over, face squished into the pillow.

“I’m not even asking for love or happiness or hot sex. Just like... basic fucking stability.”

Though a hot sex could probably fix m—

“Like a full sized towel and groceries that don’t come from the clearance shelf. That’s it. That’s the tweet.”

But the universe?

The universe was just vibing. And apparently the vibe was chaotic neutral with a sprinkle of fuck George Russell specifically.

It was almost 4am now.

He should sleep.

He wanted to sleep.

But his brain? Oh no. His brain decided it was a perfect time to revisit every single failure of the last six months.

That time he bombed the interview at Techtonix by accidentally screen sharing his “sugar daddy meme” folder. The scholarship he missed because he thought the deadline was the next Tuesday.

The rejection from the startup that said “you’re overqualified but understructured.”

And now?

Even the one weird lifeline he got—mysterious, sketchy, high-paying—he’d tossed out like expired hummus.

“God,” he whispered again, staring at the ceiling fan blades, “if you’re up there... or down there... or if you’re just a guy named Dave... I don’t even care anymore.”

“Just don’t let me die in this hoodie.”

He closed his eyes.

He didn’t expect sleep to come. But eventually, exhaustion knocked him out.

And in another part of London, a man in a black turtleneck watched a playback of that exact monologue.

Max Verstappen leaned back in his chair.

Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

Freya stood behind him, sipping wine.

“Are you feeling guilt yet?”

“No.”

“Pity?”

“No.”

“Aroused?”

“...Not answering that.”

“That’s a yes.”

Max didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“He’s almost ready.”

“You said that last time.”

“This time,” Max said, a little darker now, “he won’t have the option to hit decline.”

Notes:

george is so dumb. like... also im having a field day with his internal monologues

Chapter 5

He hadn’t meant for it to last this long.

The stalking.

The watching.

The studying.

A week of observation had turned into two, then three… and now it had been a month.

Max Verstappen had spent nearly thirty one days dissecting a poor university student like he was a codebase—deconstructing his patterns, algorithms, bugs, vulnerabilities.

And George Russell?

Was a very messy, beautiful, illogical string of flaws and contradictions.

“He’s got the survival instincts of a fucking sloth,” Max said flatly, seated in the quiet of his penthouse temporary base in London.

Freya didn’t even blink. “You figured that out now?”

The screen in front of them played on mute. A looping video feed of George walking down a rain slick alleyway, hoodie half on, headphones in, carrying instant noodles and a tiny soy sauce packet in his mouth because his hands were full with his laptop bag and a tote with a hole at the bottom.

Max pointed lazily. “That’s the third time this week he walked into a construction zone.”

“He waved at the crane operator too,” Freya noted. “Charming.”

Max leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the screen.

“He’s smart. Genius even. That’s not the issue.”

Because he was. He’d watched George crack encrypted architecture from a phone with a cracked screen and a laptop from 2014 running Linux Mint like it was some miracle tool.

He solved backdoor puzzles Max’s own AI system couldn’t flag in real time. And he laughed while doing it. Giggled, even. Like chaos was a hobby and he was born for the challenge.

But when it came to himself—

George Russell was a disaster.

No budgeting skills. A nutritional routine that would horrify a raccoon. Constant underestimation of his own worth. Sleeps four hours, gives up on big career chances because they “feel fake,” then stays up writing code for free for his friends just because they looked stressed.

“He’s too trusting,” Max muttered. “Too kind.” He spat the last word like it was a curse.

And then there were the roommates.

Lando Norris. Film major. ADHD personified.

Alex Albon. Economics student. Sweet, sarcastic, lives off oat milk and vibes.

Idiots. Both of them.

Idiots who, somehow, had wrapped George in this threadbare little version of “home.” They watched anime together. Argued over playlists. Took turns hiding ramen packets so George wouldn’t eat twelve a week.

It was childish.

And yet—every time George's eyes dulled, they were the ones to drag him back to color.

“He cares more about them than himself,” Max said quietly, still watching.

The screen now showed George sharing his charger with Lando, while eating from Alex’s leftover stir fry with chopsticks he definitely stole from someone’s drawer.

“If I want him…” He paused. Stared.

No one interrupted him.

Max blinked once.

“If I want him on my side… I need to make them the leverage.”

There it was.

The final click of a plan months in the making.

Freya finally turned her head. “You’re going to threaten the roommates?”

“No,” Max said. “Threatening won’t work.”

Because George would just explode. Bite back. Play martyr.

No—he needed fear. Not for himself. For others.

“I’m going to create a problem. One that only he can solve. One that risks his friends. That invades his little bubble.”

“And then I’ll be the only way out.”

Freya sighed. “You’re building your own hostage scenario just to get a pretty boy to code for you.”

“He’s not just a pretty boy,” Max snapped. “He breached VTech just within three minutes.”

“So… he’s your pretty boy?”

Max didn’t reply.

But his jaw flexed.

The plan was already in motion.

Two laptops. Three burner phones. A fake client deal aimed at Alex’s undergrad thesis source. A corrupted render file planted in Lando’s current student short film, with malware disguised as editing software.

The chaos would look natural. Organic.

And George? George would do what he always did.

Fix it.

At his own expense. Probably losing sleep. Skipping class. Throwing himself into the fire for the people he loved because he didn’t know how to do anything else.

Then Max would show up.

As the solution. As the only one who could unspool the mess.

“He’s not stupid,” Freya said later that evening, watching Max pack up his files. “He’ll know.”

“Let him.” Max’s voice was calm. “By the time he figures it out, he’ll be too far in.”

“And what happens when he hates you for it?”

“Then he’ll hate me,” Max murmured. “But he’ll stay.”

He will make sure of it.

Because Max had never understood why people liked slow burning candles. He preferred gasoline. Flash fires. Bright, devastating combustion. But in George Russell’s case…

He had taken his time. Let it simmer. Let the fuse hiss and spark all the way down before lighting up the whole world around him.

A month.

In Max's meticulously scheduled, high tech world, where every single second was calculated for maximum efficiency and return, that was practically a decade. He was not a man known for his patience. Delays were anathema to him, roadblocks to be bulldozed without a second thought.

Yet, for this, for him, the usual rules simply didn't apply. He found himself, to his own quiet surprise, not minding the wait, not if the product on the other side of it was going to be as exquisitely, utterly sweet as he anticipated.

He knew it would be.

After a long wait, the match had finally struck.

And George’s world was crumbling.

At first, it was subtle.

Alex’s university access revoked “temporarily” for “financial irregularities.”

Lando’s project flagged and removed from two student film festivals for alleged AI plagiarism he didn’t commit.

Nothing unfixable. Yet.

They laughed at first. Rolled their eyes. “Some admin fuck up. It’ll sort out.”

George tried helping.

He stayed up nights, sipping cheap coffee and clicking through strings of metadata. Wrote emails. Called offices. Talked professors down. Made excuses. Covered the gaps. Smiled through the tight panic in his chest.

“You don’t have to do this, Georgie,” Alex had said once, after finding him asleep in front of three open tabs and a notepad full of scribbles.

“Yes I do,” George had muttered. “You’d do it for me.”

He always said that.

Then came the debt.

Alex’s bank account overdrafted after a scholarship transaction “reversed.” Lando’s card declined for a £1.60 coffee. Emails from the uni’s finance department. Notices from student housing. Confusion, then dread.

They hadn’t done anything wrong.

And yet the numbers said otherwise.

And when George tried to trace the sources, follow the breadcrumbs like he always did...

Nothing.

No pings. No patterns. No broken encryptions to dance through.

“The system’s clean,” George mumbled, staring at his screen, fingers twitching. “I don’t get it.”

No glitches. No backdoor entries. No trail. The firewall was military-grade. This wasn’t just deliberate.

It was precise.

Untouchable.

“Whoever did this didn’t leave fingerprints,” George whispered. “What the actual fuck—”

And from a private suite across the city, Max watched.

Monitors lit up with every new transaction. Every failed login. Every time George whispered to himself in front of the laptop.

You can’t breach this one, little virus.

Not this time.

He watched George cry for the first time, silently.

Not for himself.

For them.

He hugged Lando, whose hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He sat beside Alex, who was staring blankly at a wall, phone full of loan threats buzzing next to his untouched tea.

“We’ll fix this,” George promised. Voice steady, eyes red. “Okay? I swear. I won’t let them do this to you.”

But this time, he didn’t sound sure.

Not like before.

Max just sat back. Swirling whiskey in a crystal glass. He had crafted this puzzle like a goddamn artist. No violence. No threats.

Just pressure. Debt. Failure.

A soft ruin.

Because this was the final test.

George Russell had always sacrificed for the people he loved.

Now Max had taken those people, broken them, and left George standing in the wreckage, alone with one remaining choice:

Reach out.

Or lose them all.

And Max would be there. Waiting.

With open arms.

And a contract.

---

Within three days, George had done what most wouldn't even try.

Because Alex and Lando were falling. And he wouldn't—couldn't—let them crash alone.

He’d skipped meals. Class. Sleep.

Showed up in classrooms mid discussion. Waited outside offices for hours. Slipped letters under doors. Knocked again and again until someone finally answered.

He offered free work. Said he’d debug their broken grading software, repair corrupted server logs, revamp their horrid internal portals. For free.

Anything, anything—

“Just help them,” George had said, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “They’re brilliant. They’re everything your damn brochure says you support. Why can’t you help them?”

He’d pleaded like a son standing outside a locked house, trying to come home.

He talked to everyone.

Dean of Film. Admin office of Economics. Department Chairs, one after another.

And every time someone asked him, “Aren’t you a Computer Science student?”

He just smiled, tight lipped, and said, “And? Students are students. These are mine.”

He offered his own skills in exchange—tech work, systems audit, fixing firewalls, patching bugs, anything.

For free.

Just fix them.

“Didn’t the university promise us support? A better future?”

“Isn’t this what you preach? Guidance, opportunity?”

“So why aren’t you doing anything now?”

Some listened. Some nodded sympathetically. Some passed him along like a charity case.

Only two offered anything real in return.

The first?

The new “Director of Economics.”

The same man Alex had bitched about just days ago.

“Pretty sure he's illegal. Probably inherited the position from fucking nepotism.”

George hadn’t believed it.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

The man barely looked up from his tablet when George entered.

“You want me to wipe your friend’s debt? Reauthorize their coursework? Get them re-enrolled?”

“Yes. Please. I can— I’ll work. You can audit me. You can use me for departmental systems. Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything legal.”

The man snorted. He tapped a few times on his screen. Then paused. Smiled, wide and fake.

“There’s something you can do.”

“Yeah?”

“Pay.”

“Pay what?”

“£20,000.”

“You what?”

“Oh come on. That’s a fair price for a degree these days.”

George stared, mouth dry.

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Then I guess your friend’s future isn’t worth that much, is it?”

The second offer came not long after. From the Film Faculty Vice Chancellor.

A similar tone. A similar number.

A similar deal.

George left that office with his throat burning, hands shaking.

“How are they all so— so heartless?” he muttered under his breath, walking back across the campus.

“No one wants to help unless they can bleed you for it.”

And worst? He didn’t even tell Alex or Lando. He couldn’t handle the look on their faces. Not again.

If I work two jobs. If I stop eating out. Maybe I can ask my mum—no, no—maybe loans?

I could take a few commissions. Fuck. That’ll take months.

Think, George. Think.

Then silence.

A breath.

Fuck me sideways. Actually, don't I'm already fucked open.

George was walking.

Well, more like dragging himself home—backpack hanging loosely off one shoulder, hoodie strings bouncing with every uneven step.

His brain? A mess.

“Two departments want nearly twenty fucking grand.”

I can’t even pay my fucking electricity bill.

Mum’s gonna kill me if papa doesn’t first.

And those bastards won’t even listen unless I pay them for it—

Too many thoughts. Too many problems. He rubbed his temple and muttered, “I should’ve just been a stripper.”

And then—

Glimmer.

Something sharp caught his eye. Sunglasses. Reflection.

Normally? George wouldn't have even spared a glance. His gaze typically slid over the city, a practiced shield against the strangeness.

London, after all, was absolutely filled with weirdos, each corner potentially holding another spectacle best ignored. He'd lived by a simple, unwritten rule for survival on these streets.

Keep your head down, your eyes forward, and for God's sake, mind your own damn business if you wanted to live long enough to see another sunrise. It was a philosophy that had served him well.

But today? Today, that ingrained caution. Today, he looked.

And blinked.

“…Mr Hulk?”

It was him.

The same broad shouldered, terrifying, painfully stoic man who'd once picked him mid walk and relocated him like lost luggage. He stood there, arms crossed, glasses on, earpiece in. Still built like a literal brick wall.

George blinked again, pointing.

“You're— you’re the guy who kidnapped me!”

The man rolled his eyes behind the sunglasses.

“I didn't kidnap you. I escorted you.”

“Huh??”

“Details.”

George stood awkwardly, toe kicking the pavement.

“Sooo... what, you stalking me now, muscle man?”

The man didn’t even twitch.

“Just looking around.”

“For what?”

“None of your business, kid.”

George raised a brow.

“Okay geez—calm down. Just was trying to make a conversation.”

Silence.

Neither of them moved.

George glanced up at the sky, a heavy, bruised expanse of overcast grey that mirrored the exact shade of every rotten mood he’d been trapped in for the past week. The gloom felt suffocating, pressing down on him, and in that moment, it all truly, viscerally hit him.

Not just as a thought, but as a crushing weight: the endless, damning stack of receipts that tallied every failed hope, the hollow, sugar coated offers that always dissolved into nothing, and the sickening parade of fake smiles from fake adults, all of them reaching out with open palms, demanding real cash he didn't have.

He could still see Alex, hunched over and crying in the cold stairwell, utterly broken. And Lando, bright and boisterous, pretending to laugh through it all, a desperate, brittle sound that only amplified the silent screams between them.

He exhaled hard.

“Fuck it.”

He turned slowly, looked at the man again, and stepped forward.

“Hey... uh. Can you kidnap me?”

The man stared at him.

“...What.”

“Kidnap me. Like before.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I— I need to see that man again.”

“Mr Verstappen?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought you weren’t into him.”

George flushed. “I’m not! I mean— it’s not like that. I just— I need to talk to him. About the offer. The... job.”

The man tilted his head.

“Didn’t you already reject him?”

“I can un-reject! That’s allowed! I think.”

A long pause.

Mr Hulk stared down at him with what George could swear was the closest thing to pity he’d ever seen from a human wall.

George stared back, not backing down.

Finally—

“...Get in.”

George grinned wide.

“Oh my god, I could hug you—”

“Don’t you dare.”

He slid into the backseat of the blacked out vehicle like it was some kind of Uber to hell.

And yet, for the first time in weeks—he felt a weird sense of calm.

George Russell was going back.

This time he’d walk into the lion’s den.

Hell, he might even bring snacks.

And money.

Notes:

:)

Say hi to me (👹) on tumblr: Sweetnkiwie

Chapter 6

He was walking.

Again.

But this time—it wasn’t down some university hallway or cheap sidewalk littered with chicken boxes and yesterday’s regrets.

No.

This was... an office building.

Correction. A very expensive, painfully sterile, slightly too quiet office building.

The kind of place you’d expect to house a Bond villain. Or a billionaire with control issues and too many screens.

George side eyed the sleek glass panels that made up the lobby walls.

There were no workers. Not even a janitor. “Probably after hours,” George mumbled to himself. “Or maybe everyone’s dead. Love that.”

The floors shined like someone had polished them with obsession and the souls of underpaid interns. The lights above had no switches. They just... blinked on when he passed.

“Fancy. Kinda creepy.”

He trailed behind Mr Hulk—still as expressionless as before, except this time his giant hand kept scanning things.

Palms. Retinas. Even his damn face.

George blinked at the scanner on the door.

“Okay woooow. Vtech realness. Is this a building or a space shuttle?”

Mr Hulk didn’t reply. Of course. The man had the personality of a phone on Do Not Disturb.

The door opened with a hiss.

George almost expected fog machines.

They walked. Down another hallway. Past sleek glass rooms with nothing inside them. Past a screen that blinked with “Welcome, Guest.” Past a motion sensor that flickered “Tracking Active” before going dark.

“Is that a threat or a fact?” George muttered.

And finally they stopped.

One hand on the door.

A nod.

And George stepped inside.

It was dim. Not dark. Just dramatically lit.

Modern. Cold. Large window behind a large desk. London glittering outside like a tired disco ball. And the chair was turned away from him. Facing the city. High back. Subtly intimidating.

George’s steps faltered. But only for a second. Because he wasn’t afraid. Not this time.

He was eager. Determined.

He could bargain. He could charm. He could even beg if it came to it. He needed this job. For Lando. For Alex. For his own damn rent.
He stood tall. Okay—medium. He slouched a little. He was tired. But still. Head up. Shoulders square.

And then the chair turned.

Click.

And there he was.

Max Verstappen.

Wearing a charcoal dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves. No tie. No jacket. Just calmly seated, expression unreadable. Like the throne was built for him and the world was just a sandbox.

His gaze landed on George like it already knew what he was about to say.

And still—he smiled.

Slow. Sharp. Polished. Annoyingly hot.

“Nice to meet you again, George Russell.”

George’s throat dried instantly. God. Even his voice was smug. But he wasn’t going to trip over it this time.

Nope.

He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and walked forward like he owned the damn place. He didn’t. But hey—acting!

“Hi. Um. Yeah. So, I changed my mind.”

“Clearly.”

“I mean—I thought about it and I’d like to discuss the job again. That you offered. The one I said no to before. But—yeah. I’d like to not say no. Now. If that’s still... a thing.”

Max tilted his head, amused. “You rejected my offer in a heartbeat. Didn't even think twice.”

“I have trust issues.”

“Smart.”

“But also—desperate.”

Max raised a brow.

“You don’t seem desperate.”

George shrugged.

“Yeah well, I cry in private.”

That earned the slightest twitch at the corner of Max’s mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

George stepped closer to the desk.

“Look—I don’t know what you need someone like me for, and honestly, I don’t care. I just... need work. I’m good. I’m better than good. I can write cleaner code than your AI-ass building can probably understand. I don’t need babysitting, I don’t need handholding, I just need a desk and maybe, like, three packs of instant noodles in the drawer. That’s it.”

Silence.

Max leaned back in his chair. Fingers steepled. Eyes sharp. Studying him like a puzzle already half solved.

“You’re confident.”

“I’m broke.”

“You rejected me once. Why should I trust you won’t do it again?”

“Because this time I chose to be here. Not forced.”

“I never forced you.”

“Of couuurse you didn't.”

The older man didn't react. Like at all. Okay no humour. Got it.

“I asked to be brought this time. I wasn’t tricked. I wasn’t threatened. This was all me.”

Another pause.

Max stood.

And damn. He was big. Not by height. Just his whole vibe and maybe that dang body. It was big. Bigger than George remembered. Or maybe it was just the power imbalance.

He walked around the desk, slowly. Deliberate.

George stayed still. He’d learned from wolves. You don’t run. You don’t twitch. You keep your ground.

Max stood in front of him. Arms crossed loosely. Close enough that George could smell him—sharp cologne, expensive fabric, danger.

“Why now?”

“Because things changed.”

“Like what?”

“You offering still or not?”

Max didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped to the side, walked back to his desk, and tapped the edge of a sleek console. The screen lit up. And George saw—

Terms. Details. Numbers. Code names.

A contract.

“You’ll have clearance under Tier 5. You’ll work remote three days a week. Your base office will be here. Full autonomy on most systems, but restrictions on proprietary algorithms.”

George blinked.

“So... this is happening?”

“Only if you want it.”

“...You’re not gonna make a dramatic speech? Say something cryptic like ‘Welcome to the machine, Mr Russell’ or something?”

Max tilted his head.

“Would you like that?”

“God, no. I’d vomit.”

Another twitch of a smile. And finally—Max nodded.

“Then congratulations. You’re hired.”

George exhaled.

Holy.

Shit.

He did it. He was in. He had a job.

Maybe now things would start to change.

Just one small detail he hadn’t figured out yet. Why the fuck was Max Verstappen giving him a second chance?

But he didn’t ask. Because right now? He was too busy wondering if his new boss’s shirts were custom fitted or if the universe just hated him.

George walked home with a smile so wide it was basically a safety hazard. He didn’t walk, actually. He floated. Bounced. Skipped over cracks like the pavement had personally supported him all his life.

There were birds chirping. Somewhere. There was a cold wind blowing into his face and he didn’t even flinch.

He smiled through it.

Like a man who had won. Not the lottery. Not love. Something better.

A job.

“I did it. I fucking did it.”

He whispered it to himself between breaths, like some prayer or anthem. His cheeks hurt from grinning. His jaw ached. And still—he kept smiling. By the time he reached his dingy little flat, his fingers were frozen and he couldn't feel his thighs, but that didn’t matter.

He could barely get the key in because his hand was shaking.

Shaking. From joy. From adrenaline.

“Holy shit,” he laughed, closing the door behind him with his back. “I got a fucking job.”

He shouted it into the empty hallway. Echoed into the kitchen. And then—he let himself flop face first into the couch. Screamed into the pillow like he was sixteen and One Direction had just reunited.

He rolled over and looked at the water stained ceiling.

This was it. He could work. He could pay. He could finally walk up to those sleazy, corrupt faculty heads and throw money in their faces and demand Alex and Lando’s names be cleared.

“Forty thousand,” George whispered. “That’s nothing. I’ll make it. I’ll earn it. I’ll do double shifts if I have to. I’ll sleep under the desk. I’ll sell my left nut. No—I need both of those—okay fine, I’ll sell my dignity. Half of it. Whatever’s left.”

He sat up abruptly. Stared down at his own hoodie. It had a hole in the sleeve. Again. The print was faded. He’d worn it three days in a row.

“Okay—step one. Hoodie. New one. I deserve it.”

“Step two. Groceries. Not ramen. Or expired milk. I want meat. I want a vegetable. Hell, I want a loaf of bread that doesn’t break my teeth.”

He laughed. Alone. Giddy. He was the kind of happy that made you kick your feet and spin in your chair and write terrible tweets.

“I’m employed, bitches.”

He opened his laptop.

Not for work. Just to look. To stare at that offer letter again. It was so sleek. So simple. So real. George stared at the email from Max Verstappen’s company. His name on it. He clicked on it six times. Just to make sure it didn’t vanish.

This is it.

This is how I save them.

And maybe… maybe save myself too.

That night—George Russell ate actual food.

Microwaveable curry that wasn’t expired. Instant rice that didn’t smell weird. Even splurged on a chocolate bar.

And when he sat cross legged on the floor, eating dinner out of a plastic tub, laptop open beside him— he felt something he hadn’t felt in months.

Hope.

Warm, fuzzy, terrifying hope. And swimming in that warm hope, he promptly fell asleep. Dead to the world.

That's how his flat mates were gonna find him.

Alex closed the door with his foot while juggling two paper bags and a backpack that had already split at the seams. Lando trailed behind like a zombie, hoodie halfway over his eyes and earbuds still in despite the fact his phone had died hours ago.

They were both half dead from the underpaid, overworked part time gigs they had been scraping together like rats in a crumbling basement.

“If I die,” Alex grunted, dropping everything in the tiny hallway, “bury me in a fucking Cineworld.”

“Nah,” Lando muttered, “bury me in debt. Since that’s what’s gonna kill me anyway.”

The light in the flat flickered, as if in agreement.

They trudged into the main room, fully expecting the usual— George, hunched over the couch, gaming laptop on his knees, hoodie hood up, dark circles down to his chin, possibly screaming at a CPU or trying to code a death simulator.

But what they saw instead made both of them stop dead.

George Russell. Sprawled on the couch like a saint. Dead asleep. Mouth half open. Smile wide.

And most shockingly—content.

There was a tray on the floor with the unmistakable remnants of a full meal. Curry. Rice. A chocolate bar wrapper. No ramen. No moldy toast. No single sad carrot floating in hot water.

Just real food.

“...is he dead?” Lando whispered.

“Nah,” Alex leaned in, squinting. “No corpse smells. Unless deodorant finally started working right.”

They tiptoed closer.

Alex poked him with two fingers.

George stirred a little.

Giggled.

Giggled.

“What the fuck,” Lando whispered.

“What did he take? I want it.”

“Did he win something?”

“Did he get laid?”

“Oh my God, did he sell his body?”

Alex gasped.

Lando nodded slowly, eyes wide.

“Honestly—respect.”

“Right? I’d sell my body for three packs of beef jerky right now.”

They sat down on the floor, staring at George like he was a rare alien species.

And then George stirred. Mumbled something.

“...forty thousand...”

Alex’s head whipped toward Lando.

“FORTY THOUSAND?”

“I KNEW IT. HE JOINED A CULT.”

“Worse—he’s employed.”

“Holy shit. You think he’s okay?”

George snorted in his sleep. Smiled wider.

And then—

“Max…” he whispered.

Both Alex and Lando turned slowly. Looked at each other. Mouths open.

“Who the fuck is Max? What Max is he talking about?”

“No clue.”

“I want to be Max.”

“Same.”

“Is Max hiring?”

“I’d kill someone to be this happy.”

Alex leaned back against the couch. Lando picked up the chocolate wrapper and sniffed it. Just in case it had drugs.

George continued to sleep soundly, looking like a man who had hacked into heaven and installed a hot tub.

And the flat, for once, felt just a little bit less doomed.

Notes:

Say hi to me (👹) on tumblr: Sweetnkiwie

Chapter 7

George Russell woke up that morning with optimism in his heart and expired milk in his fridge.

He skipped the milk.

And the suit didn’t fit.

It was borrowed. Stolen. Gifted? Technically, no one had asked for it back.

One of the juniors in his dorms had offered it—“bro wear it for your first day, you gotta show you mean business”—except the guy was built like he wrestled for sport and George was built like someone who forgot meals existed. So the pants bunched weird. The sleeves drowned his fingers. The tie kept hitting him in the face like a long silk snake. But—“Impression. Impression. Impression.”

He stared at himself in the mirror of the lobby bathroom for a full five minutes. He smiled. Then didn’t. Then gave himself finger guns. Then regretted it. Then walked out with all the confidence of a man walking into a high speed car crash.

The office was sleek as ever.

No—sterile.

Like a lab. A showroom. The kind of place that didn’t just have A/C—it hissed. Everything was glass and metal and silence.

And people. People in monochrome fits, gliding around like ghosts in designer heels. People who definitely noticed George.

He swore he heard someone whisper “intern?”

Another one blinked twice like they were unsure whether to say “lost?” or “glitch?”

George adjusted his comically oversized blazer. Straightened his tie. Regretted it immediately because the knot was up to his chin.

“Okay,” he whispered. “We’re fine. This is fine. You are fine.”

He had no idea what to do. Or where to go. Or what department he was in. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if this counted as employment or a hostage contract.

But hey. Forty. Thousand. And good food.

He wandered. Tried to act like he knew what he was doing. He didn’t. He stopped at a large reflective panel that looked like it might be a touchscreen. It wasn’t. He tripped over a weird round chair that might’ve been art. It was. He smiled at a man with a sleek suit who raised an eyebrow and walked away. That was probably security.

“Okay,” George whispered again. “Maybe I should go home. Or cry. Or cry at home.”

And then—

He saw her.

Long black coat. Sharp eyes. Straight dark hair. Freckled nose, subtle eyeliner, aura of if-you-fuck-around-you-will-find-out.

He remembered her.

From that day.

From the “kidnapped by techno overlord” moment that had derailed his whole life.

“...Ms. Freya,” he mumbled.

Too quiet.

Then louder, “Ms. Freya!”

She turned. Lifted her brow.

George waved awkwardly with both hands. Too much. Too aggressive. “Uh. Hi. Um. I’m George. Russell. You probably know. Because you guys kidnapped me once. Haha. Um. I’m working now! Here. Officially. Legally, I think.”

“I know who you are,” she said, dry as desert air.

She looked him up and down.

“Nice suit,” she added.

“Don’t lie.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Ouch.”

A pause.

George clasped his hands in front of him. Wobbled slightly on his too tight shoes.

“Sooo... I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing? Like… am I building something? Hacking something? Coffee?”

“You’re early.”

“Oh. Is that... bad?”

“It’s suspicious.”

“Oh.”

Another pause.

George’s face twitched in twelve directions at once.

“Follow me,” Freya said finally.

“Right! Okay! Yes ma’am! Boss! Freya—Ms—Ms Freya—do I call you—”

“Stop talking.”

“Copy that.”

She walked. He followed like a nervous duckling. And deep, deep inside the polished, polished, gleaming heart of this terrifying tech empire George Russell had officially entered the workforce. That's basically 8th wonder in the world.

George was led through three security doors, two silent hallways, and one elevator that required a fingerprint, retina scan, and possibly a blood oath.

Freya didn’t speak. George tried. Once. Then twice. On the third awkward cough, she simply glanced at him and he went mute.

The final hallway curved like something out of a sci-fi movie.

Sleek. Dim. Floor lights.

“Okay,” George whispered, more to himself. “Just act like you belong. You’re here to work. You’re employed. You have an ID badge that doesn’t work yet, but it exists. That’s half the—"

She stopped by the door.

Freya turned to him. Looked him dead in the eyes. “He’s waiting.”

Then walked away.

No explanation. No encouragement. She was gone.

George turned to the door.

Swallowed.

“Okay. Max Verstappen. Billionaire. Tech overlord. Deep voice. Scary face. Gave me a job. I can do this. Just act normal.”

He knocked. The door slid open. He stepped in.

And—

There he was. Behind a massive desk made of obsidian and sins. Dressed in black. Legs crossed. Fingers steepled. Face calm.

Max Verstappen.

He looked up. Smiled slightly.

“George.”

“Hi.”

“Welcome to your first day.”

“Thanks. Uh. Thanks for the opportunity. It really… it really means a lot.”

“Of course. I’m a generous man.”

A pause.

Max motioned to the chair across from him. George sat.

The suit wrinkled awkwardly. One of the sleeves slapped the table. Max said nothing, but one eyebrow twitched with amusement.

“So,” George tried to recover, “I was wondering who I’d be working under? Like—what department. What team. What project.”

“You’re working under me.”

“Right—yeah, I got that part. I mean, like—”

“Under me, George.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

George blinked. Max blinked back. The air tensed.

“Wait, literally?”

“Yes.”

“You’re my boss?”

“Technically, your only boss.”

“I thought you meant like… you know. Company wise. Figurehead. Symbolic.”

“No, George. You’re my direct report. Personal operative.”

“…Oh.”

George stared at him.

Max tilted his head.

“Is that a problem?”

“N-no. I mean—no. It’s fine. Totally fine. Great, even. Just… unexpected.”

“You came here asking for the job. You said you’d do anything.”

“I meant like—tech stuff. Not fetching coffee and files and possibly massaging your villainous shoulder blades.”

“You think I’d let you touch me?”

“I mean, no. Obviously not. Unless you wanted to. Not that I’m offering.”

“George.”

“Yes?”

“Stop talking.”

George melted into the chair. Max studied him like he was a puzzle that needed unscrewing.

“Your job,” Max finally said, standing, “is not just to follow. It’s to think. Move. Solve. And stay quiet unless prompted.”

He walked around the desk. George stiffened.

“You’re smart,” Max said, voice low, “but you lack instinct. You’re brave, but impulsive. You’re loyal. Which means I can use that.”

“Use?”

“You were saying you needed my help?”

“Yes—of course.”

“Then you’ll help me. And in return, I’ll help you.”

Max stopped in front of him. Tall. Sharp. Too close.

George’s eyes twitched up. Blinked fast.

“You’re mine now, George.”

“Wha—”

“Employee-wise.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you want more.”

“NO.”

“Good.”

“Right.”

“Get to work.”

George Russell.

Full time student. Part time Vtech employee.

Officially working under Max Verstappen. Literally. And oh god. He still didn’t know what his password to the employee portal was. Maybe he could hack it. Okay maybe not the first fucking day.

George had just sat down. Like, just. His knees were still recovering from the mental breakdown he’d suffered in Max’s office. He’d found a weird little desk in the corner of a very high tech floor, with a screen so big it looked like it could access Mars if it wanted.

The desk greeted him.

Literally.

“Welcome, George Russell. Please input a retinal scan to begin.”

He leaned in. The desk beeped happily.

Then lit up.

TASK 1 → "Deliver the Usual."

Priority: URGENT.

Sender: MV.

Notes: If you’re late, don’t bother returning.

George blinked.

“What’s ‘the usual’?”

Nothing.

“...hello?? Anyone???”

No response.

The screen flicked off after five seconds of inactivity.

He panicked. Looked around. Found a woman at a desk across the hall—mid-40s, sharp bob, sharper eyeliner. She didn’t even glance up.

He tiptoed over. “Hi! Um—hello! Sorry to bother—I'm George. New. Very new. Less-than-an-hour-new. Uh… what’s the ‘usual’?”

“For who?”

“The boss.”

“Oh.”

She smiled sweetly. The kind of smile you give someone you want to see suffer. “Quad-shot, oat milk, half-sweet, cinnamon foam, 65°C. Glass cup. Not paper. No lid. Has to be exactly 350ml or he throws it out.”

“What the—”

“Also he hates when it’s late. Or if the coffee shop touches the rim of the glass.”

“...Okay.”

“Good luck.”

George ran. Literally ran.

He found the coffee shop in the ground floor of the building. It looked like an Apple store got drunk and opened a barista cult.

“Hi!!” he gasped. “Do you guys know ‘the usual’ for Max Verstappen?”

The barista—wearing chrome eyeliner and zero patience—tilted their head.

“You his new minion?”

“Sure. Whatever. Please just make it.”

“That’ll be £38.”

George stared.

“For coffee?!”

“You’re paying for pain.”

He handed over the company card Max gave him—after twenty minutes of George begging for “at least some access like please sir I cannot fund this evil empire with my debit card.” Max rolled his eyes and tossed it at him like it was lint.

Now, George waited.

And waited.

They weighed the foam. Twice. Measured the temperature. Sterilized the rim of the glass in front of him.

“Here,” the barista finally said. “Don’t run. No splash. Good luck.”

George power walked back up. Stuck in the lift. Cursed the building for not being psychic. Finally—finally—made it back to Max’s floor.

Burst in.

Max looked up.

George held out the cup like it was the fucking Holy Grail.

“Your coffee, sir.”

Max took it. Sniffed.

Paused.

Sipped.

Another pause.

George held his breath.

Max slowly—slowly—nodded.

“Acceptable.”

“Holy shit.”

“Language.”

“Sorry, I just—I really thought you’d throw it at me.”

“That’s for the second time.”

“Wait what.”

Max smirked. George whimpered.

But again, First task. Survived. Barely. The coffee was delivered. George’s soul was not. But hey—he was still alive. And he didn’t get fired. Which meant… he’d passed.

Sort of.

George had just recovered from the coffee saga not even thirty minutes ago and was emotionally preparing himself for what he thought was the next obvious task.

Lunch run. Maybe sushi. Or vegan wraps. He’d wear gloves this time. Not mess up. Keep climbing his pathetic, tragic little ladder of corporate servitude.

But no.

Instead, at precisely 12:43 PM, Freya popped her head into his makeshift cubicle which, by the way, still felt more like a spaceship pod than a workspace.

“The boss wants you in the briefing room.”

“Me?” George blinked, finger still half raised over his trackpad.

“No, the other George Russell.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The hallway leading to the briefing room was long. Long and cold. Lights flickering in too clean white, like he was being scanned by invisible tech with every step.

And then—he stepped in.

And immediately thought, Oh. I’ve walked into hell.

There were twelve men seated around a brutalist glass table. All of them in suits that screamed old money, corruption, and probable war crimes. Some looked like their skin hadn't seen sunlight since the Cold War. Others? Well—

“Holy shit,” George mouthed to himself. “Why is that guy hot?”

Until said hot guy turned to the others and loudly whispered, “He doesn’t look capable, Max. He’s barely a kid.”

“Do we really need the office intern here?” another snorted.

“Is this what you spend budget on these days, Verstappen?”

“He looks like he got lost on his way to art school.”

George blinked.

What the actual fuck?

“Bitch what?! FUCK YOU—HAG.”

He didn’t say it. But it was very loud inside his head. He turned, ready to defend himself, but then he saw Max.

Standing by the massive digital wall display, arms crossed, in all black. Like some CEO villain out of a thriller. His face unreadable. Jaw sharp. Expression set in that terrifying version of neutral that meant he was either about to fire everyone or offer you a promotion.

“George.”

“Y-Yes?”

“Come here.”

George’s feet moved before his brain did.

“There’s a system we need access to.”

“Okay…”

“None of our internal teams could crack it.”

“So you’re giving it to me?”

“Yes.”

“That seems stupid.”

“You’ll be fine.”

He stepped closer. The table flickered, displaying an encrypted interface. Immediately, George could tell this wasn’t just any code. This was deep. Obscure. And definitely illegal. The kind of thing black-hat forums whispered about. Government-protected strings. Quantum level firewalls. Stuff tech companies shouldn’t be touching.

He looked up.

The hags were watching.

So was Max.

George swallowed.

He could walk away. Right now. Say no. Hold onto his values. He remembered what he told himself when he started uni, “I’m not gonna work for power hungry corps. I’m not gonna sell my soul. I’ll build my own stuff. Code with conscience.”

But then—

He thought of Lando’s pale face. Of Alex curled up on the floor whispering about debt collectors and blacklists. Of the £40,000 bill waiting like a loaded gun.

Fuck it.

He sat down. His fingers flew. At first the room was filled with snorts and muttered laughter. Then came silence. Line by line, George decrypted the lock. He broke into the first wall, bypassed the second. They watched, stunned, as he cracked through a cipher that had allegedly taken a private team three weeks—and failed. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, but he could feel Max behind him. He could feel the tension in the air shift.

Like the devil had just found his golden boy.

Ten minutes. That’s all it took. The system opened. Like it had been waiting for him. George sat back. Breathing hard. Hands buzzing. He blinked up at the room. And not a single one of those men were laughing anymore.

Even the hot one looked stunned.

“How—”

“You—”

“What the hell—”

Max finally stepped forward.

He didn’t gloat. Didn’t explain. Just smirked. That slow, smug, soul-devouring smirk that said I warned you. And every single man in the room—bowed their heads.

George stared. “Do I bow too…?”

“George.”

He jumped.

“Yes??”

“Stop talking.”

Meeting adjourned.

Max walked out first. George followed, still stunned. And somewhere between the security gate and the hallway, George whispered under his breath, “I think I just sold my soul.”

But god, it felt good.

Rest of the day he didn't get any more pings. Work hours ended. George was just about to head out. Literally—he had his comically cheap canvas bag swung over one shoulder, his half-dead laptop inside, and a slightly smug smirk plastered across his face like he’d earned himself a goddamn Nobel Prize. Because yeah—he cracked a code that no one else could. On his first day.

“I deserve a gold fucking star,” he muttered, pressing the lift button with all the grandeur of a man who’s survived war.

Then the AI ceiling voice chimed. With way too much bass.

“GEORGE RUSSELL. PLEASE REPORT TO THE CEO'S OFFICE.”

“GEORGE RUSSELL. IMMEDIATE ATTENDANCE REQUIRED.”

The glass panels on the floor pulsed red. The lift button turned off.

“Wha—hello?!” George waved his hand. “I was—literally—going home—”

“DENIAL REJECTED.”

“THIS IS NOT A REQUEST.”

“Okay, Jesus. Chill.”

He sighed. Slumped. Turned around. Back down the hallway of doom. The door opened before George even touched it.

Max was behind a marble desk, sleeves rolled up, tie undone, jaw lit in the late orange hue of setting lights. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes unreadable.

George blinked.

“Stop being slutty, George,” he mumbled to himself. “Stop.”

“George,” Max said, glancing up from a document. “Sit.”

And like a fucking golden retriever—he obeyed. The silence afterwards was thick. Max finally looked at him, leaned back.

“Good work today.”

George’s brows rose.

Praise?

From him?

“Uh. Thank you,” he said carefully. “I... didn’t know you actually said things like that.”

“I don’t. But I’m trying to be kind.”

“O... kay.”

Another beat.

George tried not to stare at his veins. Or the fact that Max's shirt had two buttons undone. Or that the chair creaked when he moved.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Was that all?” George finally asked, trying to not let his voice crack like a horny teenager.

“No.” Max stood up. Slowly. Strolled over to the bar at the edge of the office. “Drink?”

George blinked.

“You’re offering me alcohol? That’s... unethical.”

“Do you care?”

“No?”

Max poured two fingers of scotch. Passed him one. No ice.

George hesitated.

Max leaned against the counter.

“That code you cracked,” he said slowly, “was supposed to be impossible. And you did it in ten minutes.”

George squirmed. “I’m just good at what I do.”

“That’s why I hired you.”

“And the others?” George asked, taking a tentative sip. “The ones in the meeting?”

“They work for me. You work under me. They don’t like that.”

George almost choked.

“Did you have to phrase it like that?”

Max’s lips twitched.

“I did.”

Another pause.

The scotch burned in George’s chest.

Max was still watching him. Calm. Steady. Predatory.

“Why did you accept my offer, George?”

That made him freeze.

George set the glass down.

“Because... I need the money.”

Max said nothing. Just tilted his head.

So George kept talking.

“My friends—one’s getting blacklisted, the other’s drowning in student loans, and we’ve been living off expired noodles and guilt for weeks. So, yeah. I took your job. I’m here. You win.”

Max walked closer.

“Do you regret it?”

George looked up at him.

“No,” he whispered. “But I’m scared of what comes next.”

Max leaned down slightly. Just enough to feel dangerously close.

“You should be.”

George blinked up at him. And for a moment—just a moment—he wondered what kind of fucking game he’d gotten himself into. Because working for Max Verstappen wasn’t just a job.

It was a deal. A tether. A slow, seductive descent into something that didn’t feel safe. But oh—how it thrilled.

The AI system beeped again.

“TIME: 8:03PM. OFFICE SHUTDOWN IN T-MINUS TWENTY MINUTES.”

Max stepped back.

“You’re dismissed, George.”

He stumbled out of the office half delirious.

And promptly walked into a wall.

Twice.

Day One. Complete.

George: 1.

Sanity: 0.

Notes:

if the environment seems too unrealistic- no it doesnt. dont judge my sci-fi brain😌🫵🏼

Say hi to me (👹) on tumblr: Sweetnkiwie

Chapter 8

One month into his new life—George Russell was, somehow, thriving.

Not in a “woohoo I’m a rich tech prodigy” kind of way. No. More like “I haven’t eaten ramen in a week, I get paid to do the shit I love, and my stress induced back acne is clearing up” kind of thriving.

He still took the tube. Still wore socks that didn’t match. Still refused to eat anything green unless it was accidentally hidden in takeaway.

But now—he did all of that with confidence.

The biggest shift?

The hoodie.

It started on week two. A quiet Tuesday morning.

George had shown up—already exhausted—battling the office issued blazer he had been guilt forced into. The sleeves hung past his hands. The shoulders? Slouched like a sad teenage boy. And the color? Something between “funeral” and “wet concrete.”

He wrestled with it near the break room, muttering curses under his breath.

“Fucking—why is it so itchy—this isn’t fashion, it’s harassment—"

Everyone watched. Some amused. Some confused.

Max watched. From his office. Expression unreadable.

But ten minutes later, an internal message had pinged.

From: M.Verstappen

Subject: Dress Code Exception

If you don’t want to wear it, don’t.

You work better when you’re comfortable.

–M.

George blinked. Scrolled. Re-read.

“...what the fuck,” he whispered, heart skipping a beat.

He showed up the next day in his favorite dark grey hoodie. The one with the loose sleeves and fraying strings. And for the first time—he actually felt like himself.

That hoodie became a symbol. A quiet declaration of “I’m not playing your corporate games but I will out code all of you.”

He moved through the building like a caffeine powered storm. Monitoring systems. Debugging high-security files. Laughing too loud with the AI receptionist. Bringing Freya extra USBs she didn’t ask for.

Sometimes other employees whispered.

“Is that the hoodie kid?”

“Verstappen lets him wear that??”

“Wait—he’s the one that cracked the Antwerp cipher? In a hoodie?!”

George would just wink. Sassy little shit.

“Hoodie has powers, babes.”

Max said nothing. Publicly.

But sometimes—when George was bent over a terminal, tongue poking out in concentration, hoodie strings swaying as he typed—

Max would pass behind him. Silent. Watchful. Maybe a little too long.

And one time—just once—he reached out as if to straighten the back of George’s hoodie. Just brushed his knuckles down the seam. A soft, unspoken touch.

George hadn’t noticed.

Freya had. She smirked about it for days.

Now—four weeks in—George was a fixture in the building. He had his own desk. It wasn’t huge. It wasn’t fancy. But it was messy and warm and smelled like coffee and old USBs. He’d made it his. Little sticky notes, cracked stress balls, the hoodie thrown over his chair when he got too warm.

And Freya had worked for Max Verstappen long enough to know when something was wrong. The man didn’t “do” emotions. His entire emotional spectrum was limited to smug. Cold. Murderous. Slightly more smug.

And now there was something new.

It wasn't quite softness—Max Verstappen didn’t soften, he calcified. But there was a particular stillness that settled around him lately. A quiet alertness that only surfaced when one hoodie-clad gremlin walked into the building, tripped over a hallway wire, yelled at the AI system for being a “capitalist robot pig,” and carried on like he owned the place.

"Max."

Freya had asked one morning, sipping her espresso as Max reviewed projections.

He hummed. Didn’t look up.

"You know your little hoodie problem tried to pick a lock to the breakroom again because the coffee machine was down?"

Another hum.

"And yesterday—he tried to convince the junior devs to unionize. I'm pretty sure he's going to start a movement if he finds a whiteboard."

Still nothing.

"He's infecting your cold sterile floors with personality, you know."

At this, Max’s pen paused. Just for a second. Then resumed, calm and fluid.

Smug bastard. As always.

Freya leaned against the desk. Watched him.

"So... are you fucking him?"

Max blinked once.

"No."

"But you want to."

No response.

"God, you’re so boring," she muttered, throwing herself dramatically into the visitor chair. "A kid who walks in wearing the same jumper three days in a row and calls our security AI a ‘glorified microwave’ has managed to wedge himself into your circuits, and you're pretending you're still a sealed vault."

"He’s useful," Max said flatly.

"So is a Swiss Army knife. Doesn’t mean you stare at it like it holds the meaning of life."

Still, nothing from Max.

But she saw it now. The tiniest twitch of his mouth. His fingers tapping the desk—once, twice.

Max Verstappen didn’t admit.

But he didn’t deny, either.

George had changed the atmosphere in ways no protocol ever could.

He wandered the halls like a boy on a sugar high. He called the CEO’s board “The Old Man Council.” He once walked into a Level 7 security meeting with a paper crown on his head—won from a vending machine—and no one had the balls to tell him to take it off.

He made people laugh. He made people confused. He made Max, the immovable mountain of sleek suits and digitized silence, pause.

"Persistent virus." Max muttered under his breathe.

Freya smiled.

"He makes things feel...alive, doesn’t he?"

Max didn’t reply.

He just glanced up. Out the wide glass panels—where George could be seen in the courtyard talking to the janitor, trying to bribe the AI to let him in without his ID again, hoodie flapping in the breeze like a damn war flag.

Freya sighed. "You're fucked."

Freya still didn't leave.

No, after her quip—after watching Max’s smug little mouth twitch with that microscopic not-smile at the sight of a certain hoodie menace outside—she stayed. Leaned closer across the desk. Her sharp eyes scanning the man in front of her like she was reading malware in human form.

Max didn’t look up from his file.

But he felt it. The stare. The judgment. The full weight of a woman who once made an ex-CTO cry and quit just by existing within a five meter radius.

Finally, he sighed. "What."

"He’s not built like you, Max."

"I’m aware."

"He’s not built for this world you’ve created—one where feelings are fire hazards and trust is non-existent."

Max’s eyes flicked up—sharp, unreadable. "Then he shouldn’t have walked into it."

"Oh please," Freya scoffed. "You dragged him in with your offer, your suits, your ‘accidental’ street run-ins, your I'm-so-bored-unless-it's-George-Russell glances. You lured him in like a Venus flytrap."

"I needed someone competent."

"You needed someone human, and he’s too human for this place, Max. Too bright. Too chaotic. Too… alive."

She paused then, letting the words hang.

Max just stared at her. Silent. Calculating.

But Freya knew him.

Knew him well.

She stood up, slowly. Brushed imaginary lint from her slacks. Walked to the door—heels tapping against the sterile floors like a countdown. Then just before leaving, she stopped. Looked back over her shoulder with the same calm she’d once used while threatening a rival exec with a lawsuit and a career funeral.

"Max."

"Hmm?"

"If you make those doe like eyes of his water again—"

Max blinked.

"—for the wrong reasons—"

Now he looked up.

"I will put arsenic in your water. Not the fast kind. The slow kind. Painful. Untraceable. You’ll be dead before the AI system can detect a pattern."

Max raised an eyebrow.

"You’ve been watching too much crime drama."

"I am the crime drama, Verstappen."

And with that—Freya walked out, cool and efficient.

Leaving Max alone. With his silence. And the faintest of smirks.

Now the said boy—

“Do you believe in moral nihilism?”

That was the first thing George said as he waltzed into HR.

No knock. No appointment. Just hoodie, laptop, and a packet of gummy bears he was aggressively chewing through.

Three HR executives—grown adults who once managed lawsuits, mediation talks, and a man who threatened to poop on his manager’s desk—froze mid conversation.

George blinked at them, eyes round and far too curious.

“Because I read this article, right? And I think it’s flawed. I mean, sure, there’s no universal morality, but doesn’t that make power structures more terrifying? You know?”

“…do you… need something, George?”

“Company policy! I was reading it! Super fun stuff by the way. Love the contradictions. Very 1964.”

“Do… you have a specific issue… with the policy?”

“Yeah. Why can’t I have an emotional support monitor lizard in the building?”

A beat of silence.

“It’s discrimination, you know. That AI gets an entire face scan system but I can’t bring Rango? Is that fair? Tell me. Tell me.”

The Head of HR, to her credit, simply opened her drawer and took two Panadols dry swallowed with an invisible prayer. She quickly messaged Freya.

Linda:

-Please god give him something to do before he unionizes the printers or starts a grassroots rebellion again.-

Freya:

-He finishes tasks in 10 mins.-

-Not my fault he’s efficient AND annoying.-

Linda:

-He tried to reprogram the coffee machine to talk.-

-It now sings abba every 3rd cappuccino🙂-

Freya:

-And yet somehow it’s more productive than Mark from finance.-

Meanwhile George had now dramatically collapsed on the office couch, hands in the air. “I swear I saw one of the elevators grow eyes. Your entire building is sentient and hates me.”

“Maybe if you didn’t keep calling the AI ‘slutbot-9000’ it would let you in without a pass.”

“Tyranny.”

“It’s literally facial recognition.”

“That’s exactly what a fascist would say.”

Another intern peeked through the glass, panicked.

“Um, he—he hotwired my keycard to play Rick Astley whenever I use it now—”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it, Noah. You know you love it, Bob.”

Freya passed by the room just then, barely glancing in. “George. Third server room. Door’s jammed again.”

“YES. A purpose. I live again!!”

He shot up like a rocket, hoodie flapping dramatically behind him as he sprinted off.

The corridors of the eastern wing were always a bit colder.

George blamed the AI. Of course he did. Vindictive piece of code. Made the left hallway smell like cloves ever since he jokingly threatened to hack its entire database because it denied him entry without his ID badge. Again.

“Not my fault your sensors are biased against hot, hoodie-wearing geniuses,” he muttered, pushing through the sterile, dimly lit hall that led toward the server vaults. “Also not my fault I look nothing like my ID photo. I was bloated that day—stress and sodium, thank you very much.”

He turned a corner and paused.

A table stood oddly in the middle of the walkway. A tablet resting right on top.

Unlocked.

Lit.

Humming faintly.

Suspicious.

Inviting.

Stupid.

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t touch it,” the rational voice inside hissed.

So naturally, he picked it up.

The interface was sleek—too sleek. Black background, gold typography. Definitely not public facing.

He scanned it quickly. Code. Directives. Strings of commands that made his stomach twist. Something about “extraction”, “diversion orders,”, and a cluster of geographical coordinates that were way too specific for comfort.

“Didn’t I tell you not to meddle with tasks that weren’t assigned by me or Freya?”

George flinched so hard he nearly yeeted the tablet into the void.

But he didn’t have time to move. A hand gripped the back of his hoodie, yanking him back. Another snatched the tablet clean out of his hand with the kind of swiftness that made his gut clench.

He stumbled. Pinned. Back hitting the wall. Hard.

Max Verstappen.

Looking like he walked out of a dystopian magazine shoot in his all-black attire, blazer unbuttoned, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, the veins on his hand still taut from gripping George’s hoodie.

George couldn’t breathe. Not because he was scared—okay, a little—but more because his brain short circuited when faced with all of that this up close.

He swallowed.

“I—it was open—” George muttered, his voice embarrassingly small.

Max’s eyes—cold, stormy steel—didn’t blink. They drilled through him.

“And?”

“I didn’t mean to—” he whispered. “I just…”

“Did you read anything?”

George froze. Mind scrambling. The room felt smaller, air denser.

“Uh… something about… rerouting funds to an unnamed... sector? Extraction?”

Max’s jaw ticked.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

That sounded bad.

And possibly criminal.

Definitely criminal.

George was now acutely aware of the fact that Max was very close.

Like, very close.

He could smell the man—cedarwood and some expensive cologne that smelled like sin. He could see the pulse in his neck, could feel the heat radiating from his chest despite the chilly hallway.

Max didn’t speak.

He stepped even closer, one hand still planted against the wall beside George’s head, the other holding the tablet. His eyes—unblinking. Studying. Calculating. Unforgiving.

“Do you always touch things you shouldn’t, George?” he asked, voice low. Rough. Dangerous.

George's breath caught in his throat.

“N-no,” he managed.

“Really?” Max leaned in, breath grazing George’s cheek. “Because it looks like you do. Constantly. Shamelessly.”

George’s entire body flushed.

“I… I wasn’t going to steal it or anything, I swear—”

“You think this is about theft?” Max’s voice was sharp now. “You’re not stupid. You know what you saw.”

George hesitated.

“Is it… is it legal?”

That earned a dangerous smirk.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I thought—” George licked his lips. “I thought this place was tech. Development. Software. Not whatever that was—”

“Careful.” Max’s voice dropped a few octaves. “You’re walking a line.”

And yet.

George didn’t back down.

Not all the way.

Because he was scared, sure. But he was also curious. And curious was dangerous. Especially with Max Verstappen standing half a breath away.

“So what if I crossed it?” George asked. “Are you gonna fire me?”

Max didn’t answer.

Instead, his eyes lingered too long on George’s mouth. Then down his chest. That ridiculous hoodie. The freckles on his neck. All of him.

George shivered.

Max’s hand shifted. Not quite touching—but the tension between them crackled. George’s heart thundered in his chest.

“You should go back to your server room,” Max said finally.

“And if I don’t?”

Max raised a brow.

“Then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

George, high on adrenaline and definitely not sanity, pushed off the wall, brushing past Max’s chest. They didn’t break eye contact. Not even once. Behind him, Max finally looked down at the tablet, jaw clenched.

---

George came home that day and didn’t say a word.

The door clicked shut behind him, the usual “I’m home and I brought snacks I stole from work!” announcement missing. No dramatic hoodie toss. No rant about the elevator AI being a “bitchy little cylinder of sass and spite.”

Nothing.

Just quiet steps. A tired shuffle of sneakers. And a George Russell whose smile was nowhere in sight.

Alex popped his head up from the couch first, eyes squinting.

“…That’s not looking good.”

Lando immediately paused the Mario Kart game.

“Yeah. That’s the ‘George got bullied by someone again’ walk.”

George tried. He really did. Pulled the corners of his lips up. Lifted a hand in a pathetic little wave.

“Hey.”

The tone was all wrong. Alex sat up straighter.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re the worst liar in the house.”

“Excuse you—”

“You told the postman last week that our dog ate your laptop charger when we don’t even own a dog, George.”

“IT WAS A HEAT-OF-THE-MOMENT DEFENSE, OKAY?!”

George deflated immediately after. Hoodie sleeves pushed over his hands, his eyes a little too heavy, a little too distracted. He moved toward the kitchen robotically, opened the fridge, stared at it for a full thirty seconds like it had insulted him.

“You didn’t eat dinner again, did you?” Lando asked quietly.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

That was a lie too. Everyone knew it.

Ten minutes later, George was squished between two oversized beanbags on the floor, a comically large fleece blanket thrown over him like he was a Victorian child recovering from heartbreak.

Lando had made him hot chocolate (with extra marshmallows and rainbow sprinkles—mandatory bestie prescription).
Alex was braiding the ends of his hair into tiny baby pigtails.
George didn’t even fight it.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” George mumbled, face half buried in Lando’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” Alex replied, still braiding.

“But if it’s work,” Lando said gently, “and if a certain hot mafia CEO of a tech empire scolded you…”

“He’s not—! He’s not mafia,” George mumbled, cheeks turning a little red.

“Didn’t deny the ‘hot’ part,” Alex whispered.

George kicked weakly at him.

Lando leaned closer, his voice soft.

“Whatever it was… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

George closed his eyes, the warmth of the cocoa and blanket and best friends slowly melting the ice in his chest.
His jaw unclenched.

No, he wouldn’t tell them.

Not about Max. Not about the tablet. Not about how fast his heart had beaten when he was pinned. Not about the fear—or worse—the excitement.

But he would let them hold him like this. Let them coax a smile back onto his face. Let them remind him he wasn’t just a tool or a code-breaker or someone whose curiosity could get him crushed. They knew each other since they were ten. Every ups and downs, they celebrated, cried, laughed. Everything together.

“Can we watch that stupid movie again?” he mumbled finally.

“Which one?”

“The one where the guy falls in love with his mum’s friend.”

Alex and Lando shared a look. Then—

“Absolutely.”

“We’ll even order pizza.”

George smiled into the blanket. Not all was fixed. But right now—this moment? It was warm. Safe. Stupid.

Exactly what he needed.

Notes:

next chap is spicy

Say hi to me (👹) on tumblr: Sweetnkiwie

Chapter 9

Notes:

yay smut 🚶🏼‍♀️

George had no office.

Thank God.

Because even if he didn’t tell Alex and Lando, even if he pretended nothing happened, his brain had been playing reruns of last night on loop like some unskippable trauma-romance highlight reel.

So yeah. University. Classes. Normalcy. That’s what he needed.

Except.

Yeah, no.

He was seated near the middle row of the lecture hall, laptop open, fingers on keys, body physically present but mentally? George was somewhere between “Should I apologize again?” and “Did he always look that hot when mad?” and “Why did he pin me like that—what the fuck, George, stop thinking about it.”

The professor was saying something about encryption methods.

The girl next to him leaned in and whispered, “He asked if you know what a Caesar Cipher is.”

George blinked.

Nodded very solemnly. Like he was accepting a military award.

“Cool,” she whispered back. “Do you want my notes?”

He nodded again.

Like a robot.

A glitched android haunted by the devilishly crisp image of Max Verstappen’s voice saying, “Didn’t I tell you not to meddle?”

George slumped forward, head in hand, elbow on desk, pretending to stare at the screen but absolutely reading nothing.

His Google Doc title?

"Notes for Ethics 303"

Content inside? Just the word “FUCK.” Repeated 47 times. In bold. Font size 72. He didn’t even remember typing it.

By the time the lecture ended, he still didn’t know what the topic was.

He forgot where his next class was.

He accidentally bumped into a vending machine and apologized to it.

And when he finally made it to the library and flopped down on a beanbag to revise…?

He ended up doodling Max Verstappen in a little suit holding a giant red sign that said “No Snooping” while tiny chibi George peeked over a file cabinet looking guilty.

He stared at it.

Groaned. Closed the notebook.

This man was ruining his concentration.

And George wasn’t even sure if he was pissed. Or just very, very confused. Either way, he was doomed.

So to not be any further doomed... George should’ve listened to literally anyone else’s advice. Or even the logical part of his own brain, which had been weakly shouting “don’t do it” since 8AM this morning.

But.

There were dots, and George Russell dot connector by nature.

And sure, maybe his boss had borderline threatened him last time. Maybe Freya had told him to tread carefully since day one. And maybe the entire company was built on more encrypted secrets than a Cold War bunker. But here he was.

In the computer lab of his university, fourth floor, tucked into a corner seat behind a stack of unused monitors and a barely functioning printer. The AC rattled in the ceiling like a warning drum.

George stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles. Pulled the hoodie up over his head dramatically. Then—like some ridiculous modern day Robin Hood—he accessed the admin console. His fingers danced. Firewall, port jump, delay spoof, fake IPs from three countries, backdoor tunnel…

Boom.

He was in.

Again.

The system didn’t protest. Not at first. In fact, it welcomed him a little too smoothly. George hesitated, eyes narrowing. Everything seemed a little too easier than last time.

He poked through a few directories. No sensitive labels. No red marked warnings. Just boring code. Tech logs. Server footprints. But he knew better. So he dug deeper. Files that were marked as “irrelevant.” Reports from foreign sectors. A memo written in code. And then—

A blink.

A flicker of the screen.

Then a black overlay dropped down across everything.

No prompt. No sound.

Just one line.

YOU ARE UNDER WATCH.

George froze.

His breath halted. Heart thudded against his ribs. His eyes scanned every inch of the screen as if some tiny clue might blink back.

Was it... for him?

Or… was it for someone else?

Was it a threat? A warning?

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He opened the system terminal and tried to kill the process. Nothing happened. He typed another command—tried to reverse the overlay. The screen didn’t respond. Instead, the monitor buzzed—a low pitched electric whine, then—

Shutdown.

Everything went black. The machine’s fans stopped. The lights cut out. Even the screen’s standby light flickered once, then died.

George leaned back slowly in the chair. “Okay…” he whispered to himself. “Cool. Great. That’s totally fine. Not ominous. Not illegal. Not terrifying.”

He stared at his reflection in the dark monitor.

YOU ARE UNDER WATCH.

Had he triggered something on purpose? Was this planned? Or… worse… was he the one being watched?

He packed up quickly.

Didn’t even wait to log out of anything else. Left the PC like a crime scene. Walked out of the lab trying not to look guilty, but fully expecting someone to come running after him shouting “YOU!” like a spy movie.

No one did.

The campus looked the same. The students were busy with their lives. No security guards chased him. No black cars with tinted windows.

But George couldn’t shake it. That feeling. Like an eye had opened somewhere. Like someone knew. And not just someone.

A very specific tin man.

By the time he got back to the flat, George looked more haunted than when he flunked his math final in freshman year. He face planted into the couch. Didn’t even kick off his shoes.

Lando walked by with a bowl of coco pops and a raised brow. “Okay... dead or dying?”

George groaned into the cushion.

Alex peeked out of the kitchen. “Did he find out about the assignment due tomorrow?”

“I don’t care about the assignment,” George mumbled.

Both roommates exchanged a look. Uh oh.

But they didn’t press yet. Because whatever it was that made George voluntarily lay on the couch like a medieval widow, hoodie over his face, breathing like he had seen the literal Grim Reaper?

Yeah.

That was not an assignment problem.

That was a “you’re in so deep and the water’s rising” problem.

And George knew—deep in his messy, reckless, nosy little heart—

This wasn’t over.

This was the beginning.

-

He’d had approximately three hours of sleep.

Because Freya fucking texted him at 4:52 A.M.

Freya:

-Be here by 6. Boss wants to see you.-

-Don’t be late.-

What the hell kind of threat was that? A text like that meant war.

So George had barely managed to throw on some semi respectable jeans, brushed his teeth while falling asleep on the sink, stuffed half a granola bar in his mouth and bolted through public transit like a madman.

All to be—what?

Twenty minutes late.

And met with an office that looked like it had been evacuated for a fire drill nobody told him about.

Not a single soul in sight.

Desks empty. Monitors dark. No babble of tech bros complaining about code freezes. No coffee machine brewing. No Freya sipping espresso like it's an Olympic event.

Just George.

And then the AI system crackled to life overhead, like it had been waiting.

“George Russell. Please report to the CEO’s office.”

The voice was smooth. Sharp. Neutral—but George swore it sounded smug.

“…fucking possessed fridge speaker,” he muttered, adjusting his hoodie with a dramatic sigh.

Report.

As if he had something to report.

He looked around one more time just to be absolutely sure no one was about to jump out of a supply closet yelling GOTCHA BITCH!, but no. No prank. No jumpscare.

So he went.

He walked the long corridor to the end of the executive floor. He passed the mirrored walls that now only reflected him. He stepped up to the heavy double glass doors of the office—an intimidating floor-to-ceiling expanse of silence.

The lights were already on inside. The door slightly ajar.

And George… stood there. Stared for a second too long. Took a slow breath. Then pushed the door open. And walked in like a deer into the mouth of a crocodile.

Except.

The room was also empty.

Completely, absolutely, terrifyingly empty.

George stepped inside slowly, his eyes darting across the pristine expanse of polished marble floor, minimalist furniture, and those stupidly massive glass windows that bathed the office in the bleak morning light.

No Freya. No assistants. No Max. No one.

He stopped in the middle of the room, looking around like some confused little cat that had been accidentally locked in the wrong house.

“…okay,” he said out loud, raising both arms, eyebrows too, “Very funny. This is the prank, right? I walk in, you jump out with balloons and cupcakes—'Congratulations, George! You’re fired!'—very clever, very ha ha ha—hilarious!”

He let out an exaggerated laugh, fake and theatrical, echoing off the walls. “A+ for effort! You almost got me trembling—”

Click.

He froze.

Click. Click. Click.

The slow, deliberate rhythm of leather soles striking marble echoed behind him. From the hallway? No—he turned—from the inner partition room behind the divider.

And then—

“Little virus.”

George blinked.

Little who? Little what?

“Sorry—what?”

He hadn’t even processed the voice properly—just how close it already was.

And then Max appeared from the shadows like some devilish apparition straight from a sci-fi noir fever dream. And he looked…

Oh, fuck.

Dark silk shirt. Open just enough to show the sculpted indent of his throat and the faintest glimpse of a collarbone that looked carved by sin itself. The sleeves were rolled halfway, revealing toned, veined forearms and the black watch wrapped around his wrist like it belonged to someone who ruled the world.

His slacks were navy, tailored like sin, hugging his thighs and hanging off his hips just so. Golden hair damp. Slicked back, almost lazily, like he’d just gotten out of the shower and couldn’t be fucked to style it properly—and still managed to look like every forbidden thought George had ever had.

His eyes were sharper than usual. Blades behind wintery blue. His expression unreadable. But it was the way he looked at George—like the space between them wasn’t empty, like it was already filled with fire and consequence.

George exhaled.

Slow.

Too slow.

Max walked forward, casually, predatorially, and George felt his spine straighten out like it was answering to a different kind of authority. A very, very non-HR approved kind.

“You’ve been busy,” Max said.

“I was—I mean, I had class, so—”

Max raised a brow. “I wasn’t referring to your university schedule, George.”

George’s heart dropped to his knees. Oh.

Oh no.

Max reached the desk. Picked something up. Turned a tablet toward him—and—

There it was.

Unauthorized Access Logged — 14:39:18

Location: Silverstone University Computer Lab

Attempted breach: Level 3 directory

[User Flag: Watchlist Active]

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” Max asked, voice low and terrible. “Again?”

“I just—I didn’t mean anything, I was just curious—”

“Curious,” Max repeated. His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “You think I gave you access to my building, my systems, and my time so you could snoop?”

George opened his mouth. Closed it. His throat was dry.

Max stepped closer.

“Answer me.”

“I didn’t mean any harm!” George said quickly. “I swear—I just wanted to connect something—I didn’t—”

Max's voice turned to a purr. “But you did try.”

George’s legs wobbled.

“And you were warned.”

“I—I thought maybe it was just—”

“A joke?” Max's face was inches away now, so close George could see the grey flecks in his irises. “Do I look like I have a sense of humor?”

Yeah I figured that one out.

George had to tilt his chin back to keep meeting that gaze. Max was bigger. Not by height but by presence. His cologne was dark. Sharp. Something expensive and violent. George’s breathing grew shallow.

“Do you understand what kind of people I keep that system locked from?” Max said, calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

George swallowed.

“I’m not—I’m not like them.”

“No,” Max agreed. “You’re dumber.”

George flinched.

“You’re lucky you’re useful.”

He meant it. It wasn't a compliment—it was a calculation. Like Max was weighing whether or not George was worth letting live. Professionally.

And then—

Max’s hand touched the side of George’s face.

A single finger under his chin, dragging it higher until their lips were a heartbeat apart.

“You want punishment?” Max whispered.

George didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“You’ll get it.”

And then Max let go. Pulled away like he hadn’t just lit George’s nervous system on fire.

“Now sit. You’ve got work.”

George blinked. “I—what—now?”

“Yes. Now,” Max said flatly. “You can grovel between tasks if it helps you focus.”

George stared at him. Then lowered himself slowly into the sleek black leather chair in front of the desk. Still reeling. Max didn’t even look at him as he swiped the tablet again, screens lighting up with encrypted code and a cascade of redacted files.

George bit his tongue. Sat up straighter. He had no idea what punishment meant yet. But he knew it was coming.

Thirty minutes later, Max hadn’t moved from behind the desk. He was still calm. Still fucking composed—which made it ten times worse.

George was still sitting stiff in that chair, jaw clenched, pulse hammering, thighs pressing together not because he was scared—

Okay, maybe a little. But mostly?

Mostly, he was boiling.

Max didn’t look at him when he finally spoke next. Just scrolled across the holographic file spread on his tablet, his tone like polished glass.

“You’re deliberately disobeying me.”

George blinked.

Max’s voice lowered. Darkened.

“Acting out like a brat. Testing me. Is that what you want, little hacker?”

His head snapped up. His mouth opened to protest—

But then—

Max’s gaze flicked up. And locked on him.

“You want to be tamed so bad, hmm?”

George’s mouth went dry.

Every thought, every warning, every decent survival instinct tried to scream at him to stop—this was dangerous, this was Max—and he was powerful, connected, unrelenting, not to mention literally his boss—

But all that short circuited the moment Max tilted his head with that faint, faint smirk that said he already knew how wet George’s brain was melting.

So George, in what might have been the single dumbest moment of his life, sat back in the chair—

And grinned.

“All this because I peeked at your dirty little secrets?” he said, voice bright and mocking.

Max stilled.

George leaned further, putting his feet up on the desk like a menace—crossed at the ankle, hoodie sleeves half covering his fingers.

“You’re throwing tantrums,” he said. “Kinda embarrassing, honestly.”

He was going to die. He was going to die, but at least it would be dramatic.

Max’s expression didn’t flicker.

“I see,” Max said coolly. “So you’re begging for consequences now.”

George rolled his eyes. “Oh no,” he said dryly, “anything but that.”

He thought he was safe.

He thought Max would stay on his side of the desk.

He did not expect the chair to be spun so violently, so fast, that his soul dropped with a yelp—and Max was suddenly in front of him, leaning over, palms pressed to the armrests, his face inches away from George’s again.

George sucked in a breath. Too late. Max was there.

His voice dropped to something just above a growl.

“You want to be a brat?”

George blinked, lips parting—

“Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Fuck.

His breath hitched as Max leaned even closer, nose almost brushing his, his body a wall of heat and restrained fury and something else—arousal? hunger?

Max’s hand landed heavy on George’s thigh. Not gentle. Not soft.

“You’ve got ten seconds to shut up, sit still, and follow every word I say,” he said. “Or I’ll make good on every threat I’ve been holding back.”

George, mouth dry, heart crashing against his ribs, looked up at him through his lashes.

“Only ten?” he whispered.

Oh, you dumb bitch.

Max’s smile was pure sin.

“You’re going to regret that.”

George knew he was walking a tightrope.

No, actually—he was sprinting down it. Barefoot. With knives strapped to his back and a death wish in his grin.

Max’s hand tightened on his thigh.

And George—because he had no self preservation—laughed.

“God, you’re so dramatic,” he drawled, flopping back in the chair like he wasn’t seconds from getting ruined. “Like—ooh, don’t disobey me or I’ll wreck your life. Darling, my life’s already a trainwreck.”

Max didn’t blink.

He just tilted his head. Slowly. Calculatedly.

“You think this is a game.”

“No,” George said sweetly. “I think you want me to think it is.”

Another push. Another shove. He couldn’t stop himself.

He was high on the rush, the danger, the way Max's eyes had darkened like a storm cloud with no mercy.

George lifted one leg up, lazily crossing it over the other again. “Look at you,” he said. “So pressed. Just because I peeked into your private files. You scared, Mr. Verstappen? Afraid I’ll leak your secrets?”

A beat.

And then—

“Last warning,” Max said, deadly quiet. “If I start, I won’t stop.”

George tilted his chin up. Daring. Burning.

“Then don’t stop.”

And that—

That was the green light.

It happened fast.

His chair scraped hard across the floor. Max yanked him up by the front of his hoodie, spun him, slammed him down on the desk like he weighed nothing.

Papers scattered. George yelped—half shocked, half laughing.

“Oh my God,” he said breathlessly. “Didn’t even buy me dinner—”

Max grabbed his hair and bent him over fully, face pressing down against the cold surface, ass up.

“Brat.”

George’s stomach flipped.

“Criminal,” he shot back. “You do illegal shit under tech royalty and now you’re assaulting your employee—Sir, you’ll lose your license.”

Max leaned down, voice sharp and hot against George’s ear.

“I own the license.”

A shiver ran through George’s spine. But still—he twisted a bit, even with Max pressing him down.

“And what, now you’re gonna fuck me to silence?” he panted, grinning. “Real original. Real villain arc, Mr. Verstappen—”

Max shoved his pants down so fast George gasped.

Oh.

The desk beneath him rattled.

And George—sweating, bent, half-naked—still had the audacity to lift his head and whisper through a cocky grin.

“...What, you afraid I’ll report you?”

The first slap landed like a crack of thunder.

George’s hips jerked forward, breath hitching in his throat as pain bloomed sharp and hot across his ass.

“F-fuck,” he hissed—

And then?

He laughed.

“You hit like a—ahh—!” he cried out when the second slap came, harder, sharper, timed perfectly after the bratty little remark.

Max didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Because George felt it—his presence, heavy and looming behind him like a god.

“Didn’t think you were this handsy, Verstappen,” George muttered, still breathless, grinning through the sting. “No HR department in the world’s gonna cover this one—”

SLAP.

He gasped again, legs trembling.

“Still talking,” Max finally said, his voice dangerously calm, like the eye of a storm. “You really don’t learn, do you?”

George bit down on a moan and then—just to test the edge—he let out a breathless, “Not unless you make me.”

That was the moment Max snapped.

The next spank came so fast, so fierce, that George’s knees nearly buckled.

“Okay—fuck, alright!” he gasped, voice cracking—

But still?

Still that filthy grin clung to his face. “You mad, boss? Scared your little toy might turn you in—?”

Max grabbed his jaw, wrenched his head back.

“Scared?” he growled. “No. But I’m done letting your mouth run wild.”

“Oh?” George whispered. “What’re you gonna do, shut me up?”

That grin—

That fucking grin—

Max smacked it off his face with a brutal spank that echoed off the glass walls.

George whimpered this time.

His voice faltered. His legs wobbled.

And still—

Still, with his cheek now pressed hard against the table, his ass red and burning, George murmured with a broken giggle:

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that…”

This time, Max laughed. Actually laughed. It was low, dark, and disgustingly sexy.

“Oh. You like this,” he said, like he’d just uncovered something vital. “You fucking get off on pain.”

George—cheek flushed red against the desk, teeth gritted, ass already sore—managed a breathless, “Maybe…”

And Max leaned in, mouth ghosting just over George’s ear.

“No. Don’t ‘maybe’ me. You do.”

His hand slid down George’s spine, too soft, too gentle after what just happened.

“You brat because you want this,” he whispered, voice like poison and silk. “You disobey because you need someone to put you in your place.”

George shivered.

His hoodie was bunched up around his waist. His pants were around his thighs. He looked wrecked, used—and it had barely started.

“You want to be ruined?” Max asked.

George didn’t answer.

So Max gripped his hair, yanked his head back, forced eye contact. The mirrors on the office wall reflected everything.

“I asked you something,” Max said, deadly calm. “You want to be ruined?”

George’s mouth parted. His lashes fluttered.

“…yes.”

A pause. A heartbeat.

And then—Max flipped him around, slammed his back flat to the desk with one hand still tangled in George’s hair. His eyes were blazing, face so close George could feel the burn of his breath.

Max looked him over like a meal. A challenge. A pet who needed taming.

“Good,” he said.

“Then beg.”

George’s lips twitched. “Fuck you.”

Max smiled.

“No,” he said, grabbing both of George’s wrists, pinning them over his head, “fuck you.”

George was not expecting to be manhandled like a sack of sinful potatoes.

One second he was on Max’s desk mouthing off and bratting like a little shit—

And the next?

He was hoisted up like he weighed nothing, slung over Max’s shoulder, hoodie slipping halfway off his back, ass sore and red, arms flailing.

“Where the fuck are you—? Put me down, what the—!”

Max didn’t say a word.

He walked—calm, composed—through a part of the office George didn’t even realize existed. Until he pressed his hand somewhere—some hidden panel, some dark sensor embedded in glass—and click—

The fucking wall opened.

George shut the fuck up.

“…oh.”

The secret door closed behind them. Soundless. Airless. Dark. Sleek. Expensive.

George was thrown. Not gently—not violently either. It was... just enough force to say stay the fuck there. He landed on a bed. A massive, smooth, velvet sheeted bed that did not look like it belonged in an office space. The sheets were black. The light overhead dimmed as Max stepped into the room, expression unreadable.

George scrambled back instinctively, half-shrugging his hoodie down—only to have Max grab the hem and yank it off.

"Hey—!"

And then—

His pants. Boxers.

Gone.

He was—naked. Fully. And worse?

Hard. Painfully. Embarrassingly.

He turned, tried to press his thighs together—hide it—but Max only cocked a brow.

“Tch,” Max muttered. “How predictable.”

He slid off his belt—slow. Deliberate. A soft hiss of leather.

George's heart was thudding so loud it was in his throat.

“Wait—what are you—”

Max had grabbed his wrists. Fast. Tied them up to the black headboard with precision. The cold buckle tightened with a slick noise and George moaned.

“You brat. You want control so bad you act out for it.”

“I—I wasn’t—”

Max pushed his knees apart.

“You think I don’t see through that stupid hoodie and mouthy attitude?”

His hand wrapped lightly around George’s throat, not squeezing. Just… resting there. Claiming it.

“You’ve been begging for this.”

Max’s eyes were hooded, sharp, and dark with something George couldn’t even name—predatory didn’t even cover it. He looked like someone who hadn’t touched in years. Or maybe just… hadn’t wanted anyone enough to break his own rules.

George, tied up, cheeks flushed, hard and humiliated, still trying to squirm his thighs together— Was breaking every rule Max had.

“Still running that mouth?” Max asked, voice deep and almost amused.

George bared his teeth. “What, you gonna cry if I do?”

Wrong. Fucking. Move.

SLAP.

Another spank landed, this one harder—sharper. It echoed in the room. George bit down a moan, face heating as the pain licked across his skin and set something electric inside him on fire.

“You enjoy pain way too much,” Max said, looking almost bored, almost cold.

George smiled. “What can I say—trauma makes you a kinky bastard.”

Max narrowed his eyes. Then bent down, slowly, face inches from George’s.

“You want rough?”

George dared. “You think you can handle rough?”

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but Max straightened, yanked open a drawer beside the bed—something sleek and modular—and pulled out a bottle of lube and a pair of black gloves.

Gloves.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

The snap of latex rang through the room as Max slipped one on. Slowly. Watching him.

George tensed. “Wait—uh—”

“Ever done this before?” Max asked, as if reading his hesitation.

“I—yeah. Once. Or twice. Or maybe, okay fine, five times? With someone. Or many ones. Kind of.”

Max cocked a brow. “Useful. Because I’m not gentle.”

He coated his fingers—just enough—and then was between George’s legs in a flash, spreading them wide. No room for modesty. No time to hesitate.

He pressed in a single slick finger without warning.

George choked on a breath. “F-fuck—!”

“Relax.”

“You could’ve—warned—”

“I’m warning now.”

Then a second finger. Then a third. Stretching. Burning.

George twisted his wrists in the restraints—his back arching, eyes fluttering as Max crooked his fingers with merciless precision. The soft, wet slap of latex against his skin was punctuated by the lewd, sliding sounds of the lube. Each movement created a low, almost squelch, a wet friction. It was the sound of skin, stretched taut and glistening, meeting the slick barrier, a rhythm building with every deliberate press and slide.

“Shit, f-fuck—”

He hated that he was moaning. Hated that his cock was still so hard it was aching, dribbling helplessly against his own stomach, untouched.

Max only smirked. “You like it when it hurts. Of course you do.”

He scissored his fingers again. Fast. Sharp. No holding back. George gasped out loud and squirmed—

“You asked for this,” Max said lowly. “Every time you opened your mouth, every time you acted out—you wanted to be broken down, didn’t you?”

George panted, face wet now with sweat. “You’re not the first to try.”

“And I’ll be the last.”

He pulled his fingers out.

George whimpered.

Max undid his slacks. Then his shirt. Slow. Letting George hear it.

George’s entire soul froze. Because holy fuck—of course he was big. Of course it looked mean. Of course it looked like it would ruin him.

And Max didn’t give a second more of mercy. He pulled George’s hips down, dragged him flush to the edge of the bed—and started to push in.

Slow. Deep. Unforgiving.

George cried out, legs tensing.

“F-fuck—!”

“Take it,” Max growled, gripping George’s waist tighter. “You wanted this.”

George could barely breathe, every inch burned as he was stretched open, filled, claimed.

He writhed, back arching again—

“Hurts—fuck—it—”

“You’ll adjust.”

Another thrust.

Max buried in deeper. Grinding in so far George thought he’d break in half. But God—he wanted it. He was already begging under his breath.

“Fuck—f-fuck—”

“You bratty little thing,” Max growled, slamming in again, punishingly. “You love being used.”

He did.

He fucking did.

And George was till bratting. Just to see what was the limit.

“Are you gonna cry if I don’t call you sir, now? Or boss? Mr. Illegal-activities-overlord?”

SLAP.

A spank across his thigh. Sharp. Loud. Still gloved. Then another thrust. George screamed—part moan, part curse, part ecstasy. He was losing his fucking mind.

“You think I’m afraid you’ll report me?” Max hissed against his ear, breath hot. “No one would believe you.”

“Maybe they would,” George gasped, bucking. “I’ve got those innocent eyes, remember—?”

“You’re a fucking slut.”

Max snapped his hips, fucking into him hard, relentless, George tied up and helpless, moaning through the pain and the stretch and the brutal, filthy tension.

George didn’t even know where he was anymore.

All he could feel was Max.

Every thrust shoved him deeper into the mattress, made the restraints creak, made his legs tremble violently where they were spread wide and helpless. His throat was raw from how many noises had already torn out of him—noises that didn’t even sound like words anymore.

“Ah—ah—please, f-fuck—”

SLAP.

Another harsh spank to his other thigh had him gasping, clenching hard around Max’s cock—making Max groan low through grit teeth.

“You just can’t shut up,” Max growled, voice sharp and dark with arousal. “Not even when I’m this deep in you.”

George let out a whine as Max drove in again, hips snapping.

“You like being ruined that bad?” Max hissed, and then his hand fisted in George’s hair and yanked his head back.

George cried out, mouth open, drool escaping at the corner. His eyes were glazed, pupils blown, and his cock—red, leaking, ignored—throbbed against his belly uselessly.

“P-please—” he begged, dumb, wrecked, gone. “Please—please—fuck—”

Another thrust. Then another. Each deeper. Meaner. Merciless.

“You sound so pathetic,” Max muttered against his ear, biting down on his shoulder, tongue tracing the mark. “You were so cocky, weren’t you? All that attitude—where is it now?”

George moaned—like a fucking pornstar, like a full-on slut—and Max smirked against his skin.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then—another spank. His other hand still yanking his hair, still holding him there.

George twisted in the restraints—his muscles twitching from how much he wanted to come, how much his cock was aching.

Max didn’t touch it. Didn’t even look at it.

George whimpered, “C-can I—please—fuck—I—!”

“No.”

Max’s voice was a flat refusal, a fucking sentence.

George wailed.

“Why—why—?”

“Because I don’t want you to,” Max said simply.

And he kept fucking into him. Hard and cruel. Like George was just a toy—a bratty little thing to break down.

“You’ll take it,” Max said lowly, pulling George’s hair again. “You’ll thank me for it.”

George was already nodding. Nodding like a mindless fucking thing. And drooling. And shaking. And moaning—“thank you, thank you—fuck—please—!”

George was crying now.

Actual fucking tears—wetting his cheeks, dripping down his jaw, falling onto the pillows, spattering against the sheets from how violently his body was jerking with every thrust Max delivered into him.

He wasn’t speaking anymore.

His lips were trembling, open in a soft, gasping “uh—uh—uh—uh—” rhythm that matched the relentless pace Max was still driving into him.

His body was wrecked.

His mind was gone.

“Fucking look at you,” Max rasped, his voice all teeth and smoke, barely even human anymore. “Crying now?”

George shook under him, legs twitching, face twisted up in pleasure so unbearable it felt like pain. His dick was so red, so wet, so fucking neglected—

Max smirked.

“Guess you’re ready to behave now, huh?”

George whined helplessly. His hands—still tied above his head—were gripping air like they could touch him, like they could reach the edge he’d been denied over and over and over again.

“S-Sorry—” he finally choked out, tears catching in his throat. “I’ll be—good—I’ll be—”

Max leaned over, one hand still gripping his hips as he slammed into him—and the other finally, finally wrapped around George’s aching, pathetic, needy little cock.

George screamed.

A broken, slutty, guttural moan left his throat like his whole soul was escaping with it.

Max started timing his strokes—every thrust of his cock matched with a perfect glide of his hand, perfectly in sync—

George was losing it. His thighs clenched around Max’s waist. His toes curled. His fingers twitched. He was babbling nonsense, crying harder, begging for it even when he didn’t know what he was begging for anymore.

And Max—grinning, smug, merciless—pounded into him faster.

“Fucking come then,” he hissed. “Be a good boy and fucking come.”

George shattered.

His whole body snapped—back arching, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as his orgasm hit like a wave crashing into rock. He came so hard it pulsed out in messy spurts between them, hitting Max’s abs, his own stomach, the sheets beneath.

Max held him through it—hand tight on his cock, milking it—until George went limp, trembling.

Max groaned low, shoved in deep, and came inside him—hot, thick, grinding it in until George whimpered and arched again from oversensitivity.

He didn’t let go of George’s cock.

He didn’t untie him.

Just pressed his lips to George’s tear streaked temple, murmuring—

“Good boy.”

Max pulled out slowly—not for George’s sake, no—but just to feel the way George’s body clenched around him one last time, like it didn’t want to let go. Like he’d carved his shape into him, permanently.

And oh.

The noise George made.

A whimper so broken, so high pitched and ruined, it barely sounded human anymore.

His legs were shaking, his ass red, slick, and stretched open, with Max’s cum leaking out thick and hot—dripping in slow, obscene trails down his thighs and onto the sheets.

George let out a breathy little gasp. And then another.

And then—nothing.

Still.

Eyes unfocused.

Mouth parted, breathing shallow.

Gone.

“Fuck,” Max muttered under his breath, his own legs wobbling slightly. He didn’t usually do this. Or at least—not like this. Not so much.

Care showing through.

George was destroyed. But so pretty like this. Still tied. Red wrists. Bite marks blooming across his shoulder. Skin warm and flushed and glowing. His lashes were wet, cheeks tear streaked, lips kiss swollen without a single kiss.

Max ran a hand down his thigh. Just to check. A test.

George twitched—but didn’t protest. Didn’t move. Barely even blinked.

“Oh, baby,” Max muttered, kneeling between his legs again. “Fucked you stupid, huh?”

George didn’t answer but the way his thighs trembled and he moaned weakly at the slightest brush of Max’s hand said it all.

He was in subspace.

Too deep to pretend otherwise. Too deep to brat. Too deep to think.

Max kissed the inside of his knee. His voice was soft now—lower, quieter. “You did good.”

George whimpered.

Max untied his wrists gently. Pressed kisses to the red marks. Pulled him into his chest like a ragdoll. George didn’t resist. Just melted into him.

Limp. Warm. Safe.

Max reached beside the bed, grabbing the water bottle he always kept nearby—because yeah. He was that kind of dom. He opened it and tilted it carefully to George’s lips.

George let it happen. He swallowed slowly, like he was drunk. Like he couldn’t even register what was going on.

“There you go,” Max said under his breath. “That’s it. Breathe.”

George whimpered again. His fingers curled weakly into Max’s chest. He nuzzled closer.

Max sighed. He should’ve been smug. Should’ve been strict still.

But no.

He just wrapped his arms around him and let him be held. “Told you not to mess with me,” he whispered, kissing George’s damp forehead.

Max sat on the edge of the bed for a moment.

Just watching him.

George was fully knocked out—half asleep in his arms, sniffling occasionally, still dazed and teary, flushed cheeks pressed to Max’s bare chest. His breath evened out, hitching only when Max moved just slightly.

"Don’t fall asleep with cum all over you, virus," Max muttered, even though his tone was anything but annoyed.

George, of course, didn’t answer.

Not with anything coherent, anyway.

Just a tiny, croaky noise and a pitiful attempt to curl closer.

“Fine.” Max sighed, lifting him easily. Like he weighed nothing. His limbs flopped like overcooked noodles, head resting against Max’s shoulder, eyes shut, lashes damp, lips parted.

Max carried him to the bathroom—bare feet against the polished floor—and set him down on a folded towel at the edge of the shower.

George blinked blearily.

Still quiet and stupid.

Max turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, and then carefully helped him in—guiding him under the stream like he was a fragile porcelain doll. George whimpered at first, the heat too much, but Max was already holding him, murmuring quiet instructions.

"Arms up."

"Head back."

"Close your eyes."

Max washed him.

Everywhere.

Between his thighs. His back. Down his legs. Between his fingers. His hair. His chest. Gentle. Rinsing away sweat and slick and evidence of everything they'd done. One hand firm around his waist to keep him upright, the other working soft foam into his skin.

George barely moved.

Just swayed gently. Soft little hums and breaths escaping. Boneless.

Max smiled under his breath.

"Fucking brat," he said fondly, thumb brushing his jaw. "You asked for all of that."

George gave a faint, vague smile. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t even seem to remember what ‘denial’ was.

After drying him off, Max wrapped him in one of his ridiculously soft, stupidly expensive robes. Carried him again, bridal style this time. George didn’t even twitch.

Back to the bed. Clean sheets. A soft pillow. George melted into them like butter. Face first. Let out a satisfied, sleep dumb noise.

Max just tucked him in and stood there for a second, staring. He bent down. Kissed his forehead again.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll deal with your real punishment later.”

George mumbled something unintelligible, nuzzled into the pillow, and within seconds.

Out. Gone. Fast asleep.

Max stared.

Shook his head.

And whispered to no one in particular, "Fucking menace."

Notes:

phew

Chapter 10

George was dying.

Absolutely, totally, emotionally, spiritually—D-E-A-D.

And not in a hot way.

No, in a “what the everloving fuck did I do and why do my legs feel like I ran three consecutive marathons backward” way.

He was face planted on his mattress on the floor, hugging a pillow like it might pray the gay away, screaming into it every ten seconds. Intermittently. In pain. In existential pain.

His ass hurt. His thighs hurt. His brain hurt.

And his dick?

He looked down at it with betrayal in his eyes.

"You’re not surviving this week," he told it.

He really, really considered castration. Maybe monkhood. Maybe exile. Maybe voluntarily being launched into the sun.

Because—fuck.

FUCK.

He slept with his boss.

His fucking boss.

He let that evil little criminal fuck him stupid, dumb, senseless—and what was worse? He remembered it all.

Every. Single. Thing.

The spanking. The hair-pulling. The desk. The fucking belt.

He screamed into the pillow again. Nearly popped a blood vessel.

Also—why the hell was it that good?! Like—no. No. 10/10 sex was not supposed to come from shady billionaires who probably ran cybercrime rings. That’s not how karma was meant to work.

He sat up finally, clutching his lower back with both hands like a middle aged man.

“Ow ow ow owowowow–ow.”

He remembered waking up mid noon—still half dazed in that stupid luxury bed, the post nut clarity hitting him like a ten ton truck.
There had been no Max. No note. Just— Oh no. He looked down. The hoodie on him?

Wasn’t his.

Soft. Oversized. Smelled expensive and horrifyingly like him.

Even the pants were new. Soft, loose sweatpants that definitely weren’t part of his wardrobe. There had been no shoes. Just him, alone in that sterile, terrifying, rich ass room, and one tiny AI screen showing an exit code and a smiley face.

He ran.

Bolted.

He sprinted out of that floor like it was haunted. Because in some ways—yes, it was.

And of course—as luck would have it—janitor Derek was casually mopping near the elevator at the worst moment.

George, hoodie swamped, hickey necked, post orgasm blown out and hobbling like a raccoon in daylight, made direct eye contact.

Derek had paused.

George had squeaked.

And then darted away like a criminal in flip flops.

He was never going back.

Ever.

If Freya texted, he’d block her.

If Max called, he’d throw his phone in a lake.

He pulled the pillow over his face and screamed again. Then paused. "...but like–fuck… he was really good tho."

Then he screamed again.

The rest of the day, George was trying to heal.

Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. He was doing everything in his power to act like a normal university kid who didn’t just get railed into oblivion by his boss inside a secret fuck room behind an AI controlled security panel.

He hadn’t left the flat once. He skipped uni. He limped to the kitchen like a war veteran, made himself three coffees, and screamed into his-not-his hoodie every time he remembered anything.

And yet—he finished his thesis. Screaming every few minutes, sure, but that’s what headphones and painkillers were for.

When Alex and Lando finally got back home late that evening—both joking and tossing their bags on the couch like usual—they opened the door and froze.

George sat on the floor in a massive hoodie, blanket over his legs, heating pad under his thighs, typing with murderous intent. His entire aura screamed "Approach and Die."

Lando blinked.

Alex, bless his soul, tried, “Heyyy—”

George looked up slowly.

Just the eyes.

Just.

Alex immediately turned to Lando. “Nope. We’re not doing this today.”

“Yup,” Lando nodded. “Godspeed, brother.”

They quietly tiptoed out of the room, tossing snacks his way like offerings to a beast.

George, satisfied, went back to typing and muttering.

By 10:47 p.m., he was ready to sleep.

Finally. The bed or mattress whatever you called it was made. A sad little candle was flickering on his nightstand. His body was relaxed—ish. And he was ready to dream of rainbows and butterflies and maybe vanilla sex with someone normal who didn’t do… y’know. All of that.

He turned off his light.

Closed his eyes.

Took a breath.

Ping!

No.

No no no no.

He opened one eye. Reached for his phone.

The name on the notification bar nearly made him drop it.

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-Still alive, little virus?-

George howled. He almost yeeted the phone across the room. He slammed it to his chest like it would bite.

“What the fuck—what the fuck—what the fuuuuck—”

WHY was he texting him?!

Freya always forwarded updates! Max never even looked at him twice outside of lectures and disasters and... sex apparently?? AND NOW??

“Still alive”?????

No.

Blocked. Reported. Exorcised.

He didn’t even open the message, just threw the phone under his pillow and flopped back into bed. His heart was racing. His brain short circuiting.

He was not gonna reply. He was gonna ignore this. He was gonna move on and find God and go to therapy and never get railed like that again.

Except—his screen lit up again.

Ping!

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-Be at HQ tomorrow at 9. Be on time.-

George screamed into the night.

The phone stayed on the floor this time.

He did fall asleep at some point. Dreaming of things he couldn't name. Or didn't want to know. Now as he woke up due to his stupid alarm. George had a choice. Go to work and risk humiliation or stay in bed, pretend he was dying, and eat frozen waffles while watching animal documentaries.

Of course he picked the waffles.

He emailed Freya a very simple note.

Subject: Sick

Body: can’t walk. might have the flu. fever. death. bye.

And that was that.

He wrapped himself in his thickest blanket. Turned off all notifications. Put his phone on do not disturb. Ignored the throbbing ache in his lower back and the occasional shiver every time he remembered Max’s fucking voice.

And he almost had a peaceful hour.

Until his phone vibrated again.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He blinked and did the mistake of the century and picked it up.

And saw the name that made his skin turn into molten lava.

Max Verstappen again.

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-You’re too pretty to be this much of a coward.-

George blinked.

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-Your poor little ass still sore?-

-Should I drop by and ice it for you?-

-Or do you just want me to come fuck the attitude out of you again?-

George short circuited. He dropped the phone. Stared at the ceiling. Pulled his blanket over his head like it could protect him from the verbal filth leaking into his goddamn life.

No. No no no. NO.

He wasn’t gonna reply. He had dignity.

Anyways.

He replied.

George Russell:

-stop talking about my poor ass and hole-

-you criminal-

-block button is RIGHT THERE-

-dont force me to use it-

Immediately—

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-You didn’t block me though.-

-Also. If you don’t appear in HQ within the next 20 minutes.-

George sat up.

What.

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-I’ll send someone to pick you up.-

-And you won’t be coming back home tonight.-

George squeaked.

The audacity. The casual criminality. The utter lack of decency.

He looked at the time.

19 minutes left.

What if he just disappeared. Changed his name. Moved to the Alps. Married a goat.

He checked the time again.

18 minutes left.

George blinked.

Ping!

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-18.-

George screamed into his pillow.

Why was he like this? Why did he text back?! Why did he EVER open his legs for that corporate war criminal—

Ping!

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-17.-

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE,” George hissed, flailing under the blanket like a feral cat trapped in a hoodie.

He threw the blanket off. Climbed out of bed like a newborn deer. His thighs ached. His ass was—don’t even talk about it. And walking? He looked like he’d been shot in both legs and was trying to be brave about it.

He stood in the middle of the room in his crumpled oversized tee and pink pajama bottoms with little ducks on them.

Ping!

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-16.-

-Better run, virus.-

“Shut the fuck up,” George muttered into the phone, but his thumbs didn’t type it. He wasn’t that brave anymore.

Okay. So. It takes 30 minutes minimum to get to VTech.

He had 16 minutes.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Hair? Chaos. Clothes? Unchanged since last night. Face? A mix of tired, embarrassed, and recently fucked dumb.

He sighed.

“Fuck it.”

He flopped dramatically back onto the bed.

Ping!

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-15.-

“NO ONE FUCKING ASKED YOU.”

George launched his phone at the pillow.

Another ping.

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-14.-

-You really want me to send someone, hmm?-

George froze.

He was so close to standing up again—

Until another ping.

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-13.-

-Don’t worry. They’ll be gentle with you.-

George blinked.

Bit his lower lip.

Thought about the pros and cons.

Pros? He didn’t have to walk or change or even try.

Cons? Max would win.

But like Max already fucked him.

He already lost. He sighed dramatically like a hero defeated by fate and cruel dicks.

Then typed.

George Russell:

-send the fucking car you evil man-

-i wont walk-

And immediately—

MAX VERSTAPPEN:

-On the way. 8 mins.-

George flopped back, face down. Ass up. Like a human burrito of regrets. Got up two minutes later and dragged his limp, aching, post fucked ass to the mirror and growled at the reflection.

“Not the ducks. Anything but the ducks.”

George peeled off the pyjamas like they personally betrayed him and threw on a black hoodie and jeans. Well. He tried to wear jeans. Got one leg in. Collapsed like a dying hyena.

Eventually, after a whole five minutes of threatening his clothes, his life, and Max Verstappen, he was clothed.

Not presentable.

But clothed. Hood up, sunglasses on, limp dramatic.

If a single paparazzi saw him right now, the headline would be "Local Uni Student Looks Like He Was Brutally Rear Ended By A Truck". They wouldn’t even be wrong.

He limped his way to the pavement outside their flat. Lando’s car was gone, and Alex was probably with his disaster situationship again.

Good.

No witnesses.

A car pulled in exactly 7 minutes later, black, sleek, expensive. The windows were so tinted it looked illegal.

George blinked.

Okay. Cool. Standard. He expected Mr Hulk. Or maybe the bald guy if God really hated him. But even then, he usually stayed by Max’s side like a loyal iron terrier. Driving was beneath him.

So probably Hulk.

He yanked the door open and climbed in—

"Good morning, virus."

George screamed.

Like full body, throat tensing, soul-leaving-the-body shriek.

He hit the roof with the back of his head and slapped his palm against the leather seat in horror.

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

Max didn’t even flinch. Just sat there in all black—black shirt, black slacks, black coat slung around his arm like a mafia boss who had someone buried that morning and was late to brunch.

Sunglasses on. Hair slicked back. One brow slightly raised.

Like he hadn’t just scared George half to fucking death.

“Seatbelt.”

George snapped his mouth shut.

Blinked.

"Why are you here?" he hissed, immediately adjusting his hoodie like it could protect his dignity.

Max smirked. "Picking you up."

George turned red.

“Asshole.”

"Sure. What about yours? Still tight, hopefully?"

George physically winced. Looked away. Crossed his legs like that would help.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Max reached over—actually reached over—and tugged the seatbelt across George’s chest himself, clicking it in place.

George froze.

Everything about the move was casual.

Too casual.

The way Max's hand brushed his thigh while retracting. The way he leaned close—too close. The way George could still smell him—cologne, power, sin, bad decisions.

“You smell like a hostile takeover,” George whispered in horror.

Max smiled.

They pulled away from the curb. George buried his face in his palms. And tried to ignore the fact that his body was waking up like a goddamn Pavlovian puppy just from sitting beside his—

"Don't say it," George muttered aloud.

"Say what?" Max asked coolly.

“Nothing.” He stared out the window. “Just… drive.”

Max leaned back.

“I have a meeting. So once we get there, I’ll send someone to help you walk in.”

“I’m not dying,” George snapped.

Max side eyed him. “You were moaning like you were.”

“YOU—" George slapped a hand to his mouth. “I swear to fucking god if you keep bringing it up—”

Max was typing something into his phone. Calm. Still. Dangerous.

“I’m sending Freya your daily assignment.”

George narrowed his eyes. “What, is it ‘suck your boss’ dick’ again?”

Max smirked.

"Only if you misbehave."

George screamed again.

After that neither spoke. George even fell asleep for few seconds. But immediately woke up fearing for his dear life. Nope, falling asleep with him just one foot away? Nope.

And as soon as the car even pretended to stop, George launched himself out.

He didn’t wait for pleasantries. Didn’t wait for Max to open the door, or give orders, or breathe. The moment the wheels slowed, George slapped the door handle, shoved it open with full chaos energy, and flung himself out like a fugitive escaping a prison van.

“BYEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!” he screamed, speed limping across the pavement.

He ignored the security guards. Ignored the cameras. Ignored the pain flaring through his legs.

Pride was a thing of the past.

Dignity? Dead.

He just needed to get inside before Max caught up and said something awful like “that limp is adorable” or “forgot your leash?”

He wasn't mentally prepared. He would never be mentally prepared. Never again.

Freya was just walking out of the building with a clipboard, typing something on her tablet. Cool. Calm. Boss bitch. Her icy blond bob didn’t move even in the wind. She was sipping something—iced espresso probably—and looking fresh as hell.

Then she looked up.

Saw him.

One eyebrow lifted.

"You alright?"

“Mhm! Morning! Good day! Amazing weather! Gotta go—!"

He almost tripped on the stairs.

Freya turned her whole body to follow the chaotic movement.

“You sure?”

“Yep! All good! GREAT day to work!! Thesis DONE. Brains CLEAR. Not traumatized at all!”

Gone.

Vanished into the building like a cursed soul fleeing daylight.

Freya sipped her coffee. Blinked once.

Three seconds later, the car door shut behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to know.

"What did you do?" she asked without looking.

Max walked up beside her slowly, looking as if he had just walked out of a luxury fashion campaign instead of committing high key HR crimes before the birds even chirped.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “He’s just sore.”

Freya finally turned her head to look at him fully.

Silence.

She stared.

He smiled.

She stared harder.

He smirked.

She blinked. Then, cool as ever, she muttered—

“Knew it.”

Sip.

Pause.

“So… who cleaned the sheets?”

"I did."

"You? You cleaned?"

"I have hands."

“Max, you built an empire just to not have to clean.”

“And yet.”

Freya narrowed her eyes and tapped her screen.

“I’ll forward a new meeting schedule. But if you break him before the next pitch presentation, I will send HR.”

"I'm HR."

“And I know where you sleep.”

Max chuckled.

Freya squinted at him one more time before sighing and walking off.

-

The tech floor of VTech’s HQ was humming like a well fed server—fluorescent lights overhead flickering just faintly enough to piss George off, his fourth cup of coffee now lukewarm and violently sweet, and the sound of keyboard clacks creating a symphony of coding-induced madness.

George sat in his little cubicle. Nestled at the corner. Covered in about twelve sticky notes. Legs tucked up on his chair, ankles crossed, screen brightness at 5% because his eyeballs were crying.

He had been there all day. Headphones in. Doing “debugs” and “maintenance logs” and “cross system checksum validations” which were all very fancy terms for—fixing other people’s ugly ass code.

Lines and lines of spaghetti strings blinking back at him with smug errors. The AI system—named “ELLA” or “E.L.L.A” or “Evil Lying Laughing Algorithm” in George’s books—had flagged like, forty nine entries that made no sense and all of them were assigned to him.

His screen glared back with code that could’ve been written by drunk cats.

He was muttering to himself, messy hair tied back in a bun with a cable tie, face half-smashed against his palm.

“Bro what the fuck even is this—why is there a random wormhole loop function inside an air fryer subroutine? WHO LET THAT HAPPEN—”

Just as he was about to highlight the code and leave an angry comment, the room pinged.

A little voice rang out from the corner AI speaker, sweet and robotic with just the right amount of menace:

“George Russell.”

He froze.

“Report to the CEO’s office.”

George’s eye twitched.

He leaned back dramatically, headphones yanked off. Looked up at the ceiling as if begging God to take him now. Spread both arms out and declared to no one in particular:

“Oh fuck me sideways.”

Beat.

Then under his breath, muttered, “With full force. Thank you very much.”

The two interns at the far end of the cubicle row paused and blinked at him.

He did not make eye contact. He was in hell. Let him be.

George slammed his laptop shut, grabbed his water bottle like it could shield him from Max’s wrath, and dragged his extremely sore ass out of the cubicle like a soldier walking to the front lines. Every few steps he winced. Limped slightly. Blamed the floor for being slippery.

He passed by Freya on the way.

She looked up from her tablet.

"You look like you haven’t slept."

"Because I haven’t."

"You limping?"

"Muscle cramp."

"You smell like an alpha man."

"I am one!"

Freya just blinked once. Said nothing. Went back to her notes with a smug look.

George flipped her off in his head as he turned the corner.

The hallway toward the CEO’s office was glassy and terrifying. You couldn’t even think something scandalous there—someone would hear it. The AI definitely could. George was 95% sure Max had personally wired this corridor to be bugged for thoughts.

He stopped at the door. Stared at it. Took a breath. “Don’t say anything stupid,” he muttered. “Don’t brat. Don’t provoke. Be normal.”

He reached out.

Hand hovered over the doorpad.

The lights blinked green.

The door hissed open.

He walked in.

George stood just inside the office like a suspicious cat caught knocking over a wine glass. His arms were folded, hoodie sleeves half-covering his fingers, and his mouth had already curled into the most unimpressed little scowl he could muster.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

He emphasized “sir” like a crime.

Max, standing behind his desk with his sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone—looked up from a holographic screen like he was waiting for this moment all day. He probably was.

Gave George a look that felt like being dissected. Max narrowed his eyes. His smirk was nowhere to be found.

“You submitted the network overwrite report yesterday.”

George blinked again.

“...Yeah?”

“It was sloppy.”

George’s jaw dropped.

“EXCUSE me?!” he walked closer, scandalized, one hand gesturing violently while the other clutched his water bottle like a holy artifact. “That report was PERFECT. Spotless. Flawless even. It had MLA formatting!”

Max tilted his head slightly. “You referenced the same codeblock twice.”

George squinted. “Because it applied to two separate things! Efficiency, Mr. I-Live-For-Syntax.”

Max didn’t blink. “You also wrote ‘bruv this loop is cursed’ in a comment. In a file that was uploaded to our official records.”

George shrugged. “It was cursed!”

Max continued without mercy. “You titled one of the patches ‘final_final_REALfinal_v7_2’.”

George’s face twisted. “Okay that was just—naming convention is subjective!”

“And you used the term ‘yeeted’ in a professional summary.”

George scoffed. “That’s a verb now!”

Max raised a brow. “You wrote, ‘error yeeted the system into an alternate timeline.’”

George puffed his cheeks. “Which was accurate, by the way. The module flipped back two versions. Time travel is real and I stand by that.”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose.

There was silence. The two of them just glaring across the desk like polar opposite species.

“You are an infuriating little virus,” Max muttered finally.

George leaned on the desk. “And you’re a walking Wikipedia page. I bet you edit articles for fun, don’t you?”

Max gave him a flat stare. “I own Wikipedia.”

“Arrogant fucker. Nice personality you got there.”

Max’s lips twitched. “Mhm. Nice limp, by the way.”

George gasped. Loudly. “Wha—You—HOW DARE—” He turned away dramatically, hiding his face. “At least I still slay! You ever heard of effort you fucke—”

“What profanities did you just use?” Max cut in, voice dangerously calm.

George turned back. “You seriously don’t know what slay means?”

Max didn’t respond. He blinked once, like processing an alien dialect.

George stared. “…Oh my god you really don’t. Oh no. You’re a dinosaur.”

Max corrected instantly, voice smooth. “Experienced.”

George snorted. “That’s what all old people say when they forget where their glasses are.”

Max, unbothered, crossed his arms and leaned against the desk.

“I was born in 1989.”

George froze.

“…Nineteen—what?”

Max repeated, “Eighty-nine.”

George dropped into the guest chair like he’d been sniped.

“198–??” he gasped, eyes wide. “Your year starts with nineteen?! AND THEN eighty?!”

He covered his mouth.

“Oh my god. I fucked a grandpa.”

Max’s voice, calm and smug, “Correction. You got fucked.”

George short circuited. He genuinely made a modem reboot noise. His face went red and he swore under his breath about the ancient ones walking among us.

Before he could clap back with another petty jab — maybe something along the lines of “do your bones creak when it rains too?” or “do you use two factor auth or a sundial?” — the door to Max’s office hissed open.

In stepped the logistics head, a woman in sleek grey, holding a data pad and looking mildly annoyed, like she’d walked in on a soap opera.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said dryly. “We’ve got an issue with the supply lines—priority one. CEO eyes only.”

Max didn’t even look at George. “Dismissed.”

George blinked.

“Wha—?”

Max didn’t say anything.

George turned and left, grumbling curses under his breath. He walked out, down the sleek corridor, past the blinking interface walls and the stupidly reflective floors — and somewhere in the lift ride down, the adrenaline wore off.

That’s when the silence hit.

George stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror panelled lift.

He looked ridiculous. Flushed. Hoodie bunched at the waist. His hair was still sticking up from earlier yelling. His ass still ached if he shifted too hard. His throat was sore — from the argument, not anything else. Ahem.

And the worst part? He couldn't stop replaying it all.

The argument.

The smug look on Max’s face.

The way Max said “you got fucked.”

His cheeks burned.

By the time he reached the ground floor, George was genuinely reflecting on his entire life. Like a 3 AM existential spiral but at 2 PM, in broad daylight, with a limp and an ego slightly bruised.

He mumbled to himself in disbelief, stepping outside.

“…I fucked a CEO born in 1989.”

What was he doing with his life? Was he okay? Did his mother raise him for this?

Was he being groomed???

No—wait—he initiated that—okay never mind—brain shut up.

He trudged back to his workspace like a war veteran, eyes distant, soul crushed.

Yeah. He needed a nap. A therapist. Maybe holy water.

Or at least a mute button for Max fucking Verstappen.

Or maybe block.

Notes:

i fell asleep twice writing this. yall better give me praises😔😔😔

Say hi to me (👹) on tumblr: Sweetnkiwie

Chapter 11

George liked to think that once he landed a job—especially this job, at VTech, the bleeding edge of tech wet dreams—his life would start making sense.

He thought maybe the chaos would dull. Maybe his existential dread would chill. Maybe he'd finally stop crying over assignments at 3 a.m. and start drinking cheap lattes on balconies with a sense of purpose.

But no. The universe had other plans.

Because apparently, getting a prestigious internship also meant accidentally committing one of the seven deadly workplace sins.

And that sin?

Getting absolutely, unequivocally, fucked by your CEO.

Raw.

With witnesses, thankfully not human.

And God. Even after a week—a whole seven business days—he still felt it.

Not just the ache in his lower back which screamed with betrayal every time he stood up too fast, but the soul crushing, knee buckling, sanity questioning shame. The kind of shame that made him avoid reflective surfaces and invent new excuses to not sit properly.

It wasn't like Max had seduced him or anything, George reasoned. This wasn't some forbidden romance or secret affair with longing glances over conference tables. No.

It wasn’t serious. Nope.

It was sex. Rough, brutal, dangerous sex.

Max did it because he could. Because he was in control. Because George—like the absolute dumbass he was—didn’t say no.

So now, George had resolved himself. That was a one time thing. An error. A... data glitch in the system of his otherwise mediocre life.

He was not doing it again. He repeated that every morning like a prayer. A mantra.

“Not doing it again.”

“Not doing it again.”

“Not doing it ag—”

“GEORGE RUSSELL. REPORT TO CEO’S OFFICE. IMMEDIATELY.”

God, the silence in the office was palpable. The way a few heads popped up from cubicles like gophers. The way people looked down instantly when George met their eyes—like they knew.

Like everyone knew.

And maybe they didn’t. Maybe they just thought he was getting fired. Or reprimanded. Or bullied.

But he knew.

He remembered the way Max Verstappen had him bent over, split open, and moaning like a paid actor in some high budget smut.

And that was the fucking thing.

Max never mentioned it. Not once. Never brought it up. Not even with a wink or some offhand innuendo. But god—god—did he watch George.

Always.

From across rooms. During briefings. Through security cameras, probably. He was everywhere and nowhere. And every time George thought he’d avoided his line of sight, a new fucking email would appear—

“You’ve missed the final close tag in line 83.”

“Did you forget to test the sandbox environment?”

“The report file format was outdated. Again.”

Like—FUCK OFF?! WHO EVEN NOTICED THAT?

Oh. Right.

Max fucking Verstappen.

The devil in custom made suits and a stick so far up his ass he probably used it for back support.

And what made it worse?

The corrections weren’t even helpful. He’d send them right before George was about to present, or in the middle of a demo, or—worse—during team calls, where one would then say with a smile.

“George, the CEO flagged an issue in your code. Care to explain?”

Fucking hell. He could feel the smugness from across the floors. Even through email threads and chat windows. Max was playing god. God with a vendetta. God with high cheekbones and a filthy, filthy mouth George unfortunately remembered way too well.

Still, he wasn’t going to show fear. He adjusted his hoodie, put on his best neutral-dead-inside expression, and marched toward the lift. He was going to survive this.

Totally.

Probably.

Maybe.

Fuck it, whatever.

George stood awkwardly by the doorway, the air conditioned chill doing nothing to cool the simmering embarrassment in his chest. His hoodie sleeves were stretched over his palms, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it might snap.

He cleared his throat once.

Then again.

And finally, with the world’s most fake casual tone, he spoke.

“You asked for me, sir.”

Max didn’t look up or glance at him.

He was typing—furiously, mind you—on his sleek, soul sucking matte black laptop like George wasn’t even there. Like George hadn’t been paged over the entire floor like a high school delinquent to the principal’s office.

So.

George stood.

In awkward silence.

He glanced around. Shifted his weight. Studied the absolutely ridiculous painting behind Max’s desk. Who even hangs original Monets in a workspace? and then the ticking analog clock that mocked him louder every passing second.

One minute.

Two.

Three.

Four and a half—

Max, finally, leaned back and snapped his laptop shut with a click so sharp it made George flinch.

Then, in the same dry, devastating voice that had once made George fall apart in every sense of the word:

“I have a meeting with some clients.”

George blinked. "Okay...?"

Max stood, gathering a tablet and a few documents. “You’re coming with me.”

George short circuited. “I’m—what? Why?”

Max gave him a look. The kind that was about 10% condescending and 90% something unreadable. “You’ve been far too unproductive lately.”

George squawked. “That’s a lie! I finished all the assignments yesterday! You—you even forwarded me the compliance audit and I fixed it!”

Max just started walking. Cool, confident, unfairly handsome, soulless bastard that he was.

George followed him like a kicked puppy. “I’m not even presentable—I’m literally in a hoodie. This hoodie says ‘eat the rich’ on the sleeve, I can’t meet a client looking like this—”

Max held the lift door open for him.

George huffed and walked in, glaring. “You just want me to suffer.”

Max didn’t react at all. Typical tin man.

The lift dinged and reached the ground floor faster than George would like. and the parking lot was far too pristine for his mental breakdown. His footsteps echoed off the concrete, the cool air smelling faintly of ozone and rich people’s bad decisions. Max was three strides ahead—of course—with not a single pause in his steps, clearly intent on this idiotic plan.

George, practically jogging behind, was not having it.

“Why me?!” he whined, yanking at his hoodie sleeve dramatically. “Take Ms Freya! She knows how to talk. And she doesn’t swear in front of executives. And she doesn’t—you know—mess shits up.”

Max didn’t even slow down. “Freya is busy.”

George scoffed. “Oh really? Busy being sane? You’re telling me no one else could do this except me, a barely functioning uni student with a bad back and trust issues?”

“Correct.”

George dragged both hands down his face. “Oh my god, you’re impossible. I’m not even authorized for client meetings. I haven’t signed the NDA. I literally don’t have a blazer, sir. You’re dragging me to a fire in a t-shirt that has a duck holding a knife—”

Max finally turned toward him. Unfazed. Annoyingly calm.

“You’re coming.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I hate meeting new peop—”

And then—before he could utter another syllable of complaint—Max shoved the passenger door open and gave George the lightest, most dismissive push that was absolutely full of intent.

George stumbled in with a startled little yelp, falling onto the cool leather seat with an undignified “hmf!”

“Oh my god,” he gasped, twisting around. “Did you just shove me?!”

Max didn’t answer. He just shut the door calmly and walked around to the driver’s side.

George scrambled to adjust his seatbelt, flailing dramatically. “You can’t just abduct me! This is kidnapping! Again. Corporate abuse!”

The door opened again. Max slid in and adjusted the mirror like nothing happened. George groaned into his hands.

The engine started.

Max glanced over, one hand on the wheel.

“Sit up straight.”

George muttered under his breath. “I hope your client has rabies.”

The car pulled up to the valet circle in front of what could only be described as a restaurant for people who casually bought gold plated pens.

Everything gleamed. The floor. The glass. The goddamn air.

George squinted through the tinted window like a feral raccoon, hoodie pulled halfway over his mouth, glaring at the sheer opulence of it all.

There was a fountain.

Inside.

And a woman playing the harp in the corner like that was normal.

Max stepped out first, as calm and sleek as ever in his tailored navy suit. He didn’t wait—he never did—but George still took his time, just to be annoying. He climbed out, hoodie still half zipped, the sleeves pushed up to show two mismatched bracelets and nails bitten. He looked like the visual representation of “accidentally sent a meme to my boss at 3am.”

And they still let him in.

That was the power of Max Verstappen.

As soon as they entered, George felt it—the shift. The way the hostess’ spine straightened, the way staff bowed ever-so-subtly, like Max was royalty. A server in all black nodded once and immediately began to lead them deeper inside, down a hall lined with soft lighting and expensive art that George was certain cost more than his entire student loan.

“What the hell is this place…” George muttered under his breath, trying to tug the hem of his shirt straight.

Max didn’t glance at him. “Somewhere above your paygrade.”

George rolled his eyes. “Rich bastards.”

Every click of their shoes echoed through the silent corridors, until they stopped in front of a door manned by not one but two hosts.

The taller one opened it with a bow.

Inside was a private dining suite that looked like it belonged in a diplomatic palace. Long wood table. Soft paper lantern lighting. Floor cushions, yes, actual cushions. George blinked.

There were three people already seated.

They were dressed immaculately—precise tailoring, neutral tones, and accessories that spoke of old money and older power. One woman and two men, all in their late 30s to 50s, eyes sharp and posture sharper.

George took one look and internally screamed.

K-dramas.

They looked like they just stepped out of a scene where someone was about to get disinherited for falling in love with a broke college student.

He was so the broke college student in this plot.

The woman—poised, elegant in a white silk blouse and slicked hair—greeted Max first in Korean. Max bowed lightly in return, switching languages effortlessly.

George... stood behind him like a lost cause.

Max turned just slightly toward him and gestured. “This is George Russell. One of our most promising systems analysts.”

George blinked. “I—yeah, hi.” He waved awkwardly. “You can call me George.”

The older man on the right raised an eyebrow. The other gave a polite nod.

The woman simply smiled. “Pleasure, George. Please, sit.”

George hesitated before awkwardly settling onto the floor cushion, immediately regretting every life decisions he has ever made.

They poured him tea in delicate ceramic cups.

He nearly dropped it.

Max began speaking fluently again, discussing data security protocols, software compatibility, AI integration—stuff George actually knew... except his brain was short circuiting because oh my god they were so elegant and he looked like he’d just crawled out of a dumpster behind an indie concert.

When the conversation lulled slightly, one of the men turned to George and asked, “So what made you want to work for VTech?”

George blinked. “Uh.”

Max looked at him, expectantly.

George cleared his throat. “Well... honestly? I kinda got blackmailed.”

A beat of silence.

Max stiffened.

The woman blinked. “Pardon?”

George laughed, too quickly. “Joking! Joking. I meant—uh—I was challenged into applying. And I stayed because... like who wouldn't work for THE Vtech. Ha ha.”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose.

The woman chuckled. “Interesting. Refreshing, actually.”

Max gritted out a smile. “George is unfiltered. But that’s part of his charm.”

George sipped his tea. “Yeah, I’m like a virus. Can’t get rid of me.”

Then he realized what he said.

Max kicked him under the table.

George winced. “OW.”

The woman smiled wider. “Ah, I see Max, you must enjoy the young blood, hmm?”

Max didn’t deny it.

George’s soul left his body.

They stayed for nearly two hours. The food came in small, stunning courses. George only dared to nibble. He watched Max handle the meeting like it was a performance—poised, assertive, measured—and couldn’t help but be just a little impressed.

And terrified.

Because the Max here was not the Max who bent him over a desk and called him names like he was made to obey.

The lunch had finally wound down—thank god—and just as George was about to start packing up mentally and physically, the woman client smiled warmly and reached into a small, elegant bag at her side.

“I brought something special,” she said, placing a small, wrapped box on the table and sliding it gently toward Max. “I made it myself. I remember you liked these, back when we met in Seoul.”

George blinked.

Homemade?

Max actually paused. His eyes softened, lips tugging into an actual smile—a real, warm, human smile—and he chuckled under his breath.

“You remembered that?” he murmured, then carefully unwrapped the parcel. Inside sat a few delicate pieces of yakgwa—honey cookies, golden and neat, smelling faintly floral and sweet.

The woman chuckled. “I never forget.”

And then Max, stone cold dictator of VTech, hugged her.

George just stared, slack jawed, watching Max wrap one arm around the woman with a kind of easy affection George didn’t even know he had in him. The kind that made the whole room feel warmer for a second.

George blinked again.

Huh?

Wait. Wait.

This man—this cyber overlord who barked orders and sighed every time George opened his mouth—smiles?

And hugs? And laughs? For fucking cookies?

George's eye twitched.

He never smiles at me like that.

Why did that make his stomach twist?

Why was he even thinking about that?

Why the fuck did he care if Max Verstappen, Head Bitch of the Universe, smiled at him?

NO.

No no no no. Absolutely not.

George sat back, arms crossed, scowling at the cookies like they owed him rent.

“I bet they’re not even that good,” he muttered to himself. Bet I could cook way better than that, he thought bitterly.

Max turned his head just slightly. “Something to add, George?”

George smiled tightly. “No. Just thinking how lucky it is that some people get treats.”

Max quirked an eyebrow. “You allergic to appreciation?”

George hissed under his breath. “Allergic to hypocrisy.”

The woman blinked between them and softly laughed. “Ah ah… you two must work together very closely.”

George whipped so fast he nearly pulled a neck muscle. Max just smiled again—cool, unreadable. “You could say that.”

George wanted to flip the table.

Or throw the cookies.

Stupid dessert. Stupid hug. Stupid Max smiling like that. Stupid George for giving a fuck.

Hmph.

He took a loud sip of his tea and looked away.

By the time they stood to leave, George was emotionally exhausted. As they bowed and exited the room, George exhaled like he’d escaped war. “Next time,” he muttered, “I’m jumping out the balcony before you can drag me to one of your gang meet up.”

Max, perfectly collected, looked over. “You did better than I expected.”

George blinked. “Was... that a compliment?”

Max shrugged. “You didn’t crash the economy with your mouth. So yes.”

George grinned. “Wow. Maybe next time you’ll even say thank you.”

Max gave him a bland look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, virus.”

Notes:

i giggled writing this

Say hi to me (👹) on tumblr: Sweetnkiwie

Chapter 12

Max had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth—one of those rare, heavy antique ones, probably engraved with a family crest.

If he wanted something, it was there before he could finish the thought. A toy, a trip, a car. The world bent to him before he even knew the words for bending.

Which is exactly why, the moment he was old enough to shape his own world, Max decided he’d never let anyone else control it.

He picked the lifestyle.

He picked the rules.

And he made damn sure nothing—not people, not fate—could dictate how he lived.

So he never imagined he’d be here.

In a dim little room, back pressed into a cushioned headboard, laptop balanced across his thighs, staring at something that wasn’t his but had somehow landed in his orbit. On the screen, his little virus lay sprawled across a thin floor mattress George had the audacity to call a bed.

Max’s eyes narrowed slightly.

George’s so called “bed” looked like something a teenager might have dragged out for a sleepover and then never put away again. A thin mattress—if it was a mattress and not just an old futon pad—sat directly on the hardwood floor. A faded blanket was tangled around George’s legs, and the single pillow had collapsed into a sad little wedge.

George shifted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, pulling the threadbare blanket up around his shoulders like it could actually do anything against the night air.

Max tilted his head.

How can he even sleep there?

He’d grown up with Egyptian cotton sheets, imported mattresses, rooms with thermostats precise to the degree… and here was George, apparently fine curling up like some stray cat who’d wandered in and made do.

Huh.

It was almost impressive. In a very stupid, concerning kind of way.

It was pathetic.

It was laughable.

And yet.

Max watched as George rolled onto his side, mumbling in his sleep, one hand tucked under his chin like he was trying to keep what little warmth he could. His hair was messy, shadowed by the faint moonlight spilling in from the window.

Is this why he complains about a bad back all the time?

The thought came uninvited, accompanied by the smallest twitch of amusement at the corner of Max’s mouth.

He could almost hear George’s voice in his head, all whiny and dramatic, "My back hurts, Sir—ugh, I can’t even bend properly—do you know how hard it is to stand for hours when your spine feels like—"

Max’s smirk deepened. Well, that’s on you for being poor.

Not that George was actually destitute—Max knew the difference between poverty and just… bad priorities. Still, the guy clearly didn’t think sleeping on the ground was a problem big enough to solve. And apparently, neither did his back.

With a quiet, dismissive huff, Max shut his laptop screen with one hand. The room dipped into softer shadows, and for a moment, the only sound was the creak of the headboard as he shifted.

He set the laptop on the nightstand, then ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. This was supposed to be his quiet time, his routine—finish work, maybe read something, sleep.

But now, his nights came with an added background element. A stubborn, restless, occasionally mouthy background element who could somehow sleep on glorified cardboard and wake up ready to argue.

Max reached for the lamp switch. With a low hum of satisfaction at his decision, Max flicked off the lamp and slid under his own duvet. The difference between their situations was almost comedic—him sinking into a custom made mattress, sheets that still smelled faintly of expensive detergent.

And George lying on something you could fold in half and carry under one arm.

Max closed his eyes, lips quirking faintly. Somehow, in a way he couldn’t quite articulate, it was… interesting.

Not admirable, not endearing—just different.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d figure out what to do about it.

Eventually.

For now?

He’d sleep.

---

The day had been moving along in its usual, dull rhythm. George was buried in spreadsheets, his fingers tapping away on the keyboard in the repetitive, almost hypnotic cadence that came from hours of data entry. He was halfway through adjusting the numbers in the quarterly report when the first murmur drifted across the office.

At first, he ignored it. Office gossip was background noise—someone was always whispering about someone else. But then, the noise swelled. Heads began to turn, people leaning out of cubicles or pausing mid task, craning their necks toward the entrance. Even the printer’s steady hum seemed to fade under the weight of the growing chatter.

George’s brows furrowed. He glanced toward the glass wall separating the main floor from the reception area. The receptionist was practically glowing, her posture unnaturally straight, and she kept smoothing her hair like she was in the middle of a photoshoot.

“What’s going on?” George finally asked the guy in the desk opposite him.

The colleague looked at him as though he had just asked what the sun was. “Boss’s fiancée is here.”

George blinked. “His… what?”

The words didn’t quite process at first. Fiancée. Not “girlfriend,” not “date,” not “some woman he’s seeing.” A word heavy with formality, with permanence. A word that belonged in champagne toasts and embossed invitations.

It took a beat for his stomach to drop, but when it did, it was like the floor had been ripped out from under him.

He laughed once under his breath, quick and sharp, a sound that didn’t belong in his throat.

Fiancée. Of course.

Because Max wasn’t just his boss. Max wasn’t just a man who occasionally looked at him too long or dragged him to client dinners or sent unnecessary texts that felt a little too personal. Max wasn’t just the man who—once—had pressed him up against the edge of that desk, his breath hot against George’s ear.

Max was unavailable. Untouchable. Always had been.

George told himself it shouldn’t matter. He told himself over and over—it was just once. It didn’t mean anything. He was just an employee. They weren’t even friends. They weren’t… anything.

And yet, his pulse was hammering in his ears, drowning out the noise of the office. He tried to focus on his screen again, but the rows of numbers blurred, the cells warping and shifting like they were mocking him.

It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. Not exactly.

It was… humiliation? Disappointment?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that a part of him—some stupid, pathetic part—had filed away that night in the back of his mind like it was a secret only the two of them shared. Like it meant… something.

Apparently, it hadn’t.

He could hear the low murmur of greetings now, polite laughter drifting in from reception. A softer, feminine voice. George’s stomach twisted tighter. Against his better judgment, he stood up, just enough to see over the partition.

There she was. Beautiful, of course—glossy jet black hair, tailored coat, the kind of poise that screamed old money. She looked like she belonged next to Max, like they were cut from the same expensive fabric.

Max, for his part, was smiling. Not the polite, razor edged smile he used at meetings. Not the smug smirk he so often threw George’s way. This was softer. Warmer.

George sat back down hard.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but they didn’t move. His chest ached in a way he didn’t want to name. He kept telling himself to get back to work, to stop being ridiculous. But the numbers on his screen might as well have been in another language.

Every laugh from reception felt like a punch. Every soft murmur of her voice scraped against him until he wanted to slam his headphones over his ears and drown it out.

He didn’t know how long it was before they finally walked past. Max didn’t look his way—didn’t acknowledge him at all. George didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until they were gone, and he let it out slowly, hands trembling just slightly where they rested on the desk.

He told himself, again, that it didn’t matter. That Max was his boss, and he was just another face in the office. That what happened between them—if you could even call it “something”—was meaningless.

But the truth sat heavy in his chest.

It did matter.

Far more than it should have.

The rest of the day dragged on in a heavy, suffocating haze. George kept his head down, deliberately avoiding the parts of the office where the buzz of whispers and sideways glances still lingered like a thick fog. The usually bright, open space felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if every glance thrown his way was a silent accusation or a reminder of the invisible line he’d crossed—one he wasn’t even sure he wanted to cross but had done anyway, unwittingly stepping into a world far beyond his reach.

Alex and Lando were still at class, leaving George alone with his thoughts—and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

Normally, he could lean on his two best friends to shake off the bad days, to crack jokes, or just be his goofy, unfiltered self. But today, without their usual presence, the loneliness gnawed at him like a persistent ache. He felt isolated in a way he hadn’t before, despite being surrounded by people.

He found himself wishing, almost desperately, that he had made more friends at university—real ones, not just classmates who exchanged nods in the hallway or group project partners who only communicated through frantic emails. The thought stung bitterly. University was supposed to be a time for growth, for connection, for building a foundation beyond just grades and deadlines. Yet here he was, buried under work and secrets, feeling more invisible than ever.

George tried to conjure up memories of better times at uni—the late night study sessions where the stress was a little more bearable because someone was there to share it, the laughter echoing in the campus cafés, the shared excitement of pulling all nighters before exams.

He caught himself thinking about the little things he missed suddenly, the smell of freshly brewed coffee from the student union, the quiet corners of the library where he could escape the noise of the world, the way the autumn sunlight streamed through the big windows of the lecture halls.

But nostalgia didn’t soften the ache. It just reminded him how far he’d fallen from that simpler life.

As the hours ticked by, George’s thoughts spiraled deeper into the mess of uncertainty and self-doubt. The big questions—about who he was, what he wanted, and where he was going—felt impossibly tangled. He didn’t have answers. Not yet. But he did have a growing sense that things were shifting beneath his feet, pulling him into a world that was both terrifying and thrilling.

And somewhere, in the quiet moments between his doubts, a small flicker of something else stirred—hope? Maybe.

But not the bright, blinding kind. More like a faint ember, stubborn and glowing quietly against the darkness. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way out...

Just then, George’s laptop screen pinged sharply, breaking through the fog of his thoughts. A new message from Max—direct, no fluff. He was being summoned.

“Here we go again,” George muttered under his breath, already feeling the familiar knot of irritation and anxiety twist in his gut.

What could Max possibly want now? Another snide comment about his weeks old limp? Another impossible deadline? Or—he shuddered at the thought—maybe a chance to parade that “fiancée” everyone was whispering about.

The idea made his chest tighten. Why was he so worked up over a woman he barely knew? A woman who wasn’t even part of his world, but somehow had managed to invade his thoughts and unsettle him more than he cared to admit.

“Fuck her. Fuck you,” he snarled quietly, scowling at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

But then—why did his fingers hesitate before closing the message? Why did a strange, uncomfortable heat rise to his cheeks, and why, of all things, was he feeling jealous?

God, this was ridiculous.

He slammed the laptop shut with a little more force than necessary and leaned back in his chair, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

Jealous of his boss’s fiancée? Of all the stupid, messy feelings George was trying to shove aside, this one was the worst.

Because despite everything—the power plays, the biting sarcasm, the way Max acted like a king and he was just a pawn—some part of George had started to care.

More than he wanted to admit. And that realization made the whole office feel colder, lonelier, and somehow more complicated.

But he had better more important things to worry about.

George hesitated at the door, his heart thudding harder than it should. The moment he stepped inside Max’s sleek, minimalist office, the weight of the room seemed to press down on him—high ceilings, dimmed lighting, and Max himself, seated behind the imposing black desk, face unreadable as ever.

Max’s gaze flicked up, piercing and sharp. “You’re late,” he said, voice low but commanding.

George swallowed, trying to steady himself. “Sorry, si—”

Max cut him off with a raised hand. “Save it. I have questions.”

Questions.

George nodded, bracing himself for the usual interrogation about reports, numbers, or some task he’d botched. But as Max’s eyes locked onto his, something flickered in George’s mind, distracting him—those smiles Max reserved only for certain people, smiles so warm and genuine that George had never seen aimed his way. Not once.

He found himself unable to look away from the image etched into his memory. Max laughing softly, eyes crinkling, his lips curving in a way that made George’s chest ache. That smile was reserved only for those pretty women Max seemed to orbit in his world—the ones who belonged to a different universe, one George wasn’t part of.

A sour pang of jealousy twisted inside him.

Then, before George could gather his scattered thoughts, a heavy hand shot out, gripping his arm with surprising strength. His breath hitched.

“Wait—what the—?”

Max’s other hand moved swiftly, pushing George back against the cold surface of the desk. The suddenness of the move left him momentarily stunned—pinned, trapped, powerless.

“Focus,” Max said quietly, voice dripping with a mixture of command and something darker, more intimate.

George’s heart hammered, adrenaline spiking through every nerve ending. The tension in the room thickened, wrapping around them like a living thing. His mind raced, caught between panic and a reluctant thrill.

Max’s eyes bore into his, searching, testing. The questions would have to wait. For now, it was just the two of them—their unspoken words hanging in the air, charged with something neither dared say aloud.

George rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck. “Yeah, ‘focus,’” he muttered with a deadpan expression, “I’m very focused, sir.”

Max’s grip tightened just enough to remind him who was really in charge, but his eyes flickered with something almost like amusement—though he’d never admit it out loud.

“You think this is a game?” Max’s voice was low, almost a growl. “I don’t have patience for brats.”

George smirked, despite the pins and needles of Max’s hold. “Brat? Nah, I’m just highly motivated.”

Max’s jaw clenched, but instead of pushing further, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against George’s ear. “You’re walking a thin line, kid.”

George’s heart skipped, his own teasing edge softening just a little. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

The tension between them thickened, electric and undeniable. Somewhere deep down, George knew Max wasn’t going to let him off easy—but for now, he was definitely winning the little war of wills.

Max’s eyes narrowed as he studied George with an intensity that made the younger man shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

“What’s going on with you?” Max asked, voice smooth but edged with suspicion. “You’ve been acting up ever since that client meeting.”

George scoffed quietly, crossing his arms. “Yeah, I wonder what that could be.”

Max raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Are you jealous of something?”

George blinked, caught off guard. “Wha—? Why would I be jealous—”

Max’s grin deepened, a slow, knowing curve. “This,” he said, voice low and teasing, “is the same look I see on my rivals’ faces when they realize I’m about to win.”

Fuck me sideways. George’s cheeks flamed crimson, his usual bravado momentarily slipping. “Oh, fuck off. I’m not jealous.”

Without breaking eye contact, Max reached out and took George’s chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting his head up just enough so their eyes locked. The warmth of Max’s touch was both electrifying and unsettling. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words and swirling tension.

“You can try to deny it all you want,” Max murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “but I see everything.”

George swallowed hard, the bold front cracking just a little as the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide bubbled to the surface. His heart pounded fiercely—not just from the touch, but from the raw edge of confidence behind Max’s gaze.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The room felt smaller, charged with something fierce and fragile all at once.

Feeling the whole room close up into him, George jerked his head sharply, wrenching free from Max’s grip with a suddenness that nearly sent him stumbling forward. His heart was racing a mile a minute as his legs moved on autopilot, practically dragging him away from Max’s intimidating presence.

“Uh—uh—yeah, I—uh—gotta—uh—go! I have work!” he stammered, words tumbling out in a nervous rush as he stumbled backward toward the door.

Max’s smirk deepened, watching George’s frantic retreat with amused eyes. “Running away so fast, virus? You don’t even know why I called you in here.”

George didn’t care. His brain short circuited, completely ignoring whatever serious business Max had on his mind. Instead, he focused on putting as much distance as possible between himself and the office—and maybe even convincing himself he wasn’t just a ridiculously flustered mess.

As he practically bolted down the hallway, his cheeks burning hotter than ever, George couldn’t help but think.

Why am I like this?

But one thing was crystal clear—he was definitely not ready to face Max’s “serious talk.”

Not today at least.

Notes:

Say hi to me (👹) on tumblr: Sweetnkiwie

Chapter 13

George Russell knew he was delusional.

Absolutely, unapologetically, delusional.

Because what sane twenty one year old sat in a university campus garden, still scribbling mental notes about his finals, only to let his brain slide into fantasies about his boss—the arrogant CEO of the fucking company he worked at, the man who was literally born back when the dinosaurs were still roaming around?

Well. Not literally. But close enough.

The guy was old. Like, ancient. George swore Max Verstappen had been alive during the Great Depression or something. Born with a silver spoon shoved so far down his throat he probably didn’t even know what tap water tasted like, walking around in his fitted suits and perfectly polished shoes like the world owed him reverence. A man like that should have been the very last thing George wasted brain cells on.

And yet.

And yet here George was.

The garden was buzzing with chatter, laughter spilling from clusters of students sprawled across benches, walkways, and patches of sun warmed grass. Finals had just let out, and the air was thick with relief. Relief that it was done. Relief that summer was almost here. Relief that meant people were smiling, tossing their bags aside, and stretching out like they hadn’t sat hunched over exam sheets for three hours straight.

George should have felt that relief too. He should have been basking in the freedom. He should have been happy.

But instead, his head tilted back against the rough bark of the tree behind him, eyes fixed on the canopy above while his brain chewed him alive.

Memories burned—unwanted, relentless, dangerous.

The desk.

The pinning.

The way Max’s grip had been iron around his wrists, the weight of his body pressing him down, the low rasp in his ear that made George’s skin prickle. The stretch, the burn, the ferocity in every thrust that left George gasping and swearing and clawing at his last bits of sanity.

He’d never been fucked like that before. Never been ruined like that before.

And it wasn’t just the physical part—it was how Max had looked at him. That piercing, unrelenting stare that made George feel like he was being dissected, studied, devoured all at once.

And now? Now Max had a fiancée.

A goddamn fiancée.

George pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, groaning low under his breath. “Ughhhhhhh.”

It was laughable. It was pathetic. It was every kind of stupid. He was sulking—about a man who wasn’t his, who never was his, who could never be his. A man who probably didn’t even think about him beyond “employee” and “occasional entertainment when I’m bored enough to fuck him.”

George curled tighter against the tree, knees up, chin balanced on them, staring at the grass between his sneakers like it had all the answers.

Of course the rich were like this. He knew that. He’d grown up seeing it. Men with money, with family names carved into skyscrapers, who treated people like toys, interchangeable, disposable. What had he expected? That Max Verstappen—the walking definition of entitlement—was going to bend down on one knee and beg to keep him?

The thought made him laugh bitterly.

Across the lawn, a group of students erupted into loud cheers. Someone had cracked open a beer, another strummed badly on a guitar, and a couple were already twirling in some drunken little dance, sunlight glinting off their hair. It was messy, imperfect, human. And it stabbed at George like a reminder—you’re human, you idiot. Stop wishing for the impossible.

But the impossible still lingered. The taste, the touch, the heat of that night branded on him like fire. He could still feel it in his spine when he closed his eyes too long, still wake up sweating with Max’s voice curling in his ear.

And worse—he still wanted it.

That was the problem.

Not the exams, not the exhaustion, not the stupid ache in his back from pulling too many all-nighters hunched over textbooks. No, his problem was Max Verstappen. His boss. His CEO. His occasional bedmate. His—fuck, his goddamn weakness.

George’s fist closed around a blade of grass, yanking it out, tearing it into pieces like maybe if he destroyed enough of the greenery the memories would scatter too.

But they didn’t.

Every scrap of his mind circled back to the same place: that stupid smug smile Max had flashed at the woman who gave him dessert. That stupid warmth in his eyes he never showed George. That stupid engagement.

And the jealousy—oh god, the jealousy.

George refused to admit it. Refused to even think the word. But it was there, coiled in his gut, burning through him every time he remembered the way Max hugged her, smiled at her, laughed at her jokes like she was worth something more than the rest of the world.

Why did it matter? Why did he care?

“Pathetic,” George muttered, digging his sneakers into the dirt. “Absolutely pathetic.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t even need to check it to know who it was. His stomach dropped, fingers hovering before he finally tugged it out.

One notification glowed bright against the cracked screen:

Asshole👺:

-Why haven't you reported 2 days in a row?-

George squeezed his eyes shut, head thumping back against the tree trunk. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

Because of course.

Of course the universe wasn’t done screwing him over today.

George’s thumb hovered over the glowing screen, jaw tightening, breath caught somewhere between dread and resignation. His lips parted, almost ready to curse at the universe for its cruelty—when a low voice interrupted him.

“Well, well… look who’s sulking alone.”

George froze, phone slipping halfway from his grip. His head turned, and there—casting a shadow that blocked half the sun—stood Vanya Kuznetsov.

It took George a beat too long to process him.

Tall didn’t even begin to cover it. Vanya wasn’t just tall—he was a skyscraper. A full-bodied, 6’5 tower of muscle and sharp lines, his long black hair tied back into a lazy low ponytail that somehow made him look even more dangerous. Tattoos crept up his throat, ink spilling down both arms like dark rivers, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his rolled up shirt. Hell, George had no doubt they covered more than that—probably curling down his ribs, across his back, over his chest. The man was practically a moving canvas, built like someone had stolen a cut-out of a Greek god and breathed life into it.

And then there was George.

Lanky. Slim. Boyish in comparison. And right now, sitting crumpled against a tree like a sulking little undergrad.

He hated the contrast immediately.

“Uh,” George muttered, fumbling to lock his phone before Vanya’s sharp eyes could catch sight of Max’s name on the screen. “Kuznetsov.”

“Russell.”

His accent rolled heavy—Russian lilt softened with a British edge, words curling around George like smoke. Vanya tilted his head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he scanned George’s posture, his drawn up knees, the tightness in his shoulders.

They’d had classes together for years. Not that Vanya ever bothered showing up consistently—he drifted in and out of lecture halls like the rules of attendance didn’t apply to him, lounging in the back row when he did appear, legs spread, notebook untouched, always smirking like the professor existed for his amusement.

Rumor was he was rich. Very rich. The kind of rich that meant grades didn’t matter when your family name did all the heavy lifting.

But despite the years, George and Vanya had barely exchanged more than a handful of words. Passing comments. A shared look or two. Nothing more.

So why now?

“What do you want?” George asked, sharper than he meant to. His fingers dug into the grass at his sides, grounding himself, because god—those eyes. They were green, sharp as glass, with the kind of intensity that felt like being pinned down without a single touch.

Vanya hummed. He crouched down in front of him, forearms resting lazily on his knees. George stiffened as the tattoos flexed with the movement, muscles shifting beneath the ink. Even crouched, he was eye-level. Almost too close.

“You look miserable,” Vanya said simply.

George blinked. “…Thanks?”

“Not a compliment,” Vanya replied, lips twitching into the barest hint of a smirk. “Though misery does suit you.”

George scoffed, rolling his eyes toward the canopy above, refusing to meet that gaze again. His chest felt too tight, his phone a hot weight in his pocket. Max’s text was still there. Still waiting. And now this giant, tattooed nuisance had decided to drop into his personal hell like he owned it.

“Don’t you have… I don’t know, something better to do than bother me?” George snapped, voice brittle with the exhaustion that came after finals and the emotional hangover of jealousy.

“Perhaps.” Vanya leaned back on his heels, tilting his head, assessing George like one might assess an insect that had accidentally crawled onto their expensive shoe. “But you interest me.”

That pulled George’s attention right back, eyes narrowing. “Interest you?”

“Yes.”

George’s laugh came out harsh, cutting. “We’ve barely spoken. We’ve been in the same class for years and you’ve shown up to maybe, what—ten percent of our classes? If that?”

Vanya’s smirk widened just slightly, a flash of white teeth against the sun dappled ink of his skin. “And yet I know more about you than you think.”

That… made George’s blood run cold. His heart thudded, a nervous edge creeping under his skin. He forced a scoff, shaking his head as if that would dispel the unease. “Creepy. Congratulations. You’re a stalker now.”

“Not a stalker.” Vanya’s voice dipped lower, rich, smooth, almost amused. “Observer.”

George shifted uncomfortably against the tree, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. His chest still ached with the phantom weight of Max—Max pinning him, Max smirking, Max being engaged to someone else—and now Vanya’s eyes were stripping him bare in a way that made his pulse stutter.

“Whatever,” George muttered. “Enjoy your little observation. I have—”

But before he could finish, his phone buzzed again in his pocket. Both of them stilled.

George didn’t dare move, but he knew. He knew without even looking who it was.

Vanya’s eyes flickered, sharp and knowing, to George’s pocket. His smirk returned, slow and deliberate, like a predator catching the scent of blood.

“Your… boss?” he drawled, dragging out the last word with deliberate weight.

George’s breath caught. “What—”

Vanya tilted his head, ponytail slipping over his shoulder. “Max Verstappen. The one you work for, yes?”

George’s skin burned. His entire body stiffened like he’d been caught red handed.

Vanya’s grin deepened at the silence. “Ah. So it is him.”

George swallowed hard, throat dry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Vanya rose slowly, unfolding his body to its full, terrifying height, towering over George like a shadow swallowing the sunlight. He looked down at him, eyes glittering, voice low. “Interesting, indeed.”

George clenched his fists, fury and shame knotting inside him in equal measure. First Max. Now Vanya. It felt like he couldn’t escape—like everyone could see through him, see the pathetic longing that ate him alive.

And for some reason, the way Vanya said it—the way his eyes lingered—made George’s stomach twist with something new. Something dangerous.

George blinked up at him, head tilted back against the tree bark, heart still pounding from the way Vanya had said interesting. His voice caught in his throat before he finally blurted out, “How the hell do you even know where I work?”

That earned him a soft huff of laughter. Vanya leaned down slightly, one brow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching with smug amusement. “It’s not a state secret, Russell. Everyone knows. Specially when it's pretty boys like you. The gossip spreads.”

George’s jaw fell open. “That—what?! That’s not—people don’t talk about that!”

“They do,” Vanya replied, his tone maddeningly casual. “Campus thrives on gossip.”

Heat flooded George’s cheeks instantly, his ears going red. His words tangled up in his throat until he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, glaring furiously at Vanya’s smirk.

And of course, of course the bastard laughed. Low and warm, like George’s outburst was the funniest thing he’d heard all week.

George shoved himself up onto his feet, muttering under his breath. “Unbelievable. Absolutely fucking unbelievable. I’m not sitting here while you—”

He didn’t finish. He turned on his heel, backpack slung over his shoulder, storming away from the garden. His sneakers crushed the gravel path, chin tilted up like that would help him preserve some dignity when all he felt was raw and exposed.

The last thing George wanted was to talk about that Dutch motherfucker. Max. His boss. His mistake. His… whatever he was.

So no. He wasn’t going to sit here and let Vanya drag it out of him.

Except.

The sound of footsteps behind him was unmistakable. Heavy, measured. Not rushed, not frantic—just deliberate.

“Are you—” George spun on his heel, eyes widening. “You’re following me?”

Vanya shrugged, still smirking, hands shoved lazily into the pockets of his dark trousers. “You storm off dramatically. Hard to resist.”

George gaped. “You—god—you’re such an arse!”

“Perhaps.”

And that was it. That was all Vanya said, like that was a perfectly reasonable explanation for stalking someone across campus.

George groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t have time for this. Finals are over, I should be celebrating, not—whatever this is—”

But he didn’t make it far before a firm grip closed around his wrist.

George froze, blinking down at the hand wrapped around his arm. Vanya’s hand dwarfed his, long fingers inked with black lines that curled up toward his sleeve.

“Let go,” George hissed, voice low.

“Not yet.” Vanya’s tone had shifted—still amused, but threaded with something darker. Curious. Commanding. “Come.”

“Excuse me?!”

Before George could jerk free, he was being tugged forward, nearly stumbling as Vanya led him across the path, down toward the cluster of old stone buildings at the back of campus.

“Hey—! You can’t just—what the fuck—!” George dug his heels into the ground, but Vanya was stronger. So much stronger. His grip didn’t loosen once.

Students glanced their way, but Vanya’s expression was so calm—so certain—that nobody intervened. George wanted to scream. To fight. To demand to know what the hell this six foot five Russian gorilla thought he was doing.

And then, to his horror, Vanya ducked into the narrow stone passage behind the law building.

“Wait—this is—” George’s voice cracked as Vanya dragged him toward an old iron door, half-hidden in shadow. “This is a basement. What the fuck, are you kidnapping me?!”

“No,” Vanya said flatly, pulling a key—a key?—from his pocket. “I’m showing you something.”

George’s stomach flipped. “You—you have a key? To this place?!”

“Mm.” That was all Vanya offered as the lock clicked, the heavy door groaning open.

George tried to pull back, panic rising. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. This is how people die in horror films. I’m not stepping one foot into—”

Too late. Vanya tugged him forward, down the steps.

George stumbled into the dim light, his breath catching as his sneakers hit cold stone. He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the faint glow of industrial lamps strung along the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of ink and paper, of leather and dust, of something faintly metallic.

And then he saw it.

This wasn’t a basement. Not really.

Rows upon rows of shelves stretched out before him, filled with boxes and books, ancient files and records stacked neatly in order. The space was vast—bigger than he could’ve imagined from the outside. Part archive, part vault.

George’s lips parted in disbelief. “…What the fuck is this place?”

Vanya finally released his wrist, stepping past him with a casual grace, hands sliding back into his pockets. His voice echoed slightly against the stone.

“Not many know of it. The law faculty keeps their… secrets here. Cases, testimonies, evidence.” He glanced back at George, green eyes glinting under the lamp light. “History hidden away.”

George stared at him. “And you have a key?”

“Of course.”

“‘Of course’?! That’s not an answer! That’s insane! Why—why do you even—” George broke off, throwing his hands in the air. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Vanya’s smirk returned, slow and deliberate. He leaned back against one of the shelves, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You take everything so seriously,” he murmured, amused.

“Because this is serious!” George snapped, glaring. “You just dragged me into a creepy secret basement like some—some villain, and I’m the idiot for taking it seriously?!”

“Yes.”

George sputtered. “Yes?! That’s—god, you’re insufferable!”

But Vanya only chuckled low in his throat, tilting his head as if he enjoyed watching George’s temper flare. His tattoos caught the dim light as he shifted, the ink moving with the lazy roll of his muscles.

“You’re fun when you’re angry,” Vanya said simply as he strode forward.

George’s jaw clenched, his chest heaving. He had half a mind to storm out right then and there. But the problem was—his heart was racing too fast, not just from anger, but from the strange, electric pull of it all. His sneakers squeaked against the stone floor as he trailed after Vanya, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “Absolutely insane. Who just—drags someone into a creepy off limits basement like that? Do you even hear yourself? This is deranged behavior.”

Vanya didn’t reply. He strode forward, long legs eating up the distance, his broad shoulders cutting a dark silhouette against the pale glow of the lamps.

George scowled at his back. “You know, normal people celebrate after exams. Drinks. Parties. I don’t know, ice cream at the bloody park. But you? No. You decide to play James Bond and sneak into a—”

His rant cut off with a startled yelp as his hip smacked into the corner of a shelf. The metal rattled violently, and before he could regain balance, the whole thing started to tip.

“Shit—shit—shit—!”

In the chaos, George braced himself for the crush of books and files collapsing on top of him.

But it never came.

Instead, he found himself pressed hard against something solid. Someone solid. A large hand braced the falling shelf with one arm, while the other pressed firmly against George’s chest, holding him in place.

His heart stuttered.

Vanya was so close, his breath warm against George’s temple. His body was a wall of heat, unyielding, and the muscles in his arm flexed as he shoved the shelf upright again with almost casual strength.

George’s eyes went wide.

For a second, his brain betrayed him—imagining what it would feel like if this weren’t just an accident, if Vanya had actually pinned him against the shelf for real—

“Careful,” Vanya murmured, his voice low.

George’s face ignited. He shoved hard at Vanya’s chest, scrambling free. “I—oh my god—you—! You could’ve just warned me instead of—!” He clutched at his bag strap, furious at the heat crawling up his neck. “You didn’t have to—ugh—touch me like that.”

Vanya arched one dark brow. “Saved your life.”

“Oh, please,” George snapped, avoiding his gaze. “You saved me from toppling paper. That doesn’t exactly count as—” He cut himself off, shaking his head fast. “No. No, I’m not doing this. You—just—tell me why the hell you dragged me here!”

Something shifted in the air then.

For the first time since George had met him, Vanya’s smirk faded. His green eyes gleamed sharper under the dim lamps, his expression unreadable as he stepped closer, folding his arms.

George’s breath hitched. He wasn’t used to seeing Vanya serious. It was… unsettling.

“This place,” Vanya began slowly, his deep voice echoing against the stone. “Holds more than cases. More than dusty papers. It is where old money keeps its skeletons.”

George blinked. “…What?”

Vanya tilted his head, studying him with unnerving focus. “The socialites. You’ve heard of them.”

George frowned. “Of course I’ve heard of them. Who hasn’t? Pretentious rich kids who think charity galas and champagne towers make them relevant.” He waved a dismissive hand. “What the fuck does that have to do with—any of this?”

The smirk returned then, curling at the edges of Vanya’s mouth like smoke. He leaned back against the shelf he’d just rescued George from, tattoos shifting under the lamplight.

“They are not what they seem,” Vanya said simply.

George’s eyes narrowed. “…Right. And you dragged me down here to—what? Conspiracy theory me about spoiled brats with too much money? Even you are one of them yourself!”

Vanya’s gaze lingered on him, unflinching. “No, George. I dragged you down here… because you’re already tangled in their world. You just don’t see it yet.”

The words sent a chill down George’s spine, though he immediately forced a scoff past his lips.

“That’s the most melodramatic bullshit I’ve ever heard. Congratulations. You sound like a poorly written villain in a bad Netflix series that gets hyped for no fucki—”

Before he could finish, George’s eyes went wide at the sudden rough drag of fingers through his hair. “HEY—!” he yelped, slapping Vanya’s hand away like a cat caught off guard. His curls stuck up in ridiculous tufts, making him look even more like a sulky schoolboy.

Vanya only laughed, deep and booming, echoing off the stone walls. “Innocent,” he drawled, shaking his head as though George were some amusing little pet. “So very innocent. Smart, yes. Clever with books. Clever with words. But also…” His lips curled into a wolfish grin. “So fucking stupid.”

George bristled immediately, his cheeks coloring a furious pink. “Excuse me?!”

“All that pretty face,” Vanya went on, ignoring him, “always saving you. Professors give you soft looks. Classmates let you off. Nobody dares bully you. Too charming. Too delicate. Like a little porcelain doll. Easy to admire. Easier to underestimate.”

George sputtered. “I—what the fuck—that’s not even remotely true! No one has ever—don’t call me delicate!” He jabbed a finger into Vanya’s chest, which of course did nothing because the man was built like a stone fortress. “And don’t you dare act like you know anything about me. You barely even come to class!”

That only made Vanya laugh harder, doubling down, the sound warm and rumbling in his throat.

“Ah, little George. Always so serious. Always so angry.” He leaned down until his towering frame cast George in shadow, green eyes gleaming with mischief. His hand darted up again, deliberately mussing George’s hair into even more of a mess. “Yes. Pretty. Fragile-looking. The kind of face that makes people hesitate to hurt you.”

George swatted at him furiously, stumbling backward. “STOP IT—! I’ll—ugh—you—!” His words dissolved into incoherent outrage as he tried to fix his hair, glaring murder at Vanya with flushed cheeks. “You’re insufferable!”

“Mm. And you are adorable when you are angry.” Vanya’s grin widened, almost lazy.

George froze. His whole body stilled, the air around him searing hot. For a second, he genuinely forgot how to breathe.

Then, like clockwork, his survival instinct kicked in—masking embarrassment with fury.

“Shut UP! Don’t—don’t call me that! God, you’re unbelievable. Absolutely—” He huffed, storming a few steps away, fists clenched at his sides. “What do you even want from me, huh? You drag me here, talk about socialites, and now you’re insulting me?!”

Vanya only leaned against the shelf again, arms folded, his laughter tapering into something quieter, more calculating.

“Not insulting. Just truth. You are too sweet for this world, George. Too trusting. Too soft. You think you are bitter. Cynical. But really…” His voice dipped low, velvet and dangerous. “…you are a little lamb. Walking among wolves.”

George’s throat went dry.

“What do you mean…?” he asked, his voice tighter now, strained, almost desperate.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because something about the Russian’s tone had cut too close to the bone—something about wolves and lambs, something that felt like a warning more than a joke.

For a moment—just a moment—Vanya looked almost… serious. His eyes were sharp, mouth set in a line that made him look older, heavier, like he carried knowledge George didn’t.

Maybe he did.

And then, with a blink, it was gone. That mask of seriousness cracked, slipping away, replaced with that insufferable, cocky smirk George was already starting to recognize as his default.

“Ice cream?” Vanya asked, as if George hadn’t just been staring at him like he’d dropped a live grenade in his lap.

“…huh—?” George’s brain short-circuited. “What?”

“You were saying,” Vanya continued smoothly, tapping his chin as if he were recalling a fact from a textbook, “that we should celebrate with ice cream. Da, kroshka?”

“Croc—what?!” George flailed, completely bewildered. “I was NOT talking about celebrating anything with YOU—”

Vanya only tilted his head, amused. “No? Then perhaps I misheard. But it is better idea than sulking in garden alone. Tell me, hmm? You have friends, yes? Except for Albon and Norris, who are probably already drunk somewhere, leaving you forgotten?”

George’s face heated instantly. His jaw clenched. “I—you—” His lips pursed, fumbling for something to bite back with, but his tongue betrayed him. He ended up blurting the weakest possible line, “Whatever!”

Vanya barked out a laugh, delighted. “Exactly. Whatever! Means you agree.” He didn’t wait for a rebuttal, simply grabbed George’s wrist with alarming ease, hauling him toward the stairs as if he weighed nothing.

“I did NOT agree!” George squeaked, tugging at his arm, stumbling to keep up with the sheer length of Vanya’s stride. “Stop dragging me around, I’m not your—”

But Vanya only looked back, grinning like a wolf who’d caught his dinner. “Come, kroshka. You need sugar. Maybe it will melt that sour face.”

George wanted to die. Right there on the campus grounds. Just curl up into the grass and let the earth swallow him whole. But instead he was marched out of the shadowed law building basement, across campus, down the street lined with shops that spilled their lights onto the pavement as night began to breathe over the city.

And then—voilà. He ended up in a garishly neon lit ice cream parlor that looked like it hadn’t been redecorated since the early 2000s. Plastic booths, sticky floors, kids pressing their faces to the glass. It has always been like this for years now.

George folded his arms the second they were inside. “You are so fucking strange.”

Vanya ignored him, already at the counter, rattling off orders in a low rumble that made the girl behind the counter blush. When he turned back, he was holding two cones. One—chocolate piled high, drizzled with something golden. The other—vanilla, simple, almost boring in comparison.

George frowned. “Why’d you get two?”

“One is yours.” Vanya held it out.

“I didn’t say I wanted one!”

“You did.”

“No, I didn’t!”

Vanya’s smirk widened. “You said, ‘whatever.’ In Russian, that means ‘yes, pretty please.’”

“That’s not—!” George sputtered, but the cone was shoved into his hand anyway, cold and dripping. “Oh my—”

He should’ve dropped it. Should’ve thrown it back at Vanya’s smug face and stormed out. But instead, like an idiot, he found himself licking the side before it melted over his fingers. And fuck—it was good. Sweet, creamy, stupidly good.

Vanya sat across from him, legs far too long for the tiny booth, tattoos spilling out from his rolled-up sleeves, licking his own cone lazily while watching George with an expression that made his skin crawl.

“What,” George snapped.

“Nothing,” Vanya said, all innocence. Then, after a beat, “You look less miserable when you eat. Cute, even.”

George nearly choked. “Shut UP!”

Vanya laughed again, low and easy, and George hated—hated—how his chest fluttered in betrayal.

And as much as he wanted to pretend this was the stupidest thing he’d ever been dragged into, as much as he wanted to text Alex or heck even Lando and scream about being kidnapped again by a six foot five walking sky scrapper with terrible jokes—he couldn’t deny that for the first time all day, the ache in his chest over Max’s fiancée dulled, just a little.

He hated that more than anything.

Notes:

I love writing new og characters💔 also you could say... jealous max incoming... also is vanya just some background noise? heh...