Maeve isn’t sure what pisses her off more: the fact that Vought sent her to a sketchy-looking club with no explanation, or the fact that the scene looks like a series of felonies waiting to happen. She’s used to being the poster child of corporate heroism, not an undercover supe in the club that reeks of like sweat and cigar stench.

Because seriously, who would be stupid enough to send one of the most recognizable faces in the world to negotiate with an illegal arms syndicate?

It has to be a bad setup, because the possibility of this being real is so much worse.

Maeve leans against the sticky leather booth, arms crossed as the bassline rattles through her ribs. The “boss” looks like a Loony Toons villain, dressed in stolen gold and self-absorbed arrogance. He finishes inspecting the suitcase, tossing it out with a lazy whistle.

And then you appear, the girl Maeve’s been watching the moment she walked into this godforsaken place.

Skimpy dress, heels that make your legs look tempting like the apples of Eden, and the hip sway that doesn’t ask for attention but commands it anyway. You’re clearly foreign, judging by the accent when you ordered a drink earlier. You’ve been dancing like someone who doesn’t care, but knows they’re being watched.

There’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes when you spot her, like you can’t quite figure out why the Queen Maeve is here in your workplace. But then the boss leans in, whispering something foreign in your ear. Maybe it’s Spanish or Portuguese, but she didn’t pay enough attention in class to know that. 

You blink once, then a switch flips. That charming smirk slides right back into place as you cross the room without hesitation, dropping yourself into Maeve’s lap like you always belong there. Your arms loop around her neck, perfume clouding all her senses. It’s a well-rehearsed move, making Maeve almost forget why she was here to begin with. 

The man then shouts about how you’re her “gift” now, a little thank you to Vought for sealing the deal with him. There’s a smug smile on his face when he gets up to leave, trusting you to do a good job “taking care” of Maeve. 

Maeve knows she should get up and leave, that your sweet talk is nothing more than a siren song luring her deeper into her untimely demise. Yet her hand slides from your hip to your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. 

“Is this what you do to everyone? The sweet talk and sweet smile?” She murmurs, a small smirk curling up her lips.