The air in the speakeasy is low-lit and simmering, the kind of place where secrets are traded like currency, where glances hold more weight than words. The jazz band sways slow and sultry in the corner, the trumpet pouring out something aching, something blue.
At the corner of the bar, Sabine runs her finger along the stem of her glass, the deep red of her wine mirroring the shade on her lips. Across from her, the woman in the emerald dress holds a different kind of drink—neat whiskey, no ice. Steady fingers, a controlled sip. And her eyes? They pierce anything they choose as their subject.
She’s been watching.
Sabine pretends not to notice. At least, not at first. But when the bartender carelessly drapes a silk scarf over the counter—a forgotten accessory, an afterthought—her attention shifts. The scarf pools between them, inky and smooth, its edges curling with invitation.
Sabine lifts it between two fingers, testing the texture. “Tell me,” she muses, voice a lazy drag of smoke and wine. “Do you always stare, or just at women with sharp tongues and sharper teeth?”
The emerald Siren lifts a brow. Amused. “You don’t seem the type to mind being looked at.”
Sabine tilts her head, watching the way the woman’s grip flexes subtly around the tumbler. “And you don’t seem the type to be caught looking unless you want to be seen.”
A small smile—controlled, deliberate. “Guilty.”
Sabine twirls the scarf absently between her fingers. “I like a woman who admits when she’s caught.”
The woman exhales a quiet laugh, taking another sip of her drink. Then, setting it down, she leans forward, resting an elbow against the bar.
“Do you play?”
Sabine lifts a brow. “Play?”
The woman gestures at the scarf, draped like an unspoken promise between them. “Games. Stakes. Dares.”
Sabine hums, running her fingers over the silk, thoughtful. “Depends on the dare.”
The woman’s gaze drops to Sabine’s mouth, then back up, measured and slow. “Let’s start simple.”
A pause. A sip.
Then—“Truth or dare?”
Sabine smirks, resting her chin on her palm. “Truth. For now.”
The green goddess studies her, considering. Then—“What’s the filthiest thing you’ve ever whispered in someone’s ear?”
Sabine takes a slow sip of her wine, letting the question settle, letting the wily mermaid tread water.
Then, she leans in slightly, just enough that their knees almost brush. “That depends. Do moans count as words?”
A quiet inhale. A clue of something sooty in those clear eyes. The woman’s lips part slightly, but she doesn’t falter. “Another.”
Sabine lifts a brow. “Another what?”
“Truth.”
Sabine hums. “Go on, then.”
The woman runs a slow fingertip along the rim of her glass, watching Sabine watch her.
“When was the last time someone made your thighs quiver?”
Sabine’s breath catches. The question is more than casual—it’s a call out, a gauntlet. The first move in a game she suddenly realizes she’s been playing since the moment she sat down.
Her lips pucker, and she tilts her head, considering. “Why?” she asks, voice a puff of smoke. “Are you offering to change that?”
The green goddess’s smile deepens, slow as molasses.
She lifts the glass to her lips, takes a sip, swallows. Then she meets Sabine’s gaze, sliding the scarf from Sabine’s hands.
“Truth or dare?”
Sabine exhales, eyes glinting. “Dare.”
The verdant vixen tilts her glass, studying the deep caramel swirl of whiskey, as if choosing her move. Then, finally—
“Blindfold yourself.” She hands Sabine the scarf.
In that moment, a sliver of self-knowing was bartered for a swath of silk—an uneven trade, but one neither dared to question as they navigated the perilous art of surrender and suggestion.
Sabine’s fingers pause mid-stroke over the fabric. The request should feel absurd, out of place. But the way she says it—devout, certain, edged with the vow of something Sabine can’t yet name—makes it feel inevitable.
Sabine leans in just slightly, fingers brushing against the scarf. “And what happens if I do?”
The mossy muse’s smile doesn’t waver. She exhales, soft, measured, like someone already savoring her next move. Then she scoots her stool closer, closing the corner between them, her lips hovering just near Sabine’s cheek, her voice a honed pearl.
“Then I’ll tell you what to do next.”
The weight between them shifts, the energy like a pulled thread waiting to unravel.
Sabine takes her time. Accepts the scarf, feels it glide between her fingers. Then, with a slow, indulgent simper, she lifts it to her eyes.
The world goes dark.
And the stakes change.
xoxo, Firefly ❤️🔥
p.s. What do you think will happen next?