The Noble Stag

    Clarke Griffin was determined.

    She walked into The Noble Stag that evening with a mission: a victorious flirting battle.

    Tonight, she would not be an awkward mess who choked on her drink, turned into a flustered wreck at the mere sight of Lexa, or completely missed when the hot bartender flirted with her.

    Tonight, she was going to be cool.

    Sophisticated.

    A woman of taste.

    Which was why, when Lexa walked up to their table—looking devastatingly attractive in her vest and rolled-up sleeves, her black tie neatly in place, and glasses perched on her nose (which was just unfair)—Clarke lifted her chin slightly and declared, "Whiskey neat."

    Lexa’s eyebrows twitched upward. "Are you sure?"

    Raven and Octavia immediately perked up.

    "Ooh," Raven smirked. "We welcome the Succubus Incarnate!" She cheered.

    Octavia snorted. "Bold choice, Griffin."

    Clarke ignored them, keeping her gaze locked on Lexa.

    Lexa, for her part, tilted her head slightly, as if weighing something. Then, after a pause, she gave a small, knowing smile. "Alright. Whiskey neat it is."

    Clarke definitely didn’t stare at the way Lexa’s fingers adjusted her tie before she walked back to the bar.

    She was fine.

    Totally fine.

    A moment later, Lexa returned, setting a heavy-bottomed glass in front of Clarke.

    "Single malt," Lexa murmured, voice smooth as the liquid in Clarke’s glass. "Aged eighteen years. One of our best selections. Enjoy."

    Clarke exhaled through her nose.

    Easy. Just take a sip. You got this.

    She lifted the glass.

    Took a drink.

    And immediately regretted everything.

    The first sip always burned. She knew it already, but this one was different.

    It wasn’t just the sharp sting in her throat—it was the sheer intensity of it, the way the smokiness overwhelmed her tongue, the heat rushing straight to her head. 

    Expensive whiskey was different.

    Clarke swallowed, barely suppressing a cough.

    Lexa leaned in slightly, watching her struggle with that annoyingly attractive smirk. "How is it?"

    Clarke’s eyes watered, "Delightful," she rasped, blinking rapidly.

    Lexa chuckled, slow and indulgent. "Mhm. You sure?"

    Clarke nodded, pretending so hard that her throat wasn’t on fire. She knew why she swore off whiskey all those years ago. This, and the effect it had on her. But Clarke knew, she needed that effect tonight.

    Lexa’s smirk deepened. She stepped just a fraction closer, lowering her voice. "You know, Clarke…"

    Clarke blinked up at her.

    Lexa leaned in, close enough that Clarke could smell the faintest hint of cedar and vanilla.
    
    "If you can't handle it rough and wanted something softer," Lexa murmured, voice dripping with amusement, "all you had to do was ask."

    Raven wheezed.

    Octavia choked on her drink.

    Clarke, still utterly clueless, distracted by Lexa's smooth voice, frowned. "What, like a bourbon?"

    Lexa huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Never mind."

    Clarke huffed, glaring at her traitorous best friends. "What?"

    "Nothing," Raven grinned. "Just enjoying the show."

    Clarke rolled her eyes, determined to prove them wrong.

    Alright.

    Time for Plan B.

    She had already botched her whiskey-drinking attempt—so she needed to salvage this somehow.

    And what better way to do that than taking the first move?
(Technically, her second move, but she refused to count the first.)

    So, with great determination, Clarke casually rested her elbow on the table, propped her chin on her hand, and flashed Lexa her most charming smile.

    "Hey, Lexa?"

    Lexa, clearly entertained, arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"

    "Do you…" Clarke hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Would you like to—"
    
    Before she could finish, her elbow slipped off the table.

    Her entire upper body lurched forward.

    Lexa—fast as lightning—caught Clarke before she could faceplant onto the floor.

    For a solid second, Clarke just… hung there, half in Lexa’s arms, half over the table.

    The silence was deafening.

    Octavia lost it and Raven was crying from laughing so hard.

    Clarke groaned, shutting her eyes. "I hate everything."

    Lexa, chuckling, carefully set Clarke upright again. "You were saying?"

    Clarke sighed dramatically. "Forget it."

    Lexa smiled. "If you insist."

    Clarke drowned her embarrassment in another gulp of her whiskey, wincing as she swallowed the potent drink.

    And after the second glass, Lexa—who was definitely not just a responsible bartender but also someone who enjoyed watching Clarke unravel—poured her a third.

    Only this time, she secretly adjusted the mix, adding just enough honeyed liqueur to cut through the burn.

    Clarke, oblivious, took a sip.

    And for once, the whiskey didn’t punch her in the throat.

    No, it was smooth, rich, something that settled into her limbs and made her feel warm in the best way.

    By the time she finished that third glass of whiskey, the drink had finally in effect and Clarke had transformed.

    The usual goofy awkwardness? Gone.

    The overthinking? Evaporated.

    Drunk Clarke—this version of Drunk Clarke—was dangerous. That's why she swore off whiskey, but now, she broke that vow.

    Gone was the flustered mess who tripped over her words. In her place was the succubus incarnate.

    Instead, she was slow, deliberate. Every movement unhurried, every glance laced with something deeper, something that made Lexa’s breath hitch.

    Which was why, when Clarke reached for Lexa, it was intentional.

    It started casually. Just a lazy shift of her hand, fingers brushing against the silky fabric of Lexa’s tie.

    And then—

    She grabbed it.

    Firm.

    Deliberate.

    And Lexa stilled.

    Clarke, completely unaware of what she was doing, tilted her head, her voice dropping to something dangerously low.

    "You know," she murmured, "I am a pediatric. You have to be so precise when working with kids, especially in emergency surgery. It’s all about control. Knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, how much they can take before it’s too much."

    Lexa’s breathing hitched.

    Because Clarke?

    Clarke was still holding her tie.

    Thumb brushing absently along the fabric.

    And the way she said those words—her voice smooth, dipped in something almost sultry, something that sent a slow, curling heat up Lexa’s spine—

    It was… a lot.

    Raven’s jaw dropped.

    Octavia slowly set down her drink, anticipating the next show.

    And Clarke?

    She had no idea.

    She was just explaining her job.

    But with the way her lips curved, the way she idly played with Lexa’s tie, the way her voice dropped into something that belonged in much more intimate conversations—

    She was thriving.

    For once, Lexa had no clever retort. No teasing remark.

    Lexa simply… let Clarke talk.

    Because watching her—watching this completely oblivious woman flirt so effortlessly without even knowing it—was, quite frankly, the highlight of Lexa’s night.

    When Clarke finally let go of her tie, Lexa exhaled slowly.

    "That’s… very fascinating," she murmured, her voice slightly lower than before.

    Clarke nodded. "Right?" Her voice raspy and low,

    Lexa huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "You have no idea."

    Raven and Octavia had long since abandoned their seats at the table, migrating toward the pool table near the back of the bar. It wasn’t that they weren’t invested in watching Clarke’s drunken attempt at wooing Lexa—it was just that watching Clarke flirt was like watching a slow-motion train wreck.

    A wildly entertaining train wreck.

    One they’d revisit in painful detail the next morning when Clarke inevitably woke up, groaning about her life choices and swearing to never drink whiskey again.

    They knew the cycle.

    Whiskey hit different for Clarke.

    Unlike other drinks, whiskey wasn’t just a casual buzz for her—it was transformative. It was the only liquor that left her with a mild hangover, not heavy but just enough to make her regret everything.

    Not more than regretting the actions the drink caused, though.

    And tonight?

    Tonight was shaping up to be a prime example.

    Across the bar, Raven smirked as her phone vibrated with a notification. She glanced down, and then—grinned.

    "Finally got Anya’s number," she said smugly, holding up her phone like a trophy.

    Octavia, chalking her cue, barely looked up. "Good for you."

    At the pool table, Octavia was trying very hard to appear unaffected.

    She had swagger, she had confidence, she had a competitive streak a mile wide—

    And Echo?

    Echo had an infuriating ability to get under her skin.

    She was bossy.

    She was dominant.

    She smirked like she already knew exactly how things were going to play out.

    And she was always right.
    
    Which pissed Octavia off to no end.

    Echo had been waiting for this moment—watching, waiting for Octavia to mess up.

    When the cue ball veered off-course, missing spectacularly, Echo let out a low, satisfied hum.

    "Watch and learn, sweetheart," she said smoothly, smirking as she stepped in, effortlessly taking the opposite side of Octavia’s place at the table.

    Octavia groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "I hate you."

    Echo merely grinned, casual and cool as she lined up her shot. "That’s funny," she mused, tilting her head just so. "You keep coming back for more."

    Octavia snapped her gaze to her, eyes narrowing.

    "I don’t like what you’re implying."

    Echo held her gaze. "Oh, you do."

    Then—without even glancing at the table—she took her shot.

    Perfect.

    The ball dropped smoothly into the pocket, like it was inevitable.

    Like Echo always got what she wanted.

    Octavia clenched her jaw, muttering a string of curses under her breath.

    Raven, who had been watching this entire exchange with deep amusement, snickered. "This is so much better than the actual game."

    Echo, still holding Octavia’s gaze, arched a brow.

    "Oh, I love this game."

    And fuck her, because she wasn’t just talking about pool.
    
    Octavia felt the heat crawl up her neck, and she hated that Echo noticed.

    Echo’s smirk deepened. "It's game over, O."

    Octavia squared her shoulders. "Over?" she scoffed, stepping closer—just close enough to push into Echo’s space. "You wish."

    Echo leaned in slightly, tilting her head, gaze flicking to Octavia’s lips for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again.

    "No," she purred, voice low, deliberate. "I know."

    Octavia’s breath caught for just a fraction of a second—barely noticeable.

    But Echo noticed.

    Echo always noticed.

    And the worst part?

    She was right.

    Before Octavia could launch into a tirade, the sound of low, lilting laughter caught their attention.

    The three of them glanced toward the bar—

    And, predictably, there was Clarke.

    Still perched on her stool.

    Still locked in some ridiculous drunken attempt at flirting with Lexa.

    And somehow, even drinking, she managed to make it seductive.

    Which was impressive, given that Clarke Griffin wasn’t exactly known for subtlety.

    She had a glass of whiskey cradled in her fingers, turning it slightly, watching the liquid swirl before bringing it to her lips.

    And she held Lexa’s gaze as she took a slow, measured sip.

    Lexa, standing across from her, did not look unaffected.

    If anything, she looked…

    Very affected.

    Her hands rested casually on the bar, but her grip was just a little too tight on the polished wood. Her eyes were fixed entirely on Clarke, watching as she swallowed, as she tilted her head slightly, as she licked a stray drop from her bottom lip—

    Lexa exhaled, slow and controlled.

    Clarke set her glass down, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "You’re staring, bartender."

    Lexa lifted a brow. "You’re making it hard not to stare."

    Raven, across the room, muffled a laugh.

    Clarke, emboldened by liquid courage, leaned forward slightly. "Oh?"

    Lexa hummed, eyes flicking over Clarke’s face, studying her. "You’re different when you drink whiskey."

    Clarke tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Different how?"

    Lexa’s lips twitched. "Less chaotic."

    Clarke laughed, warm and easy. "Are you saying I’m normally a disaster?"

    Lexa smirked. "I’m saying you’re normally a bit more… uncoordinated in your approach."

    Clarke, in any other state of mind, would have overthought that. Would have gotten flustered, tried to backpedal, tried to play it cool and failed spectacularly.

    But right now?

    She just grinned.

    And then—

    She reached for Lexa’s tie.

    Again.

    Lexa inhaled, sharp and quiet, as Clarke’s fingers brushed over the fabric.

    "You wear this well," Clarke murmured, voice just shy of teasing.

    Lexa swallowed. "I—"

    "The whole look," Clarke continued, tilting her head as she twirled the end of Lexa’s tie around her fingers. "The waistcoat, the rolled-up sleeves, the glasses. You look like you stepped out of some high-end, vintage speakeasy."

    Lexa’s pulse jumped.

    "You like this look?" she asked, voice deceptively steady.

    Clarke hummed. "It’s a good look."

    Then, as if she wasn’t sending Lexa into cardiac arrest, Clarke casually lifted her glass again, taking another slow sip.

    Lexa, for the first time, found herself… at a loss.

    Because Clarke?

    Clarke was thriving.

    And Lexa?

    Lexa was in trouble.

----
    Lexa was not easily shaken.

    She was calm, almost detached. Unbothered.

    Her reputation in The Noble Stag was built on it.

    Customers swooned, got flustered, tripped over themselves trying to impress her. It was a game she had mastered, a performance she controlled.

    She dictated the mood, set the pace, stayed always one step ahead.

    But tonight—

    Tonight, she was out of her depth.

    It wasn’t the first time she’d flirted with Clarke. The blonde was charmingly oblivious, delightfully easy to tease. Lexa liked the way Clarke’s ears turned pink when she got flustered, the way her lips parted slightly when she was at a loss for words.

    It was adorable.

    But this?

    This was something else entirely.

    Clarke, whiskey-drunk and blissfully unaware of her own destruction, had become something else entirely—something dangerous.

    Raven had dubbed it Succubus Incarnate Clarke.

    Lexa, watching Clarke sip her whiskey in a way that should not be legal, was starting to think Raven had undersold it.

    Because this Clarke?

    This Clarke was seductive.

    Not deliberately, Lexa knew—there was no way Clarke Griffin was aware of what she was doing. Because her usual, fumbling attempts at flirting had melted into something smooth, confident, devastatingly alluring.

    And Lexa—

    Lexa was losing control.

    She had spent years perfecting her cold, detached, untouchable demeanor. She made women chase, made them flustered, made them work for her attention.

    But Clarke—drunk Clarke—had flipped the script entirely.

    Lexa was the one flustered.

    Lexa was the one fighting for control.

    Clarke leaned in across the bar, eyes half-lidded, lips curving into something dangerously close to a smirk.

    "You know," she murmured, swirling her whiskey glass, "people underestimate how delicate pediatric surgery can be. You have to be gentle, precise—" She made a slow, deliberate motion with her fingers, tracing something in the air, voice dipping lower. "—the smallest slip, and you could lose everything."

    Lexa swallowed.

    It was a perfectly innocent statement. It was about work.

    But Clarke—drunken, succubus Clarke—had said it with the voice of a woman explaining exactly how she planned to ruin someone.

    Lexa had never been so simultaneously impressed and terrified in her life.

    Somewhere across the bar, Raven and Octavia let out a wheeze of laughter.

    Lexa barely heard it.

    Because Clarke—completely unaware of her own effect—reached out and curled her fingers around Lexa’s tie again.

    Lexa stilled.

    She never let people touch her tie.

    It was part of the image—part of the control.

    But Clarke—whiskey-drunk, blissfully oblivious Clarke—had no such reservations.

    Her fingers tugged gently, just enough to pull Lexa slightly forward, and the bartender barely resisted the urge to inhale sharply.

    Clarke’s lips parted, as if she was going to say something devastating—

    And then—

    "FUCK OFF, ECHO!"

    Octavia’s voice rang out across the bar, loud, exasperated, absolutely furious and blushing.

    Clarke blinked, her focus shifting at the sudden commotion.

    Lexa, snapping out of whatever spell she had been under, seized the opportunity.

    She smoothly reached up, grasped Clarke’s wrist, and gently pried her fingers off her tie. Then, as Clarke turned back, looking dazed, Lexa leaned in close—this time, she was in control.

    Her lips brushed against Clarke’s ear, voice low, teasing.

    "You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?"

    Clarke blinked again, whiskey-heavy and utterly confused. "Huh?"

    Lexa smirked.

    Control restored.