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“Can you stop that?” Anya snaps.
Clarke looks up from the tent floor where she’s been tracing her finger aimlessly.
“Can you stop brooding?” she retorts, letting her fingernail drag against the nylon once more.
Anya cringes at the squealing noise it makes.
“Clarke,” she says, “Stop.”
Clarke rolls her eyes and drags her finger lighter and slower.
Anya grits her teeth and wishes she was anywhere but here, trapped in a tent with Clarke as they wait out the acid fog.
Clarke has moved on from tracing on the bottom of the tent and now rearranges herself, fidgeting constantly. Her movement causes the nylon of the tent to squeak further. The sounds send chills up Anya’s back.
The other girl seems unaware, tapping her fingernails on the toes of her boots and gazing around the tent unseeing.
“Clarke,” Anya says pointedly.
Clarke throws her arms in the air in exasperation.
“What do you want me to do? Stop breathing?”
“That’d be nice,” Anya says.
Clarke huffs and crosses her arms. She lets herself fall back until she’s lying down, head propped on her hands. She starts to hum.
Anya’s had it. She throws herself at Clarke, landing atop her.
Clarke lets out an “Oof” as Anya’s knee digs into her ribcage.
“What are you going to do?” she asks, “Kill me?”
“Thinking about it,” Anya tells her, shifting so she’s straddling Clarke.
Clarke’s hands fly unconsciously to Anya’s hips, resting her wrists on her thighs. Her thumb traces circles against a sharp hipbone. Anya exhales.
She leans in close so that Clarke goes cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact. Anya’s palm cups Clarke’s cheek, the other hand grasping fistfuls of her hair.
“I could snap your neck,” she sighs against Clarke’s lips.
Clarke grins.
She moves suddenly, using the leverage against Anya’s hip to push her down flat on the tent faster than she knew Clarke was capable of. Her fingers still latch on Clarke’s curls.
Clarke steadies herself with one hand next to Anya’s neck and the other in her braids. The two share a smirk and then Anya is leaning up to press a kiss on Clarke’s lips. She moves lower then, to Clarke’s pale neck, kissing against her windpipe and her jugular. Clarke bares her throat to it.
They both know Anya could bite her, crush her, snap her in half. Clarke’s hands grasp tighter to Anya’s neck, crooks it back so she can feel Anya’s heartbeat under her lips.
They could kill each other, if they weren’t trapped inside this tent. They could kill each other in this tent and none would be the wiser.
Clarke hisses low in her throat and slides her hands down Anya’s sides and back up under her clothing as Anya digs her fingers in her back.
No, they won’t kill.
They’ll ruin.