~*~Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, in progress, for your cat — whatever.~*~
Bellamy suddenly clamps his arms around her with a growl.
“Quit wiggling around,” he says into her ear, voice rough.
Clarke bites down on her lip to keep from laughing. “Sorry.”
Bellamy leans his forehead against the back of her head and shakes it. “You’re killing me, princess.”
–from an untitled modern au The 100 fic in which everyone goes camping.