clarahow

Raven strips off her jacket, grimacing as its sweat-soaked interior reluctantly leaves her skin; she drops it to the floor and kicks off her Doc Martens.

"If you'd let me drive, we wouldn't have had this problem," she asserts as Clarke joins her in the motel room.

"Oh, can it," Clarke pushes back, starting to strip. The unclipped halter of her jumper snaps and bounces forward over her chest, and Raven's confronted again with the frilly pink bra she'd chosen for the day's drive.

"It's not my fault your car hates me."

"Well, it's not like it's the car's fault, Clarke!"

Clarke scoffs.

"You know, if you'd dressed more appropriately, you wouldn't be so desperate to undress."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Raven smirks. "Besides, this is my outfit."

"Okay," Clarke pretends to accept the answer as she steps out of the shorts of her jumper and tosses the garment to the single bed in the center of the room. Apparently, her panties match her bra. That was so Clarke.

The bed creaks underneath Raven as she sits on its edge to take off her pants, but even laying down, the zipper isn't working for her. She grunts in forfeiture, but then feels a soft hand at her navel.

"Looks like you need a little help," Clarke murmurs.

"...I'm still mad you broke my fucking car."

"Still not my fault...but I'll meet you in the middle and make up for it."

Clarke undoes the zipper with a single yank.