princess-of-queue

We Sang Along To The Start of Forever

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written by: Emily | @prosciuttoe

prompt: ‘i’m a prince/ss from a small country nobody’s heard of and i’m in college pretending not to be royal and you’re another student who’s always calling me out on my bs’ for anonymous

word count: 7973

Going to college is one of those things that Clarke has been preparing for her entire life. She has to really, considering that an extensive amount of research and preparation is required when you’re the Princess of a dated and stupidly antiquated form of government.

(Granted, the extent of her research only goes as far as to adding The Princess Diaries to her Netflix queue, but technicalities.)

Or: Clarke’s college experience would be a lot more pleasant if Bellamy Blake stopped trying to figure her out.


Excerpt:

Going to college is one of those things that Clarke has been preparing for her entire life. She has to really, considering that an extensive amount of research and preparation is required when you’re the Princess of a dated and stupidly antiquated form of government.

(Granted, the extent of her research only goes as far as to adding The Princess Diaries to her Netflix queue, but technicalities. )

Still, none of it could have prepared her for Bellamy Blake.

The first time she meets him, he’s arguing with the professor about the required reading list.

It’s not like she means to listen in on their conversation, but he’s one of those people that you can’t help but notice—all bronzed skin and muscles and artfully mussed hair. Coupled with the way he’s furiously gesticulating with his hands and the frazzled expression on his face, and, well. She’ll admit that she’s sufficiently intrigued.

“This is a Politics and Literature course, Mr. Blake,” the professor huffs, exasperated. “The whole point of the course involves looking at how fiction helps understand and express politics.”

The guy— last name Blake, Clarke reminds herself— looks distinctly put out by that. “And I don’t have a problem with that,” he points out, folding his arms across his chest. “What I do have a problem with is how all the books on the reading list are drawn from the same historical and cultural setting.”

A quick glance at the syllabus confirms it, but —

“Actually,” she pipes up, tapping at the sheet before her, “The White Tiger is set in India, so…”

He turns the full-force of his glare on her, then, brow arched. “It’s one novel on a list of twelve,” he says, dismissive. “That’s hardly enough.”

I agree, she doesn’t get to say, before he’s sweeping his gaze over her — disdain clear as he takes in the MacBook perched on her lap, to the watch strapped to her wrist, and all the way down to her newly polished shoes.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Princess,” he says, venomous, and she can practically feel her hackles rising in response.

Bristling, she opens her mouth, a retort already forming on her tongue, when she receives a swift kick to the ankle, startling her enough that she squeaks instead.

Scowling, she shifts her gaze over to Roan. A bodyguard had been one of the stipulated conditions to this whole arrangement, and he’d been her pick mostly because she’s gotten used to his hulking presence over the years. There’s also the added bonus factor of his notorious unflappability and calm even in the most trying of situations—which explains why he’s currently regarding her with nothing but an arched brow and a pointed widening of his eyes; a wordless reminder of the need to be inconspicuous. Or at least subtle enough to not bring attention to herself (and by extension, her status) on the first day of school.

Slumping over in her seat, she relents, hiding her glower behind a curtain of hair.

It doesn’t seem to placate Blake all that much, if the irritated half-snort he gives is any indication. Still, he skulks back to his seat, plopping down in the chair directly behind hers.

The first half an hour of class passes by without issue, and she finds herself relaxing halfway through, against her better judgment, focusing on the lecture itself and jotting down notes during the lulls. Her gaze drifts on over to Blake, from time to time, but only because he’s one of the few seated within her vicinity. His handwriting is a angry scrawl, and she thinks she catches a glimpse of a B in his first name as well. When he’s not scribbling out notes or shooting everyone else dirty looks, he’s chewing on the cap of his pen, fingers tapping out a distracting rhythm on the tabletop.

He catches her gaze soon after, and she flushes at the realization that he caught her staring.

“What?” she challenges, before he can get a word out. “You have something to say to me?”

“Not really,” he smirks, his gaze roving over her once more, lingering at the ID badge she has slung over her neck. “So. You’re a freshman.”

It’s a statement rather than a question, but she nods anyway.

“Wow,” he drawls. There’s a kind of smugness to it that suggests that he’s gotten exactly what he wanted from her affirmation alone, and it makes her want to do questionable things, like stomp on his foot. “That’s pretty impressive, considering how this course has a required class standing that I’m sure a freshman like yourself has yet to fulfill.”

It’s difficult to keep her surprise from showing at that, and she has to bite at her lip to keep from gaping. Shit. It’s certainly not unexpected, though, considering her mother’s influence, and Clarke had only skimmed through the course catalogue before picking out the courses that appealed to her most. Taking a deep breath, she shoots him a tight smile, praying that it comes off convincing. “Well, I guess I had enough transferral credits.”

You’re a transfer?” he scoffs, narrowing his eyes over at her. “Where from?”

She blinks, her gaze landing on Roan for a split-second. “Mecha,” she says smoothly, the lie coming easy. “But I was looking for a change in scenery, so.”

“You transferred from Mecha,” he says, dubious, “to Ark U?”

“That’s right,” she says, jutting her chin out defiantly. “Like I said, I needed a change.”

He mulls over that, his expression contemplative. Then, with a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders, he says, “You know, you could have just admitted that you’re a trust fund kid and I would have let it go, right?”

This time, she can’t quite hold back on her offended gasp. “What?

“Wait, I think I got it,” he continues, his voice taking on a mocking edge. “You have a parent on the college admissions board.”

“No!”

“So, they made a sizable donation to the school and I’m going to see a—” he pauses, squinting over at her ID, “—Clarke Griffin wing in a few months, right? Arts or Sciences, you think?”

Neither,” she hisses, seething. Vaguely, she’s aware that everyone else is getting up from their seats, the rising noise level signalling that class is over. “God, I don’t even know why I’m still standing here trying to justify myself to you, when—”

“Bellamy!”

The voice snags at her attention, and she turns away from him to look at the source of the intrusion. She’s pretty, Clarke thinks, with startling green eyes, a sharp jaw and hair trailing down to her back, and it doesn’t occur to her that it’s Blake she’s referring to until he says, “I’ll be there in a minute, O.”

Well. At least she finally can put a name to the face.


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Princess Charlotte of Wales and Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, were married on this day, May 2nd, in 1816.

Princess Charlotte was, at the time, the only legitimate grandchild of George III. She was the daughter of the Prince of Wales (The future George IV) and his long estranged wife, Caroline of Brunswick. Prince Leopold had been her choice of a groom; her father had been pushing her to marry William, Prince of Orange. Charlotte said of Leopold before their marriage that:

I find him charming, and go to bed happier than I have ever done yet in my life … I am certainly a very fortunate creature, & have to bless God. A Princess never, I believe, set out in life (or married) with such prospects of happiness, real domestic ones like other people.

The couple were married at 9 o'clock at night, inside the Crimson Drawing Room at Carlton House. Leopold dressed as a British General, and Charlotte wore a delicate silver empire style gown, decorated with silver embroidery.

The couple were devoted to one another, with Leopold proving to be a calming influence on the wild and rambunctious Charlotte. Sadly, their happiness was not to last long. After suffering a miscarriage early in the marriage, Charlotte died giving birth to a stillborn son, on November 5th, 1817.