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spxderman-s · 6 years

Text

royal fate

requested: @ironspiderling

summary: you’re next in line for your family’s throne--but only on one condition: accepting the arranged marriage you were completely unaware of with a pretentious prince from the neighboring kingdom.

pairings: royal!tom holland x reader

word count: 3k

warnings: swearing, sensuality

a/n: this took forever im so sorry omfg, i hope it’s good!! i worked on it for a long time and this is the first fic i’ve posted in a long time so hopefully it comes through. xx

“You--you--” you seethed, balling your fists and surging to your feet in anger. “You egotistical, insufferable--arrogant--”

“At least I know how to run a kingdom, princess.”

“Oh, I’m not your princess,” you snarled, stabbing a finger to the center of his chest. “You’re a narcissistic tyrant.”

“A tyrant?” he repeated the words, rubbing his chest. “I’ll have to add that one to the list--no one’s ever called me that before.”

“There’s a first for everything,” you hissed through gritted teeth. “Get. Out.”

With that cocky, arrogant grin of his, Thomas Holland--the prince of the kingdom neighboring your own, and your newly betrothed--turned on his heel, and strolled casually from your parlor and out of sight. You gripped the nearest embroidered pillow and pressed your face into it, letting out a muffled scream of frustration.

Three days earlier

“Darling?” you heard your mother call out to you. “Darling--are you in here?”

“I’m here, Mother,” you replied, setting down your palette and wiping the paint from your hands on the dirty apron you wore over your dress.

“Oh, is this the still life you’ve been pouring endlessly over?”

You nodded, pushing your hair back from your face. “I can’t quite get the composition right.”

The queen mused silently for a moment over your portrait, and gently squeezed your arm. “It’s lovely, darling. We must hang it up once you’ve finished it.”

You untied your apron and set it down, noticing the tone in your mother’s voice. She did her best to hide it well, but you recognized it in an instant. “Is something wrong?”

“Your father and I have a small matter to discuss with you, love,” she replied vaguely, but guiding you from your studio and towards the parlor. As the two of you entered through the ornate double doors, you first saw your father seated peacefully by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in hand.

“Papa?” It came out as a question.

“Sit down, my dove,” was his reply.

You obeyed, wringing your hands in your lap. The queen took a seat beside you.

“You’ve blossomed into a fine woman,” she said to you, taking one of your hands into her own. “And we are so proud--but it’s time for you to take a husband to marry.”

“Marry,” you repeated the foreign word. “Who?”

“You’ve had quite the number of suitors,” your father answered, swirling his glass of brandy. “But we’ve decided that it’s best to align with the neighboring kingdom.”

You knew this day was coming, ever since you were old enough to understand the importance of politics. Your parents informed you that in order to ascend the crown, you needed to wed and form an alliance--or forfeit the throne.

“Who is my newly betrothed?” you asked, a hint of bitterness lacing your words.

“Prince Thomas,” the queen took the liberty of answering you. “He’s quite a charming young man, I think you’ll--”

“Everything has been arranged,” the king interrupted, cutting her off. “We’ve already sent a formal invitation for them to stay with us for the remainder of the week.”

Swallowing nervously, you looked down at your fingers fiddling with a button on your dress and nodded. “I suppose I’ll have to keep a watch on my manners?” you joked.

“Just watch that foul mouth of yours,” your mother chided with affection, placing a kiss to your temple. “Everything will work itself out.”

As if on cue, you heard the butler announce their arrival. Your father smiled, and left to welcome your guests. Your mother placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Announcing King Dominic and Prince Thomas,” the butler called into the room, and you stood politely as they entered.

The first thing you noticed about Thomas were his eyes. They had a sense of wonder to them, wandering over the many paintings of yours that hung on the walls.

“Pleased to meet your acquaintance,” you offered to both of them, curtsying delicately. “Welcome to our palace.”

“Ours is bigger,” Thomas sniffed, ignoring your greeting.

You bit back the curse on your tongue, noticing your mother’s warning glance. “You must be well off, then.” Your mother disappeared from your side and joined your father and King Dominic, who left you and the pretentious prince alone in the parlor.

“We’re quite well off,” he replied, finally looking at you. For a moment, his standoffish manner seemed to be replaced with surprise, but it was gone as quickly as it came. His brow furrowed. “Can’t say the same about you.”

“Is everything a contest with you?” you spoke through gritted teeth, feeling your fists ball at your sides.

“Not really--if I’m always the one who’s winning, is it ever a contest?”

“You--you--” you seethed, balling your fists and surging to your feet in anger. “You egotistical, insufferable--arrogant--”

“At least I know how to run a kingdom, princess.”

“Oh, I’m not your princess,” you snarled, stabbing a finger to the center of his chest. “You’re a narcissistic tyrant.”

“A tyrant?” he repeated the words, rubbing his chest. “I’ll have to add that one to the list--no one’s ever called me that before.”

“There’s a first for everything,” you hissed through gritted teeth. “Get. Out.”

Three days later

It was the afternoon; the rains came and doused the castle in gloom. Lighting a candle and carrying it to your studio, you donned your apron and picked up your palette--intent on finally finishing the still life.

In the quiet hours, you silently stroked your paintbrush over the canvas with expertise, the lull of the raindrops falling against the window pane and the crackling of the flames in the fireplace putting you at ease. You tried not to dwell on the events of earlier that week, knowing that you greatly disappointed your parents. But--your mind kept wandering to Tom, and that grin of his. The look in his eyes before as he left you had sent a bolt of electricity through you, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You hated the feeling. You wanted to hate him.

But you found that, no matter what you did, you couldn’t.

Your grip on the paintbrush tightened as you swept it over the canvas, thinking about the way his eyes felt like they had penetrated your soul. You couldn’t relax; your skin prickled and your teeth ground together.

“What are you painting?” a voice cut through the silence.

Startled, your hand faltered and your brush dropped--a thick red streak of paint cutting across the depiction of the vase of roses. You stared at it, feeling the tears welling up in your eyes. All of those months of work--ruined. Fuming, you angrily tore the canvas from the easel and threw it into the fireplace.

“Never….mind,” Tom drew out, taking a step back towards the door.

“What do you want?” you spat at him, ripping the apron off of your waist and shoving it into a drawer.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he spoke softly, and you immediately regretted your harsh tone. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, his eyes regarding you with wariness. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior.”

You blinked, and looked away while you bit your lip. “I apologize for calling you--ah, a tyrant.”

“I lied earlier,” he chuckled, stepping closer to you. “That wasn’t the first time I’ve been called that.”

You reached down and picked up the fallen paintbrush, the red pigment staining the marble floor. “I suppose we should be cordial to each other, seeing as we’re to be partners.”

“I think that would be wise.”

A heavy silence fell between you. He awkwardly ran a hand through his hair and shoved his other into the pocket of his slacks as you suddenly felt very sad at destroying your painting. Your eyes found themselves wandering over to the burning canvas, and Tom took that opportunity to close the distance between you.

“How long have you been an artist?” he asked, running a finger down the side of the easel.

“Ever since I could hold a brush,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I don’t know why I got so angry….but I had been working on that piece for months now, not quite able to achieve the right composition.”

“It’s a shame, I would have like to see it.”

“Maybe I’ll paint something for you one day,” you offered nonchalantly, still looking into the fireplace. Tom shifted beside you, a blush rising into his cheeks.

“I would--I would like that very much.”

Silence again, but it was different this time. Comfortable.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked suddenly, prompting you to look at him. “It might please our parents.”

You glanced at the rain drizzling in the gardens. “I’m not sure if this is the right weather for a walk.”

He held out his arm for you to take. “It’s only a little rain, love.”

“Do you have any siblings?” you asked as you listened to the sound of your steps upon the gravel path.

“I have three--technically four, if you include my best mate,” Tom replied, holding the umbrella up above the two of you to shield the light shower of rain. “All younger….what about you?”

“I haven’t got any brothers or sisters,” you admitted. “I had my mother and my maidens.”

Tom was quiet for a moment, and then guided you to a secluded spot beneath a willow tree that hung sadly over the vast pond in the gardens. The leaves hid the two of you from view, and he set the umbrella down, turning to you. “I have something to tell you,” he spoke, his voice low.

“What is it?”

He let out a breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s about our marriage.”

You frowned. “What about it?”

“If I don’t gain your hand, I sacrifice my lineage to one of my brothers,” Tom rushed out, turning away from you--almost shamefully. The afternoon rains seemed to fluctuate as he spoke the words, the drops pelting violently against the drooping leaves of the willow tree. “My father negotiated a deal with yours, hence why forming this alliance was so simple.”

“That’s quite a lot of pressure,” you reached out your fingers towards him, but you hesitated--torn between your compassionate nature and maintaining your distance. “It seems as if we’re both caught in the crossfire of politics--our sovereign law requires I have a husband in order to rule.”

You heard his heavy sigh, but he still refused to face you again. Your fingers still outstretched, trembling with the cold seeping into your bones, you closed the gap between them and his arm, wrapping them around his bicep and giving him a reassuring squeeze. You felt the tense muscles relax beneath your touch.

“I know this has all been predetermined,” he finally said, shifting out of your grasp and turning back to you. Your hand fell limp at your side, and you regarded him with an inquisitive frown. His eyes met yours, burning with alluring desire, and he sank to one knee. “But, for cordial purposes, will you do me the honor of taking my hand in marriage?”

“I will,” you accepted, your voice tender. “We’ll bear our burdens together.”

“Together,” he repeated. Getting to his feet, he offered his arm once more and opened the umbrella. “Your lips are blue, love. Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”

“Darling, you look positively radiant,” your mother commented as you entered the grand dining room for supper. After your afternoon walk with Tom, you could feel your cheeks glowing with affection, still feeling his touch lingering on your skin.

“Thank you, Mother,” you replied graciously, seating yourself delicately at the table. “I had quite a pleasant afternoon with--”

“There’s been a change in plan, my dove,” your father cut you off before you could finish your sentence. “After the events regarding your behavior with Prince Thomas earlier this week, your mother and I decided that we would search elsewhere for a suitor.”

Your throat constricted and a cold grip tightened on your heart as your mind processed his words. “That was just--we didn’t--we’ve reconciled, Papa.”

He went about eating the roast chicken in front of him, seemingly ignoring your protests. You turned your attention to your mother, who sat silently and stared at her glass of wine without saying a word.

You turned back to look at your father. “I know why you chose him first--his father proposed a compromise for my hand in marriage.”

The king stopped eating, his eyes cold and sharp. “Do not presume to speak down to me on matters you do not understand.”

“What did he offer you?” you accused, gripping the edge of the table so tightly that your knuckles were pale. “Money? Men for the army?”

“Darling?” the queen’s voice cut through, staring at your father with a withering look on her face. “Is this true?”

He slammed his fork to the table, his rage coiling off of him in thick tendrils. Standing abruptly, he stabbed a finger to you and shouted, “If you are unable to make difficult decisions, you are unfit to rule this kingdom. Unless you start showing me some more respect, I hereby forbid you from ascending the throne.” And with those cruel words hanging in the air, he shoved himself away from the dinner table and exited the room.

“Tom confessed that he would lose his crown to his brothers if he couldn’t form our alliance,” you muttered to your mother, who sat unmoving in her chair. She lifted her wineglass to her lips, took a tentative sip, and set it softly back down. Without another word, she stood up, and left the dining room.

You needed to find Tom.

“Agnes!” you called for your housemaid as you walked briskly down the corridor, searching for her. “Agnes, where are you?”

“I’m right here, little bird.” The old woman hobbled out of the broom closet, dusting her hands off. “What are you going on about?”

“Where is Tom?” you pleaded, grasping her hands. “Please.”

“He and his father should still be in their chambers--”

That was enough. You gathered up your skirts and took off down the hall, feeling the urgency burning in your chest like wildfire, hoping it wasn’t too late. Rounding the corners and turns, you skidded to a stop in front of the entrance to the guest’s quarters: two enormous mahogany doors. Without bothering to knock like you were taught, you shoved one of the doors open and barreled into a cold and empty room. The candles had been snuffed, the linens had been washed. There was no sign of anyone living here at all.

It felt as if everything was colliding at once, and you were at the very center. Sinking into the cushioned seat in front of the large bay window, you wrapped your arms around your knees and rested your forehead atop them. No tears fell, but there was a dull ache blooming in your bones as it became absolute that you would not bear your burden with a man you were certain you could begin to fall in love with--someone who came from a similar background, someone you forgave and sacrificed your pride for.

The rains returned, the drops racing each other as they slid down the glass in front of you. Lifting your head and staring at your reflection, you came to the realization that this was not the end, only an obstacle in the infinite labyrinth of your life.

You had been waiting a long while, and you dwelled on a change of mind--maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But before you could escape, you heard someone open the heavy wooden door and enter. A candle flickered to life in the dark room, illuminating you seated on the prince’s bed, the hood of your cloak pulled up to obscure your face.

“Before you say anything,” you whispered, observing his startled expression at you sitting in his private chambers in his family’s palace. “Listen to me, carefully.”

Tom slowly closed the heavy wooden door behind him and pushed the deadbolt in place. “How did you get in here?”

“I can be persuasive.”

“What are you doing here? Does your father know about this?”

You shook your head, unclasping your cloak and slipping it off. “Neither of them know….but I--I had to see you. To explain.”

He remained unmoved, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. “Go ahead.”

“I don’t know what you were told,” you began, moving to stand in front of him. “But my father was the one to call the arrangement off--something in him changed, but that doesn’t mean my vow has changed.”

Tom’s expression persisted to stay empty, but you recognized the pain and heartache that hid behind it. “They’ll find you an appropriate suitor,” he stated bluntly. “One that will do well for your kingdom.”

“He won’t be you,” you begged. “Please--”

“I’ve already lost the crown to my brother,” he cried, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. “There isn’t anything I have left to offer you.”

“Don’t marry me for politics,” you whispered, reaching out and placing your palm against his cheek. His hands dropped to his sides, leaning into your touch. “Marry me for love.”

Very slowly, you leaned in, feeling his warm breath exhale from his parted lips. He stood very still, but as your hands slid from his cheeks to the nape of his neck, you felt a shudder rush through him. You rested your forehead against his.

“Even though I have no political gain to give you,” he murmured, “you would still have me?”

“We bear the burden together,” you softly replied.

“Together.”

Without missing a second, your lips and his were suddenly crashing together in liberation. He tasted of freedom, and you wanted to immerse yourself within him. Your fingers gripped at the collar of his shirt, feeling the heat radiate from his skin beneath it, and that excited you in a way that nothing else ever could. One of his hands made its way down to your waist, grasping you tightly, his other hand snaking up to cradle your cheek.

Kissing him was like honey dripping. It felt slow, golden, and the sweetest thing you had ever tasted. It sent tremors through your very soul, and when he parted his lips to push his tongue against your own, you felt as if the earth itself gave way and you were falling, falling in love with him.

“By the sight of God and all that He is, with the power vested in me, I now pronounce Queen [Y/N] [Y/L/N] and Sir Thomas Holland husband and wife,” the holy priest raised his right hand in blessing. “You may now kiss your bride.”

Tom wasted no time in doing so, kissing you with gentle sweetness as the audience before you began applauding. In the middle of kissing your new husband, you felt your golden crown atop your head slide askew. Tom reached up and moved it back into place, grinning at you with pride.

You were a queen--all on your own. After returning from Tom’s palace, you pronounced to your father that you were more than capable of ruling without a king. When questioned about your sovereign law, you stood proud and proposed an amendment.

And in that moment that you were seated proudly on your throne, your eyes met your new husband’s as he stood down below next to your parents. He beamed with absolute pride, and he blew a soft kiss to you.

You were capable of ruling without a king, but you knew in that moment, you would always need Tom.

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