Smuts - not my

King Toney Stark/Reader/Prince Peter Parker

Peter was only eighteen when you married the king, the stern monarch losing his wife only a few months prior. The engagement and the wedding happened so quickly, and before you knew it, you were married to King Anthony Stark. Truth be told, you'd feared that you'd never marry at all, and that you'd bring shame to your name, but a stroke of luck, or perhaps misfortune, had put you directly into the king's path.
Your family had attended the queen's funeral to pay your respects. It had been drilled into you to catch the eye of an available suitor, as it had been many times before, and while you were disgusted that you could not even properly pay your respects to the royal family, you understood your parents' desperation. You were twenty-eight with no prospects on the horizon. They had no other children, no sons, your mother unable to conceive after yourself, and so the weight of carrying on the family name was solely on your shoulders.
Your family was not poor by any means, but you were far from wealthy. That being said, your mother spent an outrageous amount to get you the most captivating black dress money could buy. It was not something that would draw too much attention, but enough so that you did not look like a grieving widow yourself. When it was your turn to pay your respects, you recalled bowing to the young prince, the brunette barely acknowledging anyone's presence. It was rumored that he and his mother were close, that he'd taken her death very hard, and the way he seemed to stare right through you confirmed as much.
When you bowed to the king, apologizing for his loss, you could feel his eyes on you. This was nothing you concerned yourself with. After all, you were speaking to him and he you, but when you rose, you were taken aback by the intensity you found in his dark eyes. Where his son seemed to look through you, the king could not seem to take his eyes off of you. No one else seemed to notice, and, brushing it off, by the time you returned home, you had forgotten all about it.
Until a few days later when a royal guard was at your door. You were being invited to dine with the king, the invitation extending to your family as well, and although you were confused, you knew you could not refuse. Even if you wanted to. The dinner was nice, and you were a bit surprised at how easy it was to get along with the king. You never thought him cruel, but you'd heard that he was a rather stern man. After supper, he extended the invitation to staying at the castle so that you would not have to travel back so late in the evening. Your mother answered before you had the chance to, and it was no surprise to you that the answer was yes.
The castle was so different during the night. It seemed less welcoming and more ominous, and you found it hard to sleep that night. Convinced that the corridors would be empty, you quietly slipped from your chambers and made your way down to the kitchens. There were still a few servants lingering about, cleaning or preparing for the next day. You felt guilty for bothering them for something to drink.
"Nonsense, my lady. I would be more than happy to get that for you," a younger girl by the name of Guinevere told you.
"Oh...please," you waved her off. "No one is around. Call me Y/N."
Her eyes seemed to sparkle as you told her your name, but she said nothing more as she gave you your water. The dark corridors did not scare you, but the eerie silence was a bit off putting, especially in such a grand structure. You had turned the corner to make your way back to your room when you bumped into none other than the prince. You had almost dropped the drink, and you placed your hand on your chest in an attempt to still your heart.
"Your highness. My apologies, I did not see..."
Your words died in your throat as the prince fixed you with a look that made your stomach churn. You snapped your mouth shut, swallowing as he simply glared at you, brown eyes looking so much darker. You had not seen him since the queen's burial, and he did not look much better than he did then. Before you had a chance to say anything else, he had shoved past you, almost making you drop the goblet in your hand, and a low gasp escaped you as your other shoulder harshly met the wall. You turned to watch him go, shock and confusion pouring through you, wondering what you had done to offend him so.
It was only a few weeks later did you get your answer.
"I...I beg your pardon?"
The king reached for your hand, a soft breeze ruffling his dark hair as he brought it to his lips. They were soft as they brushed over your skin, and the corner of them curved upwards into a smile.
"Everything is already being arranged, but...this is my formal proposal. I need a queen, Peter needs a mother, and you are everything I could have hoped for," he told you.
You stared at him in shock, feeling as if the world had been ripped out from beneath your feet. Your mind whirled as you tried to make sense of this and where this had come from, and suddenly, the puzzle started to piece together. The countless dinner invitations, the gleam in your parents' eyes, the hushed conversations...the prince's animosity. You were being courted by the king this whole time...and you'd been none the wiser. His chuckle pulled you from your thoughts.
"When your mother told me that you could be quite oblivious, I thought that it was a simple exaggeration."
He found humor in your distress, you realized, and you swallowed.
"I do not know what to say," you slowly breathed, and you watched him tilt his head at you, a frown beginning to form.
"You say yes," he said with a scoffing laugh as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.
You realized that to anyone else, it would be.
"Your majesty...I feel as if we've only just met. Surely, you would allow me time to think-."
"Think about what?"
His hand tightened on yours, and you winced. He leaned in, genuine confusion in his dark eyes as he stared into your own.
"I am a king telling you that you are to be my queen...and you are hesitant?"
The severity of the situation suddenly dawned on you. Anthony was a king. You were a mere lady attempting to refuse his proposal for marriage, and your heart sank to your stomach. You blinked at him, and his face suddenly smoothed over as he sighed.
"Ah. I understand what this is about..."
"You do...?"
He softly smiled at you, reaching up to brush his thumb along your chin.
"You come from an acceptable background. You are beautiful and smart and kind. I assure you, this is genuine. This is not some poor attempt to cope with my grief. In all honesty, my marriage to the queen was over long before she died," he told you.
You looked away, realizing that you were not getting out of this. Whether you liked it or not, you would be marrying the king, and with reluctance and a shaky voice, you accepted his proposal. He straightened when you did, a look of satisfaction on his features, and he looked as if he wanted to kiss you. You were thankful that he did not.
The wedding took place only a couple of months later, every nearby royal, and even some across the water, in attendance. It was a grand and beautiful affair, no expense spared, and it was days later that you found out it far outshined his first wedding. You remembered feeling sick as you walked down the aisle, the feeling only getting worse as your gaze met that of the prince.
In the time since the official engagement, you had interacted with the prince only a handful of times. Each time more disastrous than the last. You told yourself that he was grieving. His mother's death was sudden and had hit him hard and here his father was, marrying again so soon. You did not fault him for his cold behavior. He was young, after all. You would expect nothing less, to be honest, but you could not lie and say that it did not hurt.
Unfortunately, even after the marriage, he did not soften towards you. Every attempt to get to know him was met with nothing short of loathing, and you finally accepted that he would come around in his own time. The last thing you wanted Peter to think was that you were trying to replace his mother. You did not know how long this would go on, but you did not expect it to be more than a year.
You were wrong.
"I throw that kid the best birthday celebration a nineteen year old could ask for and this is how he shows his appreciation? By not even having the decency to show up?"
Tony was angry as he sipped from his goblet, glaring down at the attendees dancing below. A wonderful number was being played by a string quartet, several single princesses in attendance, and an hour into the celebration, Peter was still absent. You placed your hand on your husband's arm with a sigh.
"I am sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for it, Tony. He will show," you tried to assure him.
His shoulders sagged as he slammed his drink down, and his eyes softened as he turned to you. He reached for you, and you flinched, but he paid it no mind as he brushed his finger along your cheek.
"You are far too nice to him...and he hardly deserves it," he whispered.
"He's your son," you reminded him with a frown. "Do not talk about him like that."
"He's ungrateful," he spat.
"He's grieving," you argued.
"It's been a year," Tony sneered. "How much time does he need?"
You sharply turned away, swallowing a sigh as anger flared within you. Sometimes Tony could be so insensitive, amongst other things, and it baffled you. Peter lost the only mother he ever knew, and Tony was treating it as if it was something minor. After a few more moments, you excused yourself under the guise of needing some air. In truth, you were determined to track down the prince.
It was not a hard task. He tended to frequent the same places when he called himself hiding. You found him deep within the grounds, lounging on a branch high up in the tree. It was getting late, the sun currently setting, and you held up the skirts of your dress as you trudged towards him. You knew that he heard you, and you resisted the urge to sigh as you stood below him. Your heart ached for him as you could not even begin to imagine what he was going through. After all, you still had both of your parents.
"Peter," you eventually called.
He yet again pretended as if he had not heard you, a hurtful habit of his, and this time you did sigh.
"Peter, please come down. Your father is concerned about your whereabouts, and...and I am concerned about you. I-."
"Why have you deluded yourself into thinking I care about how you feel?"
His tone was cold, venom coating every word, and your heart clenched. He rarely spoke to you, every time he did as cold as today, but this was different. You were unsure of what to say, and before you had the chance to remedy that, he was hopping down. It was a bit cool out, and his coat flared behind him as he strode towards you, face hard and nostrils flared.
"Why have you deluded yourself into thinking that I care about you at all?"
You reared back, staring at him with wide eyes. His words hurt, that you would not deny, and as much as you fought against it, you could feel a familiar burn behind your eyes. You swallowed, briefly glancing down as you took a step back.
"Peter-."
"My mother was not even in the ground properly before you came sniffing around my father like a bitch in heat," he sneered.
Your lips parted, wide eyes staring at him in shock at his words. You had never seen him look so hateful, borderline murderous, and you suddenly realized that this was about more than grief.
"P-Peter...that... That is not what happened-."
"Isn't it?" he wondered, taking another step towards you. "Do you think me stupid? Blind? You think I have never known of the way so many women prayed on my mother's downfall?"
"I never-."
"Do you think that I do not know that you all came to her funeral not as mourners, but as vultures? As desperate snakes trying to slip your way into my father's bed so that you may take her place?"
"No! That is not what happened-!"
"You are no different from the rest!"
He was practically upon you now, glaring down his nose at you with so much disgust it finally made the tears spill over.
"I always knew that you were a desperate and conniving whore..."
You gasped, more tears falling at his insult. He raised one dark eyebrow at you.
"...but I never took you for a liar too."
You were frozen as he looked you over one last time before breezing past you. You shook, unable to stop the tears, and you felt like you were going to be sick. You had no idea that Peter's disdain was in fact not misplaced due to grief, but was instead as genuine as could be because he thought you to be something you were not. This knowledge made your heart hurt, and it turned out that you were not as adept at hiding your feelings as you thought.
"What troubles you so?" Tony wondered later that night, his hand on your shoulder as you sat at your vanity.
"Whatever do you mean?" you asked with a small smile.
His gaze met yours in the mirror, and the way his jaw clenched told you that he did not have much patience tonight. His fingers pressed into your skin, and you swallowed. You looked away, eyes blurring a bit as you recalled Peter's cruel words.
"Peter hates me," you confessed.
You heard Tony heave a sigh, and you turned to look up at him. He ran his hand through his hair as he rolled his eyes.
"That kid hates everyone and everything," he replied.
"No, Tony. You do not understand. He believes me to be something I am not. He thinks that I schemed my way into marrying you, that I am trying to replace his mother-."
"Peter will be just fine. He will grow to get over it in time," was his enlightening reply, and you stood.
"But it is not true. Tony, does this not bother you? Because it bothers me! He should be like a son to me. He should be looking to me for guidance and care, and he curses the very ground I walk on. It hurts," you spat, wrapping your arms around yourself.
Tony's entire demeanor softened, and he pulled you into his arms. He pressed his lips to your cheek, and you winced at the soreness before he took your chin in between his fingers. He tilted his head at you.
"I love that you've grown to really care about him. It warms my cold heart..."
You forced a chuckle at that.
"...but Peter has always been a bit difficult when it comes to me and anything in relation to me. His mother is really the only person he ever really connected with. This will pass, I assure you."
You reluctantly accepted that Tony just did not care about this as much as you did, and likely never would. Against your better judgement, you opted to let it go, and softly exhaled when Tony pressed his lips to your jaw. He trailed kisses down your neck, tightening his arms around you.
"As much as I enjoy your big heart, I would rather not spend the rest of the night discussing my troubled son," he murmured, lips finally finding yours.
You did not know if you would ever grow used to making love to Tony. The only time he had ever been anything close to gentle was on your wedding night, and you had still cried, waking up sore and bruised. It eventually dawned on you that this was simply how Tony was, but it did not mean that you had to like it.