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solxamber · 4 months ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: How to Escape a Kingdom || Silver Vanrouge

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a bad novel. The prince is awful. The villainess is worse. The only thing keeping you going is your gorgeous, tired fiancé, Silver Vanrouge.

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You prided yourself on being a good friend. A great friend, even. The kind of friend who remembered birthdays, hyped up questionable outfit choices, and provided alibis without asking too many questions. But as you stared at the abomination that was your best friend’s first novel, you began to reconsider your life choices.

The book sat in your lap like a lead weight, its aggressively pastel cover mocking you with every passing second. You had read it. You had survived it. But at what cost?

It had started as a simple enough premise: Silver, Duke of the North, was engaged to the heroine. A heroine so naively pure that if someone told her oxygen was a scam, she’d hold her breath until she passed out. The main villains were the neglected fifth prince and his fiancée, the villainess.

The villainess wanted Silver, but Silver wanted nothing to do with her. The fifth prince wanted the heroine, but the heroine, lacking two functional brain cells to rub together, had no idea what was going on.

And then things went completely off the rails.

Somehow, in a sequence of events that you were still trying to understand, Silver got shipped off to an unwinnable war and promptly died. The villainess mysteriously vanished (???), and then—without explanation—the heroine and the prince got married. The end.

You closed the book with the slow, deliberate movements of someone trying not to hurl it through a window. You inhaled deeply. You exhaled through your nose like a dragon trying not to incinerate a village.

You placed the book on the table.

Then you pressed your forehead against the table and contemplated your existence.

Tomorrow, you had to meet your best friend. You had to look them in the eye and tell them what you thought. You had to lie. Or worse—tell the truth.

You did not want to do this.

You needed divine intervention. A bolt of lightning, a sudden coma, a wormhole opening up beneath your feet.

As you walked to their house the next day, still praying for salvation, the universe finally answered.

Unfortunately, it did so in the form of a feral, airborne raccoon.

You were minding your own business, walking past a trashcan, when—BAM. A raccoon launched itself at you with the force of a caffeinated cryptid. There was no warning. No time to react. Just a blur of fur and the sheer weight of your sins crashing into your face.

Startled, you screamed, stumbled, and in a tragic display of physics and poor life choices, tumbled backwards—directly into the trashcan.

The lid snapped shut.

You flailed. You kicked. You thought, Wow, this is really happening, huh?

Then, to add insult to injury, the trashcan began to roll.

With you inside it.

You careened down the street, a human burrito of garbage and regret, before hitting a curb at just the right angle to be yeeted violently into the air.

There was a moment—just a moment—where time slowed, and you thought, Well. At least I don’t have to tell them anymore.

You woke up with that distinct, gnawing feeling that something was off.

It wasn’t the usual I forgot to send an email kind of off. No, this was the I am in the wrong dimension kind of off.

First of all, the bed was too big. Not just luxurious hotel big, but dear God, am I a Victorian orphan who got adopted by a morally gray billionaire? big.

Second, the air smelled clean. Not the comforting, familiar scent of your slightly questionable apartment, where the air carried the faint traces of instant ramen and the existential despair of adulthood.

Third—why was there noise?

You lived alone. The only other living creature that occasionally graced your presence was that one cockroach you had an unspoken truce with. So unless Mr. Roach had recently acquired sentience and thrown himself a rager, someone else was here.

Panic kicked in. You bolted upright, turned your head—this was absolutely not your home.

The walls were pristine. The curtains looked expensive. There was a vanity table. The entire place screamed old money, like the kind of place where people casually owned oil paintings of their ancestors who may or may not have committed tax fraud.

You shot out of bed so fast you nearly concussed yourself on the nearest piece of furniture. Your feet hit the floor. You sprinted to the mirror, skidded to a stop, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Staring back at you was a person. A person you knew. A person whose entire personality consisted of:

Being impossibly, devastatingly naïve.

Trusting people so fast she’d probably accept a drink labeled 'Not Poison' because "surely no one would lie about that."

Having the observational skills of a decorative cactus.

You were the heroine.

A low, horrified whimper escaped your throat. You sank to the floor, trembling hands pressing into your face.

This was a nightmare. A cruel joke. A divine punishment for every time you had talked smack about the heroine’s IQ in your past life.

The girl who had the critical thinking skills of a potato. The girl whose brain you had long suspected was running exclusively on the Baby Shark song on loop.

And now you were her.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your forehead against the cool floor.

You had survived death. You had defied the natural order.

And for what?

To be reincarnated as a human goldfish with no object permanence?

You were going to die.

Again.

Before you could shake your fist at the heavens and demand an explanation for your untimely demise (courtesy of an overly aggressive raccoon and an unfortunately placed trash can), you needed to do what all great strategists did when thrown into an unwinnable situation: panic internally while pretending you had a plan.

You knew this story. You knew its plot holes were deeper than a budget dungeon crawl, and its character motivations made less sense than a pigeon with a degree in economics. But you had an advantage—foreknowledge. And by the gods, you were going to use it.

The first step? Establishing yourself as Not an Idiot™.

The second step? Ensuring you did not, under any circumstances, end up falling for the fifth prince’s brand of bootleg romantic villainy.

The third step? Avoiding an untimely death like the last protagonist (RIP Silver, Duke of the North, gone but never forgotten).

With this sacred checklist in mind, you marched outside, determined to assert control over your fate—

—only to be immediately ambushed by a squadron of highly trained maids who descended upon you like a swarm of fabric-wielding locusts.

You barely had time to register their presence before you were stripped, perfumed, corseted, and shoved into an outfit so elaborate that it probably required its own construction permit. There were lace trimmings, unnecessary bows, and a pair of shoes so polished you could see your rapidly growing sense of existential dread reflected in them.

You were officially trapped in Victorian Dress-Up Hell.

And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, you were dragged straight to breakfast with your fiancé.

Now, normally, this would be the part where you started screaming. But then you remembered who your fiancé was.

Silver. Duke of the North. The only well-written character in the entire dumpster fire of a novel. A man of honor, competence, and stunning good looks.

Stunning good looks?

That was putting it lightly.

The moment you walked into the dining room, you had to physically stop yourself from gasping like some sort of Victorian maiden experiencing her first bout of hysteria.

Because dear gods above and below—how was he even prettier than his book illustration?!

This was unfair. Illegal. You wanted to file a formal complaint to whatever divine entity was responsible for sculpting this man.

His eyes were closed, silver lashes resting against his cheeks, and you thought—if Sleeping Beauty ever existed, this would be him. A prince of ethereal beauty, untouched by the sins of the world.

And then his eyes fluttered open, revealing a shade that can only be described as 'auroral', and you had to actively bite the inside of your cheek to avoid making a noise so embarrassing that you would have to immediately fake your own death to escape the consequences.

Silver, unaware of your minor cardiac event, blinked at you in mild surprise before rising to pull out your chair. Like a gentleman. Like a man raised with actual etiquette.

Oh. Oh, you were in danger.

Swallowing down the entirely inappropriate reaction threatening to burst forth, you sat down and focused on eating. Silver, as always, was polite and composed, and just when you thought you could make it through breakfast without incident—

He mentioned the prince and the villainess were visiting today.

You must have made a face because he immediately looked concerned. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You usually enjoy their visits.”

Ah. Right. The original heroine was an idiot who thought being terrorized by a manipulative prince with daddy issues and a deranged villainess was fun.

You plastered on your best "I am absolutely thrilled" smile and forced out a chipper, “I can’t wait.”

Silver, bless his soul, nodded.

Internally, you were already constructing an elaborate plan to ensure that the prince got the message loud and clear: you were NOT interested.

And if that involved metaphorically throwing him off a metaphorical cliff?

Well. You had no objections.

The moment the Fifth Prince and the Villainess walked into the room, you instinctively tightened your grip on Silver’s sleeve like a soldier preparing for war. Because that’s exactly what this was—a battle. A battle of wits, patience, and trying very hard not to start swinging the nearest porcelain teapot.

The prince, in all his bootleg Casanova glory, approached first, his slick hair practically radiating the arrogance of a man who had never been told “no” in his entire life. His regal posture was flawless, his smirk expertly practiced in front of a mirror for at least five hours a day, and his eyes held the glint of a man who truly believed women were won like prizes at a rigged carnival game.

He reached for your hand, expecting you to giggle like a brainless debutante and let him hold it for an amount of time that was definitely pushing social norms.

Instead, you gripped his hand like a corporate executive about to close a high-stakes business deal. One firm shake. Then, for good measure, you slapped him on the back with the solid force of a man congratulating his buddy on a promotion.

“Good to see you, pal,” you said, voice brimming with friendly aggression.

The prince, visibly malfunctioning, blinked. “I—”

But you were already moving, looping your arm through Silver’s and pressing close to his side like you were the world’s most affectionate barnacle.

Silver, bless his chivalrous heart, barely hesitated before holding your hand firmly in return, his grip warm and steady. You had to physically restrain yourself from letting out a deranged, victorious giggle at the look on the prince’s face. He was staring at your interlocked hands like someone had just stolen his dessert plate right in front of him.

Oh, what a shame. What a tragedy. You almost felt bad.

Almost.

Then came the villainess.

She strutted forward, all sharp smiles and predatory grace, her heavily perfumed presence announcing itself like a nuclear bomb made of floral overkill. Without hesitation, she reached for Silver’s arm, her movements slow, deliberate—

Silver, in response, immediately took a step back like she had just pulled out a vial labeled “Highly Contagious Disease—Do Not Touch.”

You had never respected a man more in your life.

With the efficiency of someone handling a customer complaint, you smoothly stepped between them and took her hand instead. One quick shake—firm, professional, just detached enough to say I acknowledge you exist but not in any way that brings me joy.

She stared at you, visibly seething, like a cat that had just been denied access to the good couch.

Behind you, Silver sighed in such obvious relief that you were pretty sure you just secured a place in his will.

Tea time was, predictably, a disaster.

The prince kept attempting to flirt with you, hitting you with lines so cringeworthy that they could legally be classified as psychological warfare. Every time he tried, you shot him down with the efficiency of a seasoned HR manager rejecting an office romance scandal.

Meanwhile, the villainess was shamelessly trying to touch Silver, leaning in with the dramatic flair of a woman in a period drama who had just found out she had two months to live. Silver, for his part, looked two seconds away from either falling asleep or astral projecting out of sheer discomfort.

By the time they finally left, you had experienced the emotional equivalent of running a full marathon while being chased by geese.

Silver, apparently just as exhausted, slumped onto you like a marionette whose strings had just been brutally severed.

You sat there, unmoving, staring at the top of his head like you had just been gifted an extremely delicate and beautiful artifact. His silver hair was soft, his breathing slow and steady, and—

Oh. You were in danger again.

Future plans. Right. Focus.

You sat there, contemplating your next move like a war general preparing for battle. Clearly, Operation I Am Not Interested, Your Highness was off to a strong start. But you needed a long-term strategy. A game plan. A—

Silver stirred.

You glanced down, just in time to see his eyes flutter open, confusion evident in the soft furrow of his brow. Then he blinked. Looked around. Realized he was half-sprawled across your lap.

A deep red blush spread across his face like ink soaking into parchment. “I—I’m so sorry—”

You, feeling absolutely no shame about using this opportunity to appreciate just how stunning this man was, smiled. “It’s okay.”

Silver looked like he wanted to sink into the floor and never return.

And as you gazed at him—this rare creature of beauty and genuine kindness, blushing like he was the maiden in distress—you thought, It has to be illegal to be this pretty AND nice.

And then, in true romantic fashion, you immediately started plotting ways to keep him as far away from the main plot as possible

You had, to put it simply, absolutely nothing to do.

After successfully fending off the Fifth Prince’s attempts at romance and blocking the Villainess like a medieval goalie, your schedule was depressingly empty. No political meetings. No noble drama. Just you, a very comfortable chair, and the creeping existential dread of living inside a book with a plot so brain-cell-depleting that it should come with a warning label.

So, naturally, you decided to go watch Silver train.

And damn.

You thought you were prepared. You really did. But watching Silver train was a completely different beast from reading about it in the novel.

The way his sword cut through the air? Poetry.

The way his muscles flexed as he parried and countered? Divine artistry.

The way he casually knocked his opponents to the ground while offering them helpful advice like, “You left your right side open. Try shifting your stance” as if he hadn’t just folded them like cheap laundry? Criminal.

You found yourself wishing for one of those tiny opera glasses so you could watch this in HD. Maybe even a chaise lounge so you could dramatically swoon at the appropriate moments.

But you settled for the next best thing—sitting with a cold bottle of water, pretending you weren’t staring at him like an awestruck peasant witnessing a deity descend from the heavens.

Silver eventually noticed your presence and, being the kind soul that he was, immediately came over. Probably to check if you were in distress because, let’s be honest, the original heroine never did anything without needing someone’s help five minutes later.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, eyes filled with genuine concern.

You blinked. “Nope. Just brought you this.”

You handed him the water, and— oh. Oh, wow. Was he blushing?

“I—thank you,” Silver said, taking the bottle with a kind of stunned hesitation, as if no one had ever done something nice for him before. Which, honestly, in this novel? Entirely possible.

“Well, since you’re bored,” he continued, after taking a drink, “would you like to take a walk around town?”

You nodded. Because, really, what else were you going to do? Stare at a wall? Accidentally trigger a romance flag with the prince by breathing in his general direction? No, thank you.

The town was bustling. People were selling overpriced trinkets, children were running around with the manic energy of creatures that had never paid taxes, and the smell of fresh bread filled the air.

You were browsing a suspiciously glittery hat stall when you saw it—a tiny fortune-telling booth, tucked between a bakery and a store selling the kind of weapons that definitely weren’t legally registered.

“Want to check that out?” you asked Silver, jerking your head toward the booth.

Silver, because he was down for anything as long as it didn’t involve unnecessary drama, nodded.

The fortune teller was exactly what you expected. Mysterious robes? Check. Hood obscuring half their face? Check. A table full of random, ominous objects? Check. A single, gnarled hand that slowly reached out the moment you sat down? Horrifying, but also check.

“Your fate is… twisting.” The fortune teller’s voice was dramatic, like they got paid per cryptic sentence. “You must learn to change your destiny. And… most importantly… you must learn how to say no.”

You and Silver exchanged looks.

“…Huh?”

The fortune teller did not elaborate. They simply leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

Well. That was unhelpful.

You both stood up, ready to leave when—

“Oh,” the fortune teller added, just as you were stepping out. “Good luck with your romance.”

You and Silver froze.

The air became so thick with tension that you could probably cut it with one of the overpriced swords from earlier.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you made eye contact.

Silver, visibly flustered, stared very hard at a distant fruit stand.

You, on the other hand, suddenly found a deep, profound interest in the cobblestone street, as if it held the answers to life’s mysteries.

The entire walk home was excruciating. Not because of anything bad—no, because your brains were both melting from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

Every time your hands almost brushed, one of you would jolt like you’d been electrocuted.

At one point, Silver cleared his throat awkwardly.

At another, you tripped on absolutely nothing and had to pretend it didn’t happen.

By the time you got back, you were convinced that the fortune teller wasn’t actually magical, just a professional-level troll who lived for drama.

And you, unfortunately, had walked straight into it.

It was a perfectly peaceful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and for once, you weren’t being subjected to the medieval drama equivalent of a telenovela.

So, naturally, fate decided to drop-kick that peace into the sun.

One moment, you were lounging in the garden, enjoying the fleeting calm, and the next—

A shadow descended upon you. Something small, fast, and full of chaotic energy launched itself from the goddamn sky.

You barely had time to react before you were two inches away from seeing God again.

By some miracle (or the sheer will of your survival instincts), you managed to not die as a tiny, incredibly energetic man landed in front of you, grinning like he hadn’t just almost assassinated you with his entrance.

“Oops!” he chirped, not looking apologetic at all. “Did I scare you?”

Scare you? Sir, you had aged ten years and seen your life flash before your eyes like a badly edited PowerPoint presentation.

“Who—” you gasped, still processing your near-death experience, “—who are you?”

The menace placed a hand on his chest, dramatic as hell. “Nice to meet you, future daughter-in-law!”

Oh. Oh.

So this was Silver’s dad.

You had to take a moment. Because one—this man did not look like anyone’s dad. He looked like someone’s mischievous younger brother who steals your socks and sets them on fire for fun. And two—Silver was so calm and gentle and responsible.

How?

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN??

Genetics had to be playing 4D chess.

But you quickly discovered that while Lilia was absolutely, certifiably insane, he was also hilarious.

So, like any normal people, you both immediately started talking mad shit about the Fifth Prince and the Villainess.

“Can you believe,” you huffed, sipping your tea like an 18th-century noble gossiping at a ball, “that the Prince keeps trying to flirt with me in front of Silver? In public? With witnesses?”

Lilia cackled. “That boy has no shame. And his fiancée—gods above, she has the personality of a spoon.”

You nearly choked on your tea. “RIGHT?? And she keeps trying to touch Silver like he’s a limited-edition collectible.”

Lilia grinned. “Well, he is handsome.”

“Yeah, but he’s not touchable handsome. He’s look from afar and cry a little handsome.”

“Ah, so you cry when you look at him?”

“…I— I feel like I’m being entrapped by my own words.”

“What are you two talking about?”

You both turned to see Silver standing there, looking… confused.

You, ever the graceful conversationalist, froze like you had been caught committing treason.

Lilia, on the other hand, looked positively delighted.

“Oh, just talking about our beloved Crown Prince,” he said, tone dripping with sarcasm so thick you could butter toast with it.

Silver blinked. His eyes slowly drifted to you.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Your dad and I were just bonding over our deep, mutual hatred.”

There was a pause. And then—

Silver smiled.

Not just any smile. A pleased smile. The kind of smile you’d expect from a man who just found out his worst enemy stepped on a rake.

Which. Well.

Considering the Crown Prince was his worst enemy, that checked out.

Unfortunately, the moment of camaraderie didn’t last.

Because Lilia, with the delight of someone about to ruin your entire month, dropped a bombshell.

“Oh, by the way,” he said casually, like he wasn’t about to wreck your day, “war is brewing. The Prince wants Silver to go to the front lines.”

You stopped breathing.

Your blood turned to ice.

The original heroine had been all for it—saying some nonsense about how it was the right thing to do and how Silver should go save lives.

You?

You were NOT that kind of saint.

You were going to beg.

You were going to grovel.

You were going to throw yourself onto the ground like a soccer player faking an injury if you had to.

Silver was NOT going to war.

Lilia was watching you now, a knowing smile on his face.

You were too busy plotting your fiancé’s survival to care.

You had barely finished your morning tea when trouble arrived at your doorstep, wrapped in a cloak of audacity and bad financial decisions.

See, apparently, the previous owner of your body had the charitable sense of a malfunctioning Roomba. She’d give money to anything that sounded remotely good. Orphanage? Sure! Rehabilitation center? Fantastic! An organization claiming to rescue drowning fish? Take all of it.

And now, since you had not been throwing bags of gold at questionable "charities" like a medieval Jeff Bezos with a conscience, someone had come personally to shake you down.

The man standing in front of you was the exact type of person who looked like he belonged in a back alley deal gone wrong. He had the thin mustache of a man who thought twirling it made him look menacing and the beady eyes of someone who’d absolutely try to sell you "magic beans" at a 500% markup.

"You!" he sneered, pointing a bony finger at you like he was about to curse your entire bloodline. "Why have you ceased your donations to the Sacred Order of the Benevolent Fish Saviors? Do you not care for the plight of the aquatic brethren?"

You stared at him, unblinking.

“…Are you seriously trying to convince me that fish can drown?”

"The oceans are a dangerous place!" he snapped, voice thick with righteous fury. "Only the kindhearted can understand the delicate balance of aquatic life—”

"Alright, shut up." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "No more money. Get a real job. Touch some grass. Read a book that isn’t written by con artists."

You thought that would be the end of it. Oh, how wrong you were.

Because instead of groveling like any normal scam artist when their grift gets cut off, this man decided to take the most insane course of action possible—he lunged at you.

Now, let’s get one thing straight. You were ready to commit a crime. Your 4-inch heels were locked, loaded, and prepared to introduce themselves to his ribcage. But you didn’t even get the chance.

Because before you could react, something blurred at the edge of your vision—

CRACK.

The next thing you knew, the man was frozen in place, his wrist locked in an iron grip, and standing beside you was Silver.

Silver, who you hadn’t even noticed entering the room.

Silver, whose grip looked firm enough to end generations.

Silver, who just made a grown man sound like a dying accordion.

The scammer wheezed, his face rapidly losing color as he tried and failed to wrench himself free.

Silver’s expression? Calm. Unbothered. Serene, even. Like he hadn’t just manhandled this guy into an early retirement.

“…I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack my fiancée,” Silver said, voice so polite that it somehow made everything ten times more terrifying.

You blinked. You could physically hear the bones in the scammer’s arm considering a career change.

Silver finally let go—shoving him toward the door like he was disposing of a particularly annoying mosquito. The man stumbled out, barely managing to stay upright, and within seconds, he was sprinting off the property like the devil himself was on his heels.

When Silver turned back to you, he looked almost sheepish. "…Sorry you had to see that," he murmured. "I don’t usually act like that in front of others."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Because what were you supposed to say to that?

“Oh no, Silver, that was awful. Truly terrible. In fact, I definitely did not find it insanely attractive when you nearly broke a man’s wrist for me.”

Yeah, no way in hell were you admitting that.

Instead, you just smiled, folding your hands neatly in front of you. "No, no, it’s fine. No need to apologize."

Silver still looked vaguely guilty. You, meanwhile, were trying very hard to resist the urge to start giggling like a schoolgirl.

Because holy shit.

Was it legal to be this attractive AND chivalrous?

If Silver kept this up, you were going to have a serious problem.

The ball was grand, elegant, and, most importantly, the single biggest waste of your time since you once spent two hours watching a documentary about the history of forks.

You had already resigned yourself to being bored out of your mind when Lilia swooped in like the guardian angel you never asked for and dragged you to a shadowy corner of the ballroom. This was, according to him, the best place to engage in the most sacred of all noble pastimes—people-watching and ruthless judgment.

And what a show it was.

"Oh, oh, look at that one!" Lilia cackled, nearly doubling over as he pointed at a woman who had, in a bold and truly ill-advised move, decided to wear a dress that looked like a monochrome cake. "She looks like she repurposed a funeral veil!"

You took a sip of your drink and nearly spit it out. "Lilia, that dress has committed war crimes against fashion."

"The ruffles! The sleeves! It’s like someone asked themselves, ‘How do I make this look as unflattering as possible?’ and then succeeded beyond their wildest dreams," he added.

You continued this noble pursuit for a solid fifteen minutes, giggling over outfits that defied both reason and taste. The two of you had just started critiquing a man who looked like he had raided a circus wardrobe when your night took a dramatic turn for the worse. The prince—His Royal Unwantedness—had spotted you.

You watched in horror as he began striding over, each step dripping with the unearned confidence of a man who had never been told "absolutely not" in his entire life except by his father. This was a man who probably thought women fainted at the mere sight of him when, in reality, they were most likely collapsing from secondhand embarrassment.

Lilia’s expression shifted instantly. The usual mischievous twinkle in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold and sharp. He looked ready to commit several crimes, and you were tempted to let him.

But no. You were mature. You were reasonable. You were absolutely about to handle this like a professional.

So you winked at Lilia and whispered, "Relax. I got this."

The prince didn’t bother with pleasantries when he arrived, because of course he didn’t. "Dance with me," he said, because why waste time on politeness when you can just issue demands like a badly written romance villain?

You took his hand with a practiced, polite smile. "Of course, Your Highness," you said sweetly, the verbal equivalent of setting a trap and waiting for him to fall right in.

The dance started off normally enough. The prince led you across the ballroom, his movements controlled and graceful. Unfortunately, any illusion of elegance was immediately ruined by the fact that he would not stop staring at you. Not in the way Silver did, all soft and careful, but like he was trying to figure out if you were edible.

"You seem different tonight," he said, voice oozing with forced charm. "More… confident."

You forced out a laugh that you hoped conveyed the exact right amount of fake amusement. "And you seem exactly the same, Your Highness."

If he noticed the insult, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he pulled you just a little closer. That was his first mistake.

His second mistake came when his hand decided to wander lower than what was remotely appropriate.

Your reaction was immediate. You didn’t even think—your knee just shot up with the force of divine judgment.

And oh, what a glorious moment it was.

The prince let out a strangled sound somewhere between a dying peacock and a man realizing all his hopes and dreams had just been shattered. He crumpled like a marionette with cut strings, collapsing into himself as the entire ballroom fell into stunned silence.

For one perfect, breathtaking moment, nobody spoke.

Then you gasped dramatically, placing a delicate hand over your mouth like the very picture of innocent devastation. "Oh my goodness!" you exclaimed, voice laced with the perfect amount of fake concern. "I was simply startled when you touched me there! I had no idea you were so close!"

The Empress, who had been watching this whole scene unfold with the same expression one might wear when realizing their soup had a cockroach in it, took a single look at her son, let out a long, exhausted sigh, and then turned on her heel and left the ballroom. She didn’t even glance back.

Somewhere behind you, Lilia was laughing so hard he had to physically clutch a pillar for support.

Before you could bask in your triumph, a warm, familiar presence appeared at your side.

Silver.

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice quiet but firm.

You nodded, still recovering from the sheer joy of watching the prince—His Royal Lowness— collapse like a sandcastle at high tide. "I’m fine," you assured him.

Silver, ever thorough, scanned you with a careful gaze, double-checking for any signs of distress. Apparently satisfied, he slowly turned his attention to the prince, who was still on the floor making noises that sounded vaguely like whimpering.

Silver’s face remained neutral, but the sheer force of his glare was something otherworldly. You were surprised the prince hadn’t just spontaneously combusted on the spot.

Lilia sauntered up beside you and, with the most casual nonchalance in the world, lifted his hand and gave you a perfectly subtle high-five.

Falling in love with Silver was not something you had planned for. It wasn’t even something you had remotely considered, because falling for a fictional character—even one brought to life by the absurdity of your existence—was stupid.

And yet, here you were. Doomed.

It had started subtly, like a slow-acting poison. You’d watch him train and catch yourself admiring the way he moved, graceful and disciplined, like a warrior from some epic tale.

Then it got worse. A white bunny hopping through the garden? That looks like Silver. A particularly stunning sunset, lilac and soft? Those are Silver’s eyes. A suspiciously sharp knife on the dinner table? Silver has a sharp sword.

There was no escape. The entire world had transformed into a living scrapbook of Silver-Themed Hallucinations, and it was ruining you.

You couldn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, there he was—standing under the moonlight, holding your hand, looking at you like you were something precious. It was unbearable.

Which brought you to now.

You were sitting at a tea party, drowning in a state of sleep deprivation so severe that you were genuinely considering just face-planting into your teacup and accepting whatever fate awaited you. The sunlight was too bright, the air was too floral, and the pastries tasted like nothing. Everything sucked.

And then, because the universe hated you, the villainess approached.

She had the smug, self-satisfied look of someone who had never had a single original thought in her life. "Oh dear," she said, voice dripping with saccharine mockery, "you look absolutely dreadful today. Has your precious Duke been keeping you up all night?"

Usually, you would have handled this with grace. A snide remark, a well-placed jab, maybe even an eyeroll so dramatic it would have sent you into another timeline.

But not today.

Today, you were tired.

Today, you were grappling with a full-scale emotional crisis.

Today, you had reached your limit.

So, instead of responding like a rational, civilized person, you calmly reached for the nearest cup of juice, lifted it with all the dignity of a noblewoman, and threw it directly at her face.

The liquid splashed over her dress, staining the expensive fabric a deep, unforgiving red.

Silence. Absolute silence.

Her mouth opened, presumably to shriek, but you were not done.

Before she could get a word out, you grabbed her by the collar, yanking her forward so she could fully comprehend the depths of your unholy exhaustion.

"The next time you run your mouth," you said, voice dangerously low, "you might just end up meeting God."

Her eyes widened in pure, unfiltered terror.

Oh, but you weren’t finished. You gave her collar a final, dramatic tug. "And keep your hands off my fiancé."

Then, with the grandeur of a war general who had just claimed victory, you released her, turned on your heel, and stormed out.

Silver, who had witnessed everything, stared at you as though you had just set the entire kingdom on fire.

You grabbed his wrist, ignoring the way he flinched in bewilderment, and dragged him out with you.

You didn’t stop until you were safely inside the carriage, away from prying eyes, and only then did you collapse onto the seat, pressing your hands against your face.

Silver sat beside you, still looking utterly shell-shocked. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, clearly struggling to form a single coherent thought.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slowly reached for your hand. His touch was warm, steady—like an anchor. "What’s wrong?" he asked softly.

And that was it. The last thread of your restraint snapped.

Before you could even think about stopping yourself, you turned to him, grabbed his face, and kissed him.

It was immediate. There was no hesitation, no moment of confusion. Silver kissed you back like he had been waiting for this his whole life. His hands moved to cradle your face, gentle but firm, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

You didn’t know how long it lasted—time had ceased to exist—but when you finally pulled away, your heart was a mess.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment crush you. "I love you," you admitted, voice raw. "And I have been suffering."

Silver’s eyes widened, but only for a moment. Then, with a sudden, almost breathless laugh, he leaned in again. "I love you too," he murmured against your lips, "so much."

And then he kissed you again.

Take that, villainess.

There were many things you did not want to deal with first thing in the morning.

A war? Absolutely not.

A war involving Silver? Somebody was going to die.

You groaned as you dragged yourself out of bed at the noise downstairs, feeling like a corpse being forced to participate in capitalism. You stomped downstairs, barely managing to keep yourself upright, and immediately regretted existing.

Silver was already in the living room, arms crossed, looking about two seconds away from snapping someone’s spine in half like a stale breadstick. Lilia, usually a walking cryptid with an unshakable grin, looked like he was holding back every unholy thought in his mind just for the sake of his son’s sanity.

And then. Them.

The Prince. The Villainess. The living embodiments of tax fraud and emotional instability.

Oh, hell no.

You grabbed the nearest maid, who was visibly vibrating with fear, and whispered, "What’s happening?"

She gulped. "T-The Prince is trying to send His Grace to lead the war."

Your soul ascended.

Your patience evaporated.

You had not suffered through an isekai, navigated 18th-century nonsense, and fallen head over heels for your incredibly hot and kind fiancé just for him to be thrown into a battlefield meat grinder because some discount royal didn’t want to risk his own cowardly neck.

You stormed across the room like a woman possessed, and the moment the Prince saw you, his whole face lit up—because he thought you were still the naive airhead he could manipulate into convincing Silver to go die for him.

The Villainess, however? She shrank back immediately.

Maybe it was the murderous glare you were directing at them. Maybe it was because she had witnessed your unhinged wrath firsthand. Maybe it was because deep down, she understood that she was in the presence of a feral raccoon of a person who had already died once and had nothing left to lose.

The Prince reached out to touch your shoulder as if he could physically weasel you onto his side.

Big mistake.

You swatted his hand away so hard you nearly dislocated his wrist.

"No," you said, voice dripping with finality.

The Prince blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Silver’s not going to war." You looked him dead in the eyes. "Try someone else."

Silence.

The Prince’s face twisted into a diplomatic smile. "But, my dear—"

"Do I look like your dear?" You took a step forward, forcing him back. "Silver already said no. The Emperor didn't send a decree, which means you’re just trying to shove him in front of your responsibilities, aren’t you?"

His jaw clenched. "That’s not—"

"Oh, but it is," you cut in, grinning like a predator who just found dinner. "If you need a sacrifice so badly, why not lead the war yourself? Oh, wait—you’re scared." You tilted your head. "Why should Silver go fight and die in your place? What do you contribute to this kingdom besides being the reason the Empress probably drinks herself to sleep?"

Lilia let out a choked laugh. Silver covered his mouth to hide his amusement. The Villainess looked like she wanted to phase out of existence.

"How dare you!" The Prince seethed, looking like a child whose toy had been taken away.

"How dare you?" you mimicked back, voice laced with venomous mockery. "Seriously, just die already. It’s called natural selection. Worms like you don’t deserve to keep reproducing and terrorizing the female population."

The Prince, red with humiliation and rage, looked like he wanted to lunge at you, but before he could humiliate himself further, he turned on his heel and stormed out.

The Villainess trailed after him, but not before giving you a look that was equal parts impressed and terrified.

As soon as they were gone, you turned to Silver and clapped your hands together.

"So," you said, still brimming with unholy energy. "Let’s get married."

Silver, who was still processing the apocalyptic verbal execution you had just delivered, blinked at you. "What?"

You nodded sagely. "Yeah. Immediately. Preferably before they try something else. Then we can go on a honeymoon somewhere far away from all this war nonsense."

Silver stared at you, beautifully confused. "...Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," you replied. "Pack your bags, babe, we’re getting hitched."

Silver, against all odds, smiled. And then, he agreed.

Lilia threw a celebratory punch in the air.

Congratulations. You’re planning a wedding now, baby!

Planning a wedding was supposed to be a stressful but joyous occasion.

Your reality? It was mostly just stress.

Between dodging passive-aggressive nobles, fending off suspiciously enthusiastic tailors, and ensuring that the wedding menu didn’t include anything remotely related to the Prince’s favorite foods out of sheer spite, you were running on fumes.

And that’s when Silver came to you, looking strangely hesitant.

Immediately, your brain went to worst-case scenarios.

Was he having doubts? Did he get conscripted behind your back? Was he about to pull a tragic self-sacrifice move that you’d have to thwart with unhinged levels of devotion and threats of arson?

"Can we talk?" he asked, his voice unsure.

You, in full fight-or-flight mode, clutched your chest. "Silver, if you’re about to say something stupid, I’m legally obligated to stop you."

His expression twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to be exasperated or endeared. "It’s not stupid," he assured you. Then, after a pause, "I wanted to ask… do you like this country?"

You stared at him. Stared.

"Silver." You grabbed both his hands. "Are you joking?"

His gaze softened, but he stayed serious. "If you had the choice, would you leave?"

You blinked. "Why?"

Silver exhaled, his grip on your hands tightening just slightly. "Lilia and I… We lived somewhere else before we came here. I was thinking—if we left, we could live peacefully. Away from all this. We wouldn’t be nobility, but we wouldn’t have to deal with—" He gestured vaguely, as if trying to encompass the entire kingdom’s collective insanity.

And that’s when it hit you.

You could leave. You could actually escape.

You didn’t have to waste your life playing politics in a country where half the nobility was allergic to common sense. You didn’t have to pretend to care about court scandals that made your brain rot. You didn’t have to deal with war-hungry royals who had the intelligence of a damp sock.

You could take your hot, kind, sword-wielding fiancé and dip.

You could live a peaceful, quiet, cottagecore dream where your biggest concerns would be whether the goats ate your laundry or if Silver accidentally adopted another wild animal.

You gripped Silver’s hands so hard you nearly cut off circulation.

"Silver." Your voice shook with emotion. "I love you so much right now."

He blinked, startled by your intensity.

"I’m taking as much wealth as I can from this godforsaken kingdom," you declared, fully committed. "And then we’re running. We’ll live a cozy life, I’ll grow a garden, you can train without political idiots breathing down your neck, and we’ll be so disgustingly in love that Lilia will probably want to leave out of secondhand embarrassment."

Silver stared at you for a beat, lips parting slightly—before he suddenly let out a breathy laugh.

God, he was so beautiful when he smiled.

He cupped your cheek, gaze warm, and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips. It was soft, reverent, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You melted, gripping his sleeve to keep yourself from combusting.

When he pulled away, he whispered, "Then that’s it. We’ll get married, and we’ll be free."

And that was that.

You were getting married and escaping these lunatics before they had the chance to retaliate.

Honestly? Best wedding gift ever.

Mornings in your new life were warm, lazy, and sweet— the kind of peace you never thought you’d get after surviving the absolute circus that was your past life.

You stretched with a yawn, shuffled into the kitchen, and started making breakfast. The house smelled of fresh bread, eggs, and domestic bliss.

And then, like clockwork, Silver appeared.

You weren’t sure if he was half-awake or just naturally this clingy, but the second he found you, he wrapped himself around you from behind. His arms encircled your waist, and he rested his chin on your shoulder, pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your neck.

“Good morning,” he murmured against your skin, voice still husky with sleep.

Weak. You were weak.

“Silver,” you tried to scold, but it came out softer than intended.

He hummed, not moving, not even pretending to be helpful. His weight was solid, grounding, a warm anchor against your back.

"You are actively making this difficult," you sighed, flipping a pancake.

“Difficult to cook?” he asked, his lips brushing over your jaw.

“Difficult to live, Silver. How am I supposed to focus when you’re like this?”

He chuckled, pulling you impossibly closer. “I don’t see the problem.”

And this was your life now.

In the afternoons, Silver trained with Sebek, and you watched, entertained by their very specific brand of friendship.

Sebek was loud, passionate, and dedicated. Silver was calm, level-headed, and tired. Together, they created the strangest dynamic known to man.

“Silver, your form is slipping!” Sebek barked, nearly vibrating with intensity.

Silver deflected Sebek’s attack without even looking. “It’s fine.”

“It is NOT fine!” Sebek yelled, throwing himself forward with the fury of a man who took personal offense to subpar swordsmanship.

You sipped your drink, watching this unfold like it was a very dramatic stage play.

Eventually, Silver knocked Sebek’s sword from his hands with an effortless twist, and Sebek fell to his knees, gasping.

You clapped. “Wow. What a performance. I’d rate it a solid 8/10.”

Sebek looked offended. “8?! What was missing?!”

“More drama,” you said. “Maybe fake your death next time. Really sell the loss.”

Sebek narrowed his eyes, as if actually considering it. Oh no. What have you done?

Lilia showed up almost every day, either to offer unsolicited advice or to cause chaos. Sometimes, he brought Malleus.

You still hadn’t fully recovered from realizing that Malleus was the fae prince.

Today was no different. He arrived grinning, eyes full of mischief, which was already a sign of danger.

“So,” he started, dramatically leaning in. “Have you two considered… adopting a dragon?”

Silver blinked. You stared.

Malleus, sipping his tea beside him, nodded sagely. “It would be an honorable task.”

You set your cup down very, very slowly.

“I—what?” you asked, convinced you misheard.

“A dragon,” Lilia said, as if that explained everything. “You’re living in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nature, why not raise a baby dragon? Imagine the bond! The companionship! The chaos!”

Malleus actually looked excited. “I could grant you one from my own lineage.”

Silver looked at you, waiting for you to react.

You looked at Silver.

Then back at Malleus, a literal fae prince, who had just casually offered to gift you a baby dragon.

Sebek, in the corner, looked like he was about to faint.

“...You’re joking,” you said, voice dangerously neutral.

Lilia and Malleus just smiled.

You dragged your hands down your face. “I barely survived dealing with a corrupt kingdom, now you want me to raise a fire-breathing menace?”

“It wouldn’t breathe fire immediately,” Malleus assured.

“That is not the part I am concerned about.”

Silver, who had been quiet this whole time, actually seemed to be considering it.

You kicked his shin under the table.

He cleared his throat. “I think we should wait.”

Malleus sighed. Lilia just patted your back. “You’ll change your mind.”

Not likely.

But at night? It was just you and Silver.

After a long day of chaos and laughter, you’d collapse onto your shared bed, immediately melting into Silver’s embrace.

He kissed your forehead, soft, lingering. “Tired?”

You sighed happily, nuzzling into his warmth. “Mm. Just happy.”

His arms tightened around you, like he never wanted to let go.

And this was your life now.

Your old country was probably in flames, but who cared? You had love, friendship, and peace.

Silver smiled at you, soft and content. And you thought, Yup. This is it.

Thank my best friend for writing this ridiculous, insane novel.

Who do you wanna see next?

Series Masterlist ; All Masterlists

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst silver x reader #silver twst #twst silver #silver x reader #silver #trash novel chronicles #silver vanrouge #silver vanrouge x reader

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cressidagrey · 4 days ago

Text

Like Origami

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: Felicity folds their lives around Oscar’s.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar had always known that being an F1 driver came with a cost.

Time, mostly. Energy. Pieces of himself chipped away across continents — interviews, debriefs, simulator hours, long-haul flights that blurred the edges of his life into airport lounges and hotel lobbies.

He missed sleep. He missed Bedtime. He missed Bee’s first attempt at drawing a cat (which looked more like a haunted pancake). He missed days at home with Felicity.

But it never really broke him.

Because Felicity never let it.

Being an F1 driver required everything. His time. His focus. His body. His brain. It asked for obsession and then demanded more. And somehow, Felicity had folded their entire life around it — not like a sacrifice, but like origami. Seamless. Beautiful. Functional.

Their schedules bent around his. Flights arranged, appointments timed, Bee’s activities slotted into neat little windows that didn’t collide with debriefs or simulator days or media obligations. The chaos of the racing calendar never touched him at home — because Felicity had already smoothed it out.

She handled the mortgage and the taxes and the kindergarten applications. She learned the structure of F1 contracts before he even signed his first one. Their fridge always had the right snacks, Bee always had backup outfits in her cubby at Kindergarten, and Oscar never, ever had to think about whether they were low on laundry detergent.

The garden bloomed when he was home. Dinners appeared like magic. Bee’s schedule adjusted itself so he could still read her a bedtime story before she fell asleep drooling on his shoulder. The house was calm. Meals were warm. The only thing he ever had to remember was where his slippers were.

Oscar never asked Felicity to built their lives around his.

She just did it.

Without fanfare. Without passive-aggressive remarks or pointed silences. Felicity folded their entire world into a rhythm that let him chase speed while never falling apart.

There were meals in the freezer labeled with dates and instructions. Garden vegetables cleaned, chopped, and tucked into glass containers. His race gear was always washed, his vitamins stocked, his passport renewed before he even thought to check. When he came home, the house felt like a deep breath. Like rest.

When he was home, she never handed him a to-do list.

She handed him their daughter.

And that was it.

He didn’t have to manage groceries or bills or appointments. He didn’t have to double-check if Bee had clean socks or if the chickens had eaten or if the plumber was coming Thursday. He didn’t even have to pack his kit —because Felicity had already done it, tucked a protein bar into the side pocket and added a hand-written note.

No expectation to fix the fence or organise the pantry or figure out why the hot water pressure was acting up in the guest shower. She’d already handled it. Or would. What she needed was him.

Just him. Present and soft and theirs.

Oscar didn’t know how to explain it to people who hadn’t lived it. Who hadn’t walked through the door at 1 a.m. after a red-eye and found their home warm and humming, their child asleep in a bed full of storybooks and dreams, and their wife sitting at the kitchen table with tea and a smile that made him forget every horrible session that came before.

All he had to do was come home and be.

Be Bee’s dad. Be Felicity’s husband. Be the quiet, tired, grateful version of himself that only existed within their walls. The one who didn’t have to be sharp-edged or interview-ready. The one who could collapse on the floor and let his daughter crawl onto his back mid-storytime.

Felicity had made a life that worked around his — so that when he walked back into it, he wasn’t expected to fix or lead or plan.

He was expected to rest.

To hold Bee.

To breathe.

He’d never asked Felicity to do any of it. She just did.

She learned what days he needed quiet. She knew when he was withdrawing too far into his own head. She knew how to keep the house humming while giving him space to exhale — without making him feel like he was failing for needing it.

And that was what broke him, sometimes. Quietly. Privately.

Because Felicity never made him feel like a burden. Never held it over his head. Never once made him feel like she’d put her life on hold for his.

But she had.

Not because she was dependent.

Because she chose to.

Because she loved him.

Because she believed in him enough to bend the edges of their world so that, when he came home, all he had to do was walk through the door and exist.

Oscar wasn’t naïve. He knew she was brilliant. That she could be doing anything. That she could be running companies or winning awards or building something extraordinary in her own right. And in some ways, she already was.

Because their life — their quiet, beautiful, functioning, chaotic life — was something only Felicity could’ve built.

And he would spend the rest of his life making sure she knew he saw it.

Even if she never asked him to.

He didn’t know how to repay that. Not with wins. Not with flowers.

But every time she curled into his side at night, every time Bee reached for him with sticky fingers and sleepy eyes, Oscar knew one thing for certain:

The only thing he had to do now — the only thing he wanted to do — was show up for them, again and again, and never, ever forget what it took to make this possible.

Felicity held up their life like it was nothing.

And that made it everything.

***

Oscar realized it while sitting at the kitchen counter, barefoot and still damp from his post-run shower, a half-drunk protein shake sweating beside his laptop. The house was quiet—Bee at kindergarten, Felicity out in the garden talking to the hens like they were co-workers—and he was meant to be going through the calendar Mark had sent over. Just blocking out dates, syncing with Felicity’s schedule, adding a few notes.

He scrolled.

Paused.

Scrolled back.

July 21st. Hungarian Grand Prix. Bee’s birthday.

His stomach dropped.

He stared at the screen like it might change, like maybe the dates would shift if he just blinked hard enough. But they didn’t. The 21st stayed where it was, bright and bold, nestled between two practice days and a press briefing.

Bee was turning four.

Four. The age where memories stuck like glue. Where birthdays became important—not just cake and balloons, but promises. Traditions. She’d been talking about it for months. Sea-themed cupcakes. A dolphin-shaped cake. A sparkly blue dress.

And he’d nodded, said “I’ll be there, Bumblebee,” without realizing the truth sitting quietly in his own damn schedule.

The guilt hit him like a sucker punch—instant, sharp, and mean.

He didn’t even remember walking out to the garden. Just the disjointed blur of grabbing his phone, sliding open the back door, and calling out, “Fliss?”

Felicity turned from where she knelt by the herb beds, sunhat perched on her head, dirt smudged on her wrist. “Everything okay?”

“I need to talk to you.”

She wiped her hands on her jeans “Oscar?”

His voice cracked a little. “Hungary’s on Bee’s birthday.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I didn’t realize,” he said. “God, I didn’t realize, and now I feel like the worst—I promised her, Fliss, I told her I’d be there—”

“Hey,” she interrupted, standing now, brushing grass off her knees. “Breathe.”

“I was supposed to be there,” he said again, softer this time. “She’s been planning it for months. The dolphin cake, the cupcakes, the balloons—and I just—how did I miss it?”

“You didn’t,” Felicity said gently. “You’re just juggling a hundred other things. But you’re not missing it.”

He blinked. “What?”

She smiled, walking toward him across the grass, sunlight catching the gold chain around her neck. “I already booked the flights.”

Oscar just stared at her.

“I figured it out last week,” she added. “Called Mark, sorted the paddock passes. Bee’s excited about it. She wants to wear her dolphin dress to the track and bring cupcakes for the engineers.”

He was stunned. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious,” she said. “You’re her dad. You don’t miss her birthday unless you’re in space. We’ll come to you. It’s just geography.”

“But—race weekend—media—timings—”

Felicity reached for his hand. “She doesn’t care about any of that. She wants her papa to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ slightly off-key and help her blow out candles. That’s what matters.”

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly breathless with love and relief and the unbearable ache of it all. “How do you always fix everything?”

Felicity shrugged. “Because I know you. And I know her.”

And just like that, the weight lifted.

He’d still be racing that weekend. Still chasing tenths and points and podiums.

But when Bee turned four, Oscar wouldn’t be missing him.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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