#gap moe

The situation isn’t looking good. As far as you know, you’ve been isekai’d into a novel called The Villianess’s Revenge, where you are a plot point. Canon fodder. Where you’re the background character who happens to die in an event that the main character will shine. And specifically: you’ll die by your husband’s hands.

You like to think that you could’ve avoided your fate, but it’s bad, because you woke up to wedding preparations—the first time you open your eyes in a foreign world, there’s a burst of chatter and activity in a luxurious room, and you see white everywhere. Memories of your past life whizz past you in a frantic blur and your head is still muddled: oh, right. You got hit by a truck. Memories of the novel follows, and you can only blink as you realize the stupid coincidence that you share the same name as the character you had possessed.

Your fate remains: you’re  getting married.

To the Grand Duke of…the Northern Kingdom.

Admittedly, you don’t know how to feel. There’s the obvious fear that you’ll be walking right to death’s door, but again, you don’t exactly die during the wedding. You only die months after that. So you don’t really need to worry about anything yet right? The Duke will be cold towards you, but it doesn’t matter: he’s a stranger to you, too, and you plan on kissing him for as little as you can.

 And, you think, it certainly didn’t help it that the Grand Duke is devastatingly handsome. You can see his looks working its spell on you—you can see yourself simpering, your eyes going wide eyed. You’re trying to steel yourself. You’re trying to make yourself immune to Altair’s beauty. 

Fast forward: you’re walking down the aisle, aghast at the sight of your weeping mother and your crying father who just look so proud of you. They seem like decent parents, which is…strange. So—

—Oh. The [Name] in the original story did have three lines of description. One, that he was a spoiled brat, pampered by his parents, and two, he has a fucking crush on the Grand Duke. Hence a strategic alliance placed confidently for [Name] to get his wish.

…Asshole, you think. The veil is covering your face and you’re dressed in a white suit adorned with flowers. You can feel your throat dry up, all the moistness leaving your lips and instead churning down your throat. You wrinkle your nose, before you try to swallow down profanities. The music behind you almost seems taunting.

You stop in front of the groom.

Standing there in all his resplendent glory is none other than your soon to be husband, whose face is unreadable. You can’t see him, only smudges and smears. After all, the veil is covering his face—but gloom settles in you.

He’s going to be disappointed, you think glumly. His face seems vaguely familiar, probably because you do know how he looks, tangentially, but your thoughts are a hot mess right now. You can’t find the power within you to place a finger on it: so instead of bothering over it, you stand in front of the Duke in trepidation.

The Duke slowly lifts up the veil — gently and slowly, and you can swear emotion flits across his face as he gazes at you. You blink owlishly at him, at a loss of words. This is their first time meeting, and you two are about to lock lips. Or perhaps lock lips is an exaggeration—it will be nothing but a useless peck. But thankfully, though indiscernible, his face not one of disappointment.

Almost..fond? You think, then there is belated horror: wait, what? 

You ignore that. And then when your thoughts subside, you realize how ridiculously hot he is. 

“[Name],” he whispers, Altair, the cold, heartless, murderer of a Duke whispers, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s not even the expression on his face that knocks the wind out of your chest: it’s the way he calls out your name. Carefully, like he’s savoring the taste of the name on his tongue, like deja vu. But then again, perhaps it helps that you have read this scene. And the scene, though very—different—is unfolding in front of your very eyes.

This is your murderer, you think, don’t look at his face, [Name]!

You start to lower your head meekly, but Altair tips your head back up.

“How,” there is a teasing tone to his voice—teasing, like this is so funny to him—“how, do you expect me to kiss you?”

Your jaw drops. Then it closes. You are well aware of the blush around your cheeks that has betrayed you. 

.

.

What?

.

.

Seriously, is he programmed wrong? Why is Altair OOC? You coined enough fanfiction terms to label everything wrong with this. There’s a proper term for this, but you can’t seem to remember it. You do notice the way that Altair glowers at everyone else, before his expression smoothens when he faces you.

You close your eyes to give out a sigh. You forget this is a marriage. So you forget what happens when you get married.

A kiss.

You startle when you feel lips—firm but soft at the same time, pressing against your own. It’s tender, sweet, loving, and you practically melt against it. When you break away, the taste of Altair’s—your husband’s lips still linger on your own.

This defies all the rumors about the Duke, who supposedly was a cold hearted bastard who killed his advisors for speaking out of turn. No, this man is tender and gentle, and his delicate touch is nothing short of sweet. 

Before you can retort, or before your lagging brain can even comprehend this—the guests burst into cheers. You just feel numb as Altair guides you slowly down the aisle, ready to board the carriage into the manor. Mansion. Whatever. Your new home.

Your…

Altair presses a kiss to your forehead before he whispers in your ear. “I cannot wait for our wedding night, Y/n.”

You freeze.

The term starts to arise in your head.

Gap Moe, you think, this is fucking gap moe.

Anyway, in the main timeline at least, Diego's not interested in kidnapping Y/N. He's more of a sniffs your underwear and drinks your fluids while hiding in your closet kinda guy than the capturing type. 

I don't blame you for thinking Gitae's the I'll-chain-you-to-my-bed type though (metaphorically, cause my version does not like bondage) ꉂ(≧▽≦) He's the mobster bastard in the dark romance novels that I used to love and what many judgmental normies hate. (These days I'm more into—and, I cannot stress this enough—fictional serial killers)

Dont worry, no one will actually eat you. Your roommate is still very inexperienced at that!