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typeofshit · 23 days ago

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TITLE:“I Now Pronounce You What?!”

Pairing: g!p An Yujin × Fem!Reader

Warnings: Humor ,crack vibes,Heavy alcohol use, drunken behaviour,impulsive marriage,emotional numbness ,abandonment trauma,g!p smut elements, nudity, ritualistic tone, failed wedding night,no actual penetration,soft angst with comedic relief

Summary: You were supposed to marry the love of your life. Instead, he ran. Out the back door, out of your life — and into the gossip of every guest waiting at your joyless wedding. But fate had other plans… in the form of one very drunk, very clumsy An Yujin, who stumbled into your venue with her equally plastered best friends, saw your tears, and — for reasons still unknown — volunteered as tribute.

Now you’re married to a stranger in a suit that smells like champagne, with a wedding night ahead of you and nothing but numb obligation in your chest. You were ready to go through with it — for the ritual, for the closure — but your new bride?

She passed out.

Right on top of you.

An Yujin was drunk. Not cute, giggly, "oops I texted my ex" drunk — no, she was "use her tie as a headband while beatboxing to the valet" drunk. Her shoes were long gone. Her socks didn’t match. Her phone was in a bowl of soy sauce back at the banquet, and she had no memory of how they even got to the car.

She was slouched in the back seat of Minji’s rental Benz, knees up against the leather like a delinquent, singing to herself. Something that vaguely sounded like the national anthem but ended in her trying to rhyme “snacks” with “six pack abs.”

Ryujin, equally wasted, sat in the passenger seat gripping the dashboard like it was a spaceship console. “Minji,” she slurred, “I’m floating. You’re not driving, right? Are we parked?”

Minji, one hand on the wheel, hair half tied and eyes too wide, looked back with that wild gleam of high-functioning insanity. “We are very much driving.”

“Cool,” Ryujin nodded. “Just checking.”

It was supposed to be a chill night — a corporate charity gala at a hotel ballroom. They came, they posed in tailored suits like lesbian K-pop royalty, they choked down one (1) overpriced shrimp cube and three (3) glasses of champagne each. And then chaos took over.

An hour ago, Yujin had tried to arm wrestle the CEO of CJ Entertainment. Minji had unplugged the speakers to charge her vape. Ryujin stole an entire roast duck and put it in her purse. No one could prove it, but no one denied it either.

Now, they were speeding nowhere in particular, high on drunk adrenaline and girlboss delusion.

“Let’s find more lights!” Yujin shouted suddenly, pointing out the window as they passed a floral shop with twinkly signage.

Minji swerved. “I see one! Over there! Pretty lights!”

Ryujin looked up from licking soy sauce off her fingers. “Wait. That looks like a wedding venue.”

And it was. Bright fairy lights draped over trees like tinsel, music muffled behind closed doors, shadows of people inside. A big, expensive event.

“Is it a gay club?” Yujin asked, squinting, pressing her nose to the window.

“No,” Ryujin said. “But better.”

“Free food?” Minji whispered.

“Free. Fucking. Food.”

They slammed the brakes, parked on the curb like criminals, and all three idiots fell out of the car like newborn giraffes. Suits askew, hair messy, breath stinking of tequila and shrimp, they wandered up the path like it was a yellow brick road.

Nobody stopped them. Which was the first mistake.

They entered like movie characters — slow-motion, dramatic wind in their hair (from Minji’s vape blowing in Yujin’s face), scanning the room like FBI agents in an undercover sting.

But the reception inside wasn’t what they expected.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The music was on, sure, soft jazz humming from speakers. The tables were set. Waiters moved about with platters of untouched hors d'oeuvres. But the people? Stone-faced. Pale. Awkward.

A child sobbed under a table.

Minji looked around. “What is this? A funeral with cake?”

Ryujin grabbed a glass of wine off a tray and downed it in one go. “Someone’s mad. You can feel it. Like the air’s spicy.”

Yujin stood at the center of the room, head tilted, watching guests whisper in clusters, eyes darting toward a hallway door labeled Bridal Room.

She wandered toward it, instincts firing in her deeply inebriated brain like half-baked popcorn kernels. Curiosity, mischief, chaos — her whole DNA structure was built on those.

Minji followed, trying to swipe a bread roll from an unattended plate. Ryujin limped behind with a champagne flute in each hand.

Then they saw him — an older man in a tuxedo, pacing just outside the door. Mid-sixties, silver hair, red in the face, stress clinging to him like sweat.

“Hey, ahjussi,” Ryujin called out, smoothing her tie and standing up like she was on a job interview. “You good?”

The man didn’t ask who they were. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was too far gone with grief and shame and pure panic.

“The groom,” he said, voice hoarse. “Ran off. An hour ago.”

The girls blinked. All together.

Minji winced. “Like, ran for snacks or—?”

“Ran. As in disappeared. Left her.”

A beat.

“Ohhhhhh,” Ryujin whispered.

Yujin frowned. “Is she okay?”

The man looked toward the door. Just barely cracked open.

“She’s in there. With her mother.”

As if magnetized, the three of them leaned in and peeked through the slit of the door.

There you were.

The bride.

Sitting on the velvet stool in your full gown. Veil off. Hair too perfect for this heartbreak. Your face was unreadable — no tears, no expression, just a silence that seemed to echo inside your chest like a forgotten hall.

Your mother sat beside you, holding your hand, weeping softly, whispering words too fragile for strangers to hear. Comforting, apologizing.

You didn’t say a word.

Yujin stared.

Something in her chest itched. Not pain. Not sympathy. Just a soft flutter of discomfort — the kind that came from seeing someone beautiful in a moment they didn’t deserve.

Then Ryujin, mouth still full of cheese, blurted the most ridiculous sentence in recorded history.

“Yujin’ll marry her.”

Yujin blinked. “What?”

Minji gasped. “Yes. YES. She totally will!”

The father looked up, startled.

Yujin, drunk beyond salvation, fixed her posture, adjusted her tie, and smiled like a little soldier about to run into enemy fire.

“I can marry her,” she said, voice slurred but confident. “I’m a great wife.”

Minji clapped her hands like a game show buzzer. “She cooks! She cleans! She owns a Bluetooth speaker!”

“She’s got abs!” Ryujin added.

The man looked at them. Long. Hard. Measuring the madness.

And then — to everyone’s surprise — he let out a laugh. A real, desperate, slightly deranged laugh.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. If you’re serious…”

Yujin wobbled. “So serious.”

He wiped his face. Looked toward his wife. “Fix her suit. Fix her hair. She’s our son-in-law now.”

---

The next fifteen minutes felt like a fever dream.

Minji and Ryujin were doing Yujin’s hair in the bathroom using water from a flower vase and a comb made of toothpicks. Her suit jacket was steamed using a hand dryer. Someone gave her gum. She forgot to spit it out before the vows.

Yujin stood in front of a full-length mirror. She barely recognized herself — not because she looked bad, but because she looked married. Or was about to be.

“This is nuts,” she whispered.

Minji popped in beside her. “You’re nuts.”

Ryujin added, “But you’re hot. Go marry that stranger, bestie.”

And just like that, it was happening.

Guests shuffled to their seats. Confused murmurs passed like a game of telephone. No one knew who the groom was anymore. No one asked. It was like the air itself decided to roll with it.

Yujin stood at the altar, swaying slightly. Minji was holding the ring she made out of a twist tie. Ryujin was doing fake sign language to no one.

And then, you walked in.

Down the aisle. Alone.

Your gown trailed behind like moonlight. Face still numb. Shoulders proud despite everything. Your gaze never wavered.

When your eyes met hers, Yujin’s breath hitched. Something between awe and panic.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t cry.

You simply walked.

She couldn’t look away.

And then the officiant began.

“Do you, An Yujin, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Yujin blinked. Then grinned.

“Hell yeah, I do.”

A few guests laughed. Someone gasped. Someone dropped a wine glass.

“And do you—?”

You gave a single nod.

“I now pronounce you…”

A party popper went off.

“…wife and wife.”

---

The reception was chaos. Beautiful, stupid chaos.

Minji stole the mic and did a rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” in a British accent. Ryujin convinced a guest to teach her line dancing. Yujin slow danced with your grandma while calling her “queen mother.”

You sat at a table near the edge of the room, barely touching your food, swirling champagne in your glass. You didn’t speak unless spoken to. Everyone kept congratulating you. You nodded each time, lips pressed in a flat line.

You couldn’t feel your hands. You couldn’t feel your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t the man you loved. This wasn’t even planned.

But still, here you were. A ring on your finger.

Your mother eventually leaned down and whispered, “Time for the honeymoon suite.”

You nodded once.

---

The suite was too quiet.

Too soft. Too perfect.

It was the kind of room made for romance — rose petals scattered like a florist had sneezed, flickering candles casting warm shadows across cream-colored walls, a chilled bottle of champagne sweating in a bucket by the bed. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and lilies, like someone had sprayed hope into the corners.

You stood in the center, frozen. Still in your heels. The silk lining of your wedding gown itched faintly at the back of your knees.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Your fingers hovered over the satin ribbon at your waist. You didn’t untie it. Not yet.

The door clicked open.

And in stumbled your new wife.

An Yujin. Slouched, breathless, her suit jacket flapping off one shoulder like a pirate’s cape, her dress shirt half unbuttoned and tie dangling from her neck like a sad piece of tinsel. She looked around the room like she had just walked into the Louvre — awestruck, blinking, confused by beauty and silence.

“Whoa,” she muttered, stopping dead just past the threshold. “This is fancy.”

Her eyes landed on you.

She straightened up like a soldier caught off-duty, then immediately tripped over her own foot and knocked her shoulder into the light switch.

The chandelier dimmed. Then brightened. Then dimmed again.

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled, fumbling to stand upright. “Technical difficulties.”

You watched her silently. She was flushed and messy and so utterly not the man you had once imagined standing here with you.

She rubbed the back of her neck, swaying slightly. “Sooo… uh. Hi.”

You turned to face her fully. “We’re married now.”

She blinked. “Yeah… I think we are.”

“This is the wedding night.”

“Yup.”

“Tradition,” you said flatly, like reading a line from a textbook.

Yujin gave a tiny nod. “Right. Uh-huh. Yep. Marriage stuff. Rituals. Bedtime things.”

You took a step toward her.

She visibly froze.

And then you slowly — mechanically — began unzipping your dress from the back. The silk loosened, slipping off your shoulders with a whisper. The bodice dropped, then the skirt, pooling at your feet like a melted dream.

Yujin’s eyes widened to the size of her champagne glass.

“Oh.”

You stepped out of the gown, movements clean and deliberate, like you were going through motions you had no emotional stake in. Because you weren’t feeling anything, not really. Just a hollow ache, dulled by exhaustion and resignation.

Yujin looked like she forgot how to breathe.

“I—wow. You’re… you’re really naked,” she mumbled, staring at you like you were a forbidden fruit she didn’t know how to bite into.

You walked toward her, stopping just inches away.

She smelled like hotel soap and alcohol and a little bit of the vanilla air freshener from the venue bathroom. Her pupils were blown wide, hair mussed, and she had one lip curled in dazed admiration.

You took her hand — her fingers twitched — and placed it gently on your waist.

She gasped like you’d just handed her a live grenade.

“O-Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I can do this. I’m great at this. I watched two whole romantic movies last month. Let’s go.”

You leaned in. She leaned in too. You meant to kiss her — a cold, ritualistic thing — but she misjudged and smacked her lips against the side of your cheekbone.

“Ow,” you muttered.

“Ohmygod sorry,” she said, stepping back too fast, nearly falling into the closet.

You didn’t flinch. You simply took her by the tie and walked her backward to the bed, like a bride herding an overgrown puppy.

She let you.

She flopped back onto the mattress with a soft grunt, arms starfish wide, staring up at you with reverence and at least six kinds of drunk awe.

You climbed over her, straddling her thighs. Her hands instinctively rose, hovering like she wanted to touch but didn’t dare.

“Y-You’re so pretty,” she breathed.

You reached for her belt.

She inhaled sharply. “Okay, okay, focus, focus—”

Your fingers brushed the buckle.

And then—

Thunk.