#i have three (3) separate works all titled from dress by taylor swift

[missmeinyourbones]

DON’T WANT YOU LIKE A BEST FRIEND

tags: post timeskip!megumi, best friends to lovers, fake dating, wedding AU, drinking & mentions of alcohol, lots of pining and yearning, me writing this and including a lot of megumi dialogue bc writers on here love to make him mute and indifferent >:( he is very passionate to me >:( | wc: 5.4k+

He’s made a mistake.

Oh, Megumi has made a huge mistake. 

He knew he should’ve listened to that tiny, pessimistic voice in the back of his mind when you’d asked him to attend a wedding with you.

Granted, it’s not a terribly strange ask of you—you are best friends, after all. But Megumi should’ve denied your advance the second he discovered the twist to it.

He wasn't there to be just any old regular wedding plus one. He was there to be your date, your faux boyfriend for the night. To put on a show so your relatives could get off your case for being single. 

With hesitance, he agrees. He can’t not agree to helping you out. Not when you’re his best friend, not when he feels his heart skip a beat every time you so much as sigh in mild disappointment or irritation. 

But, god, was he wrong when he thought he could handle this.

He spends the week leading up to the wedding panicking over the unknown. What color would you be wearing? Would he have to dance with you? What’s the proper etiquette of a fake-boyfriend? Is there proper etiquette for such a role? Does he hug you? Hold your hand? Does he kiss you? The logical part of him is in complete shambles, leaving his idiotic instincts on autopilot.  

I mean, you’d barely given him any information other than two main points: one, your relatives are snobby rich assholes, and two, all he had to do was “sit there and look pretty” (which made the tips of his ears instantly burn with a warmth only you can seem to provide these days). 

Regardless of the way the passing comment made him feel, his sleepless nights and your lack of detail were enough to prove his inner conscience correct when it said that this was a mistake. 

Megumi pulls his black SUV into your driveway with a swift turn of the steering wheel. The overplayed pop tune lowly vibrating his speakers further irritates his already overstimulated thoughts. With a brash turn of the dial and muting of the radio, Megumi doesn’t think twice before sending you a text that simply reads:

“Here.”

Before he can even make an internal comment about how big of a douchebag move it was to text you instead of going up to your door, the buzz of his phone demands his attention.

“Be out in a few mins. Running a little late, sorry! :)”

He takes a deep breath. Okay, that’s good. You don’t think he was an asshole for texting you that he was here.

Actually, maybe it’s better this way. Maybe you would’ve thought he was weird for going up to your door. He’s never done that when picking you up before. And this is a fake date, right? Maybe he wasn’t supposed to commit to the bit too early and—

The shaking of his car door handle jolts him from his thoughts. You stand outside, a smile on your face as you patiently await for him to unlock the door. He does so, wordlessly.

You didn’t even get out and open the door, the agitating voice returns. A real boyfriend would’ve done that.

You get into the car with a quick and hectic greeting, paired with an apology for making him wait a few minutes for your final touches. 

Though a pair of scrappy heels clinks together in your left hand, and a water bottle (filled with a splash of liquid courage) balances in your right, Megumi can’t take his eyes off of you. He spares a glance to your dress—navy blue. He doesn’t know why the color makes him instantly sweat.

He doesn’t return your hello, or even appease your worry of keeping him waiting in the car. Instead, like a fool, he chokes on his own words.

“You—”

Nothing follows his stuttered response as you turn your attention towards him. Blushing furiously, he looks down towards his empty lap.

Composing himself, he manages to get out a shaky breath, “You look beautiful.”

He looks up just in time to see how your smile meets your eyes with a crinkle at his genuine compliment.

“Thanks, Megumi,” he swears he sees you blush, “you look really nice, too.”

The voice in his head asks him if the fake-relationship talk has started yet. Did you really think he looked nice? Or were you just practicing for later tonight, when you say it in front of your relatives?

He places an arm behind your headrest as he backs out of your driveway. The GPS reads an ETA of 45 minutes. Megumi’s not sure if he’ll survive the ride. 

“So,” he attempts to begin casually, though his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel says otherwise, “what’s the story?”

Your voice elevates with genuine confusion, “The story?”

Megumi looks a bit embarrassed as he sheepishly shrugs, eyes remaining on the road. “Y’know, like if people ask us questions, or something.”

“Oh, right,” you’d forgotten the scenario at hand. “Well, I guess we could just be honest.” It’s a statement, but your voice fluctuates in pitch towards the end, making it sound more like an uneasy question. 

Megumi releases the first of many nervous chuckles of the evening, “Honest, like ‘we aren’t actually dating, I’m just doing this to appease your snobby extended family’ honest?”

A giggle of your own escapes, not as nervous as his, but still riddled with a bit of unease. “No, god no, not like that.” 

Sliding your heels on, you fiddle with the strap by your ankle. 

“Honest, like ‘we met at school, hit it off instantly, became best friends’ honest,” you nonchalantly offer, before quickly elaborating, “except, we just say that we fell in love throughout the process.”

Easy for you to say, the voice echoes in Megumi’s brain. Because that is honest, he thinks bitterly, at least to him it is. 

He releases another quick sigh before nodding his head in agreement and turning up the radio to avoid any further conversation. Another trashy pop tune fills his ears, but he ultimately decides that it’s better than discussing the night’s possibilities. 

At first, Megumi was under the impression that he’d be lying like a sinner in church for the next few hours, but something tells him that this role might involve a lot more honesty than he initially intended. 

...

The country club is nice, Megumi notes as the valet plucks his car keys from his hands with a smile.

Alright, it’s more than nice. It’s insanely posh. Megumi almost feels like he’s imposing just by walking up the stone stairs of the entryway. His shoes aren’t expensive enough for this. 

Since the bride was an extended cousin of yours, you were lucky enough to skip out on the actual ceremony. Besides, with the stakes at hand, the reception was more than enough. 

The two of you float around cocktail hour, kindly smiling at a few strangers but making no moves to insert yourself into any conversations. You sip on the drink of the night—some lavender drink with tequila and lemonade, an ode to the couple’s first meeting (according to the embroidered napkins that you don’t care enough to read about). Megumi more so plays around with the ice in his cup, making a face of distaste every now and then he sips. 

The conversation is in whispers, consisting of hushed explanations of those around you. An older man with a red bowtie passes the pair of you, and you utter something about him being the father of the bride. You casually note that the woman standing behind you is your mother’s cousin’s godmother, but when Megumi turns his head to get a look at her, you pull his collar with a sharp “don’t stare!”

So far so good, is what Megumi finds himself thinking. This is easy enough. No one’s cornered you for conversation yet, he hasn’t had to introduce himself as your romantic counterpart, the faint feeling of your fingertips skimming his throat when you grabbed his collar still burns brightly. This is nice. 

Or it was nice, until he jinxed himself. 

You hear her before you see her, and the piercing sound of her voice is enough for you to identify a migraine forming.

“My darling! You look...” your aunt seemingly trails off as she scurries over to you, catching herself before fumbling over her syllables, “well.”

“Thank you,” you naturally reply with a nod of your head, ignoring how her voice wavers around the backhanded compliment, “it’s nice to see you again.”

Her eyes, almost predatory, squint with a cunning smile before seamlessly gliding over to where Megumi stands beside you. 

“And this must be the boyfriend,” she gestures to him with a tight-lipped grin. 

His heart nearly beats out of his chest at her simple words, ones he’s only dreamed of hearing in reference to you.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he awkwardly offers her a sweaty hand to shake, “the boyfriend.”

Your aunt accepts it eagerly with a look that he—although just meeting her—can immediately identify as judgment hidden behind an artificial smile. It’s in this moment that Megumi declares her as being similar to a vulture—hunched shoulders, sharp features, and glossy eyes reminiscent to those of a hunter. 

Quick greetings are exchanged. Routine small talk weaves its way in, out, and around your conversation. Your aunt asks you about work and you lie about a past promotion, which somehow segues into her own personal problems. She beckons her husband over from where he leans against the doorframe, while mentioning something about how the two of them haven’t been resting much between vacations and purchases and grandchildren. 

Your uncle doesn’t address Megumi—which you’d warned him of prior, as your snobby rich relatives don’t like to treat people they haven’t heard of with basic respect—and instead points an accusatory finger in his direction while addressing you.

“Is he good to you?” your uncle grumbles behind a glass containing a light-colored alcohol, as if Megumi isn’t there, standing right beside you with a similar drink in hand. 

“Of course,” you quickly stir with conviction, “he’s great, really.” 

You turn your head to look at your boyfriend beside you, only to find him already looking back at you. With a soft smile, for him and not your uncle’s accusation, you beam, “He’s my best friend.”

Not a lie in the slightest, but not quite the full truth, the words feel heavy on your tongue. Megumi is your best friend, but there’s an overlap—an overlap of some not-so-friendly feelings for your closest companion.

Your aunt’s shrill voice breaks the silence of the moment, and for once, you’re grateful for it. 

“I remember that honeymoon phase, being young and in love,” she coos at the two of you with a blushing grin. Megumi feels his hand hovering the small of your back twitch at her next comment.

“Doesn’t last forever,” she half-teases, “so don’t take it for granted.”

His hand tightens around his glass. 

It’s a joke, Megumi has enough personality to realize that she’s just poking fun at the differences married life can bring to a couple. But still, something inside of him churns at her light-hearted words. 

“I think it’ll always be like this,” Megumi is quick to blabber out.

Her eyes widen a bit at his abrupt reply. “Like this?” she searches for clarification. 

Megumi panics. He doesn’t dare turn his head to see your expression, though he can see your wide eyes gawking at him in his peripheral vision. 

Your aunt expectedly awaits his elaboration as your uncle shoots him an even dirtier look than before—which Megumi didn't even think was possible. 

He loosens his grip on his glass as he takes a deep breath, “Y’know, this…right.”

He hears a nervous laugh from his side, and when he quickly turns to face you, he swears that blush lingering on the apples of your cheeks wasn’t there before. 

Your uncle, face still incredibly sour, lets out an affirming hmph. Your aunt’s fabricated smile returns to her face once more. “That’s the spirit,” she mewls.

As the conversation wraps up, Megumi can’t help but feel like he’d just barely skimmed death itself. 

...

Cocktail hour ends without any more causalities, and Megumi finds his shoulders relaxing a bit as the two of you find your assigned table in the reception hall.

Luckily, it’s one you won’t have to share with an obnoxious aunt or intimidating uncle.

Taking a quick glance at the others in their seats, they all appear to be younger couples resembling Megumi and yourself. Megumi asks you if you recognize any of them, but aside from a possible distant cousin once-removed, you assume they’re all just friends of the bride and groom. 

Megumi scrunches his nose at the realization that you’ve been placed at the randoms table. The relatives who surprisingly brought a plus one. The leftovers. Surveying the crowd around him, he bitterly wonders if anyone else here is playing fake partner. 

Eventually, the DJ gathers the attention of the partygoers. 

With an obnoxious microphone horn and terrible dance music, the bridal party members are slowly introduced—the whole process is agonizingly slow. Each individual gets a brief introduction, including their relationship to the couple along with a fun and quirky fact. Megumi uses all of his willpower to refrain his eyes from rolling back into his head as he fights off visibly cringing. 

After what feels like hours, the head-turning moment arrives.

The bride and groom are announced, though Megumi can’t hear much of their introductions over the whooping and hollering of the audience. 

It’s cute, he supposes. They seem excited—to be officially married to one another, to have a room of people cheering them on, maybe even to get this wedding over with. Whatever their reasoning may be, the glow on their faces is evident through their smiles. 

An unwelcome thought enters his wandering mind. 

He imagines you in a gown, something white and delicate, maybe. He doesn’t really care for the details. He’s sure whatever it is would look godsend on you. He imagines himself by your side, permanently glued to your hip with an uncharacteristically wide smile as you cut the cake or listen to a loved one’s toast. He imagines Gojo taking the stand, giving a speech that embarrasses the living daylights out of him. He imagines Nobara and Yuuji jokingly complaining about the food and teasing him for the way he almost trips over your dress when the two of you have your first dance. He imagines simple rings decorating both of your left hand ring fingers.

He imagines marrying you, spending the rest of his life with you. He’s positive that he could do it, that it’d be a lifetime worth living.

Suddenly very aware of the weight of his heart in his chest, he shakes that thought from his head just as quickly as it arrived.

Your light tone pulls his conscience out of his daydream.

“They make a nice couple,” you nod sincerely towards the pair of lovers, who are now taking their seats at the front of the room. 

Megumi hums in agreement, and though he doesn't know these people, he trusts your judgement. They do make a nice couple. 

“Alright,” you sigh, returning to your seat and shaking out your palms from clapping. You turn to him once more, that look in your eye just as bright as he remembers.

You breathe, “You hungry?”

Megumi doesn’t think his stomach is strong enough to keep any food down—but if he’s going to survive the night, what he does need is another drink.

...

Dinner wraps up just fine, mostly because the two of you keep to yourselves.

Megumi lets you try a bite of his salmon entrée, chuckling as you scrunch your nose at the lemon baste that marinates the fish. You don’t finish your side salad, so he finishes it for you—picked out olives and all. You ask him if you need to fix your lipstick once you’ve finished eating, he thinks you look incredible as is. You wipe the corner of his mouth with a satin napkin when he has leftover crumbs hanging by his lips. Your thumb brushes against his skin.

The casual domesticity of all of it, the way it feels natural to dote and be doted on by you, leaves his head spinning where he sits. The air suddenly feels too thick, too heavy for his lungs to inhale and digest. 

With a quick comment about getting himself another drink and asking you if you need anything (boyfriend points, he mentally pats himself on the back), he manages to sneak away to the bar for a breath of fresh air. 

He takes a moment for himself—the first one he’s gotten of the night—as he slumps against the barstool and earnestly flags over the bartender.

He needs something strong, something that will make the hairs on the back of his neck stick up and distract him from the lingering feeling of your fingers by his lips. Not being much of a drinker, he orders something he’s heard of in movies (and from Gojo’s stories), a glass of bourbon. 

He knows he’ll hate it, but that’s alright. If it puts his mind at ease for an hour or so, it’ll be worth a few minutes of bitter burning.

Just as the bartender returns with a stout glass of the dark liquid, a body occupies the stool directly next to Megumi. He senses a figure in his peripheral vision, but his eyes remain on his drink as he swirls it around by the rim of its container.

He hears a familiar rasp croak from his side, “Oh, it’s you. The boyfriend.”

With unimpressed eyes, Megumi turns his head to be met with your uncle, of all people. Trying his best to maintain a good impression while simultaneously trying not to vomit into his drink, he simply concedes. 

“Yup,” he sighs into the condensation of his glass as he admires the irony of the simple statement, “the boyfriend.”

Your uncle bitterly laughs into his own watered down glass before shifting in his stool to face Megumi properly. He silently watches him for a few seconds (which feel like hours) before clearing his throat in a presumptuous way. 

“Can I ask you somethin’?” your uncle presses. Megumi knows he will, regardless of however he responds. With that being said, he plays along. 

“Shoot.”

His fingers tap an unfamiliar pattern against the bar, “Does being at a wedding ever make you think of proposing?”

Megumi should be choking on the drink he sips. He should cough and gasp for air as he tries to recollect himself at the sudden ask. His eyes should pop out of his head at the mere hypothetical insinuation of proposing to you. 

Instead, Megumi merely nods once more, certain in his words as he barely swallows. 

“Yes,” he breathes, “it does.”

This is silly, Megumi knows it as he takes another swig of his bourbon. He hasn’t even kissed you, and he’s dreaming of a marriage with you.

I mean, sure, he’s walked you home from late nights at the bar, wiped away your tears of ex-lovers or silly rom-coms. Hell, he’s even let you brush his hair—on nights when you’re feeling a little down and he’s fresh out of the shower, he lets you quietly twirl patterns into his scalp with a bristled hairbrush. 

That’s not anything worthy of marriage, right?

Your uncle laughs at his blunt response, and Megumi’s not sure how he should feel about his amused reaction. He doesn’t have it in him right now to be offended. 

Your uncle takes a guzzle of his own drink, “The hell’s stoppin’ you, then?” He wipes the corners of his mouth with his sleeve and Megumi is suddenly reminded of your gentle touch by his lips just a few minutes ago, “Any reservations?”

You could say that, Megumi aches to spew—but he bites his tongue and shrugs, “A few.”

Your uncle downs the rest of his drink in a single swig, before wiping the final remnants of moisture from his mouth with the back of his palm and declaring a frank, “Fuck ‘em.”

Megumi’s eyes widen at the unexpected advice. He wordlessly watches your uncle place his now empty pint onto a coaster before signaling for the bartender to come back around. 

After a moment of staring, the younger man softly chuckles to himself in both entertainment and disbelief. “Sorry?” he stutters. 

“Your reservations,” your uncle clarifies simply, “fuck ‘em.” 

Observing Megumi’s bewildered expression, he elaborates with a knowing smirk. 

“I mean that’s what love is, right? The ultimate jump, the landing that’s not guaranteed. All of that sweet bullshit.”

The liquid of his newly poured drink sloshes around the glass as he waves his hands around in an animated manner. 

Taking a moment to look at the bigger picture, Megumi thinks he might be right. I mean, sure, he’s an asshole who barely gave him the time of day before, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. He’s just as human as he is. Love doesn't discriminate against the wealthy or the poor, the brash or the meek, the boyfriends—fake or palpable. 

“Yeah,” he sincerely acknowledges with a realizing nod, “yeah, guess I never thought about it like that.”

With a simple pat on his back, Megumi finds himself blushing beneath your uncle’s knowing gaze. He’s smug as he insists, “Well, maybe you should start.”

Megumi quickly downs the rest of his drink, immediately signaling for the bartender once more. 

...

Megumi can’t fully feel his feet as they carry him back over to your table. He almost feels like he’s floating.

The room around him is slightly foggy, or maybe it’s just his hazy vision betraying him. Granted, he doesn’t know how long he spent wallowing at the bar next to your uncle—what he does know, is that he’s now tipsy enough to ask you a certain request.

It’s easy to spot him making his way towards you through the crowd of partygoers.

You’re not sure what is it that makes him so noticeable. Maybe it’s the soft smile adorning his pretty face that feels like it’s reserved for you and you only. 

Before you can ask him where he wandered off to for the past fifteen minutes, he manages to extend a wavering hand out to you. 

“Wanna dance?” his words are collected, though his actions are rather giddy. His face is flushed with a childlike rouge. His feet slightly turn in on one another as he sways where he stands. 

You smile earnestly, before remembering the weight of the scenario. Letting your mind get the best of you, you can’t help but ask the question that sits on the tip of your tongue.

“Are you asking me because you want to dance with me, or because you think it’ll look good for the crowd?”

Megumi’s blasé expression remains. “Does it matter?” he lightly challenges. 

Your heart falters a bit, because it shouldn't matter, but it does. 

“Guess not,” you brush off the pit settling in your stomach as you rise and accept his hand. 

He leads the pair of you to the dance floor, weaving you in and out of people’s way as he finds a spot he deems worthy. He eventually stops you, where you stand surrounded by a few other couples but slightly off to the side for some tasteful privacy. It’s the least he’s asking for out of this whole ordeal—just one private moment, one real moment, with you. 

He’s a bit stiff as he waits for you to make the first move, though realistically he knows he should be the one stepping closer to you. After all, he did have to get tipsy enough to light the fire beneath himself. 

You bite the bullet and wrap your arms daintily around the back of his neck. He wishes he could say he softens at your touch, but if anything, he tenses up even more at the feeling of your skin against his.

Slowly but surely, he follows through by placing his hands at a moderate position by your hips. It’s enough for him, it’s more than enough. 

He pulls you a bit closer when you rest your head against where his shoulder meets his chest. You don’t look at him, instead opting for counting the fairy lights on the ceiling as you gently breathe against him. 

“Thank you for doing this,” he hears your faint voice vibrate his core.

He places a hand to the small of your back without realizing, “Doing what?”

His stance feels more sturdy as he sways the two of you. He finds himself leaning into your touch as the seconds melt by without notice.

Your voice turns into what resembles an ashamed whisper, “Coming here and, y’know, pretending.”

Megumi’s heart drops. 

Right, pretending. Because that’s what he’s doing here tonight. 

“Oh,” he shakily swallows, “wasn’t too hard.”

He takes a wobbly finger to your chin, prompting you to look at him. The voice in the back of his mind returns, but this time it’s encouraging, void of it’s usual pessimistic mourning. Now or never, it burns. 

His movements are slow, hesitant, almost as if you’ll dissolve right beneath his fingertips. As he leans closer into your embrace, you feel like he’s moving in slow motion. The moment doesn’t feel real. It feels like you’re watching him through a film screen as he inches closer and closer and closer until—

His lips are on yours.

They’re soft, extremely delicate as they press themselves onto your own. It feels natural, like your lips were made and molded to fit directly against his. It doesn’t feel like a performative kiss with a faux boyfriend, because it’s not. 

In that moment, you know. The way he shakily exhales into your mouth as your tongue barely skims the plush of his lower lip, the way he tenderly holds your chin in place as if you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever touched. 

Somehow you know that without any words exchanged, the moment is real. It’s more than real to the both of you. 

When he pulls away, Megumi looks pale. He doesn't look like how his kiss felt, passionate and light and sure of himself. He doesn’t look like the rom-com protagonist, whose eyes are stars in the reflection of your own. He looks afraid almost, regretful. 

Suddenly finding himself alarmingly sober at the absence of your lips on his, the moment flees from his hands. 

He excuses himself with a incoherent mumble and a hurried departure. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but the voice in the back of his head hopes you chase after him. 

...

You find him outside.

It didn’t take you long to follow his exit. After a minute of standing alone in shock, you knew that you’d rather be by Megumi’s side, awkward and all, than be in a room without him. It feels lonely, cold without his heat burning beside you. 

He has another drink in his hand as he anxiously trails in circles around an empty golf course attached to the country club. You wonder when he found the time to grab it; did he make a beeline right for the bar once he’d left you? Did he go to the bathroom, then hit the bar once more before coming outside? Did he steal a drink right from the grip of a guest and—

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” the crack in his voice catches you off guard. You didn’t know he’d noticed your presence.

Your fight-or-flight response kicks in. It tells you to fix this, that this is your best friend. That whatever happened can be forgotten as long as it means keeping Megumi as your own. 

You take a hesitant step forward in an attempt to calm his nerves, “Megumi, it’s alright, really, I just—”

“I didn’t want our first kiss to be fake,” he blurts out. 

It feels sharp. You can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the weight of the situation at hand, but he’s being incredibly brave.

Or maybe he’s not, maybe he’s absolutely petrified of fucking this up. Maybe he can’t go another day without knowing, or rather not knowing. 

He finds himself rambling beneath his breath, “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, you were supposed to kiss me because you wanted to, not because you had to—”

“Wasn’t supposed to happen like this?” you mimic his prophetic choice of words.

Megumi’s too caught up in his worry to notice—to care—that he’s spiraled, he shakes his head and continues.

“No, it was supposed to be real. Not pretend, and to appease your shitty family,” the words are said harshly, though you recognize their intent as desperate, not malicious. 

A bit disbelieving, your tiny whisper ignites something inside of him, “You’ve thought about our first kiss?”

Megumi’s eyes nearly roll out of his head and onto the concrete pavement by his scuffed and worn-out shoes.

“Of course I have—I’m in love with you!”

His eyes grow comically large, as if he wasn't in control of the phrase that just fell from his lips. He’d surprised himself with his tangent, revealing his cards to you before folding his hand and waving a white flag in defeat.

When you don’t respond, the panic sets in. Now, it’s Megumi’s fight-or-flight kicking in—and boy, does he know how to fly. 

He immediately takes a step away from you, a defense mechanism. “I’m sorry, I should go, I—”

Your three steps forward cancel out his prior retreat, and before he can even manage to inhale, your lips are on his. Palms against the apples of his cheeks, Megumi feels the warmth of your mouth on his for the second time this evening—two more times than he’d ever thought he’d have the privilege of receiving. 

You pull away breathless and Megumi expects you to vanish. To let him down gently, to tell him he’s made a mistake.

Instead, he’s met with your hands cradling his jaw. 

“Did you mean it?”

He blinks a few times, still stunned from whatever the hell just happened, “Huh?”

“You’re in love with me,” you clarify a bit too quickly, “did you mean it?”

Megumi’s blushing expression is barely hidden behind his breathless shrug. “Yeah, surprise,” he attempts to joke around the confession. 

You gurgle out a bubble of laughter out of pure instinct. Megumi doesn't know why you do, but it’s music to his hears. 

You laugh and Megumi can’t stop himself from doing the same. The two of you stand, embraced in one another’s hands and giggles as you lose yourself in the sound of each other’s laughter. How silly. How utterly odd and awkward and ironic and now yours. 

Pulling away ever-so-slightly, just to get a better look at your best friend—your lover, a duality—you squeeze his hand. 

“That first kiss was real to me, by the way,” your smile beams as you whisper into his skin, “just so you know.” 

Megumi bows his shoulders in a way that’s far too nonchalant for having barely survived the longest night he’s ever lived. He smirks, one that’s boyish and dizzy. 

“Good,” he nods, “that makes two of us.”

The two of you stand there for a while, admiring one another and the little whirlwind you’ve managed to create. The muffled sound of the music from inside the banquet hall is background noise compared to the sound of Megumi’s breathing. 

After a few moments, Megumi scratches the back of his neck—a nervous habit you hope he never outgrows. 

“D’you wanna go back inside?” he meekly offers.

Your response is almost immediate, filled with seriousness and a twinge of offense, “Absolutely not.”

Megumi laughs and you want to taste it. So you do, leaning in and pressing your lips against his for the third time tonight. You feel him smile into the caress, teeth and all against your own. 

He mumbles into the kiss, “Now that you have a real boyfriend, you no longer need to impress your snobby family, right?” 

Pulling his leg, you remove your mouth from his with a bewildered expression. 

“Boyfriend?” you remark with a howl, “Take me on a date, first.” 

Megumi’s face drops at your words, and you bite back a grin from how easy he is to read. Grabbing his hand, you pull him towards the direction of the car.

Turning around and seeing his slight pout, you bring your intertwined hands up to your lips and press a warm kiss to his knuckle.

“Megumi,” you coo and it instantly grabs his attention, “I’m kidding,” you smile.

His hand tightens around yours. 

“Thank god.” 

tagging: @izu-fi @levismainbabe @zeninsbitch @134340am @alien-arlert @somelattes  @moonamor @ironically-deadinside @dontasks-posts @bbyju @troiichiimera @asbony

#i have three (3) separate works all titled from dress by taylor swift #the chokehold it has on me #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi x reader #megumi fic #megumi fushiguro fic #megumi angst #megumi fluff #best friends to lovers #fake dating

[obtusemedia]

Ranking Lady Gaga's albums, from worst to best

Being a Lady Gaga fan can be an exercise in frustration.

Gaga is far more ambitious than most popstars — I doubt we’ll ever see Ariana Grande or Ed Sheeran make an album as left-field as Born This Way or ARTPOP. But she's also far less consistent, with numerous misbegotten projects.

Gaga's undeniably successful, with five #1 hits, an Oscar and multiple iconic music videos to her name. But her messy album rollouts and tradition of underperforming lead singles make her feel like an underdog compared to the more polished, precise careers of her contemporaries like Taylor Swift, Beyoncé or Bruno Mars.

Gaga is kind of a mess. But she's our mess. This album ranking will cover some records I can't stand — albums that make me constantly hit the fast-forward button, or albums I ignore altogether. But there isn't a single record on here that wasn't a bold move. Even the "back to basics" albums made strong aesthetic choices.

So let's dive into the career of the most fascinating Millennial popstar.

#8: Cheek To Cheek (2014)

This really shouldn't count. It's a Lady Gaga album in name only. But, technically it's a Gaga album, so here we are.

I've got nothing against Gaga having fun playing Rat Pack-era dress-up with Tony Bennett. She's a theatre kid at heart, and I'm sure every theatre kid would kill to make a Great American Songbook covers record like this. It sounds like she and Tony enjoyed themselves, so I'm happy for them!

...but I'm sorry. I can't be objective about Cheek To Cheek, it's the opposite of my taste. There's only so many bland lounge ballads I can take.

BEST SONGS: I have to pick one? "Anything Goes" is cute, I guess.

WORST SONG: "Sophisticated Lady"

#7: A Star Is Born (2018)

Let me first make this clear — A Star Is Born, the movie starring Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga? It's a masterpiece. It's electrifying and tragic and I'm still upset it didn't sweep the Oscars that year. There's even a cute dog! You won't hear me say a bad word about it.

But A Star Is Born, the accompanying soundtrack? It's extremely hit-and-miss.

Yes, it includes arguably Gaga's best-ever song and one of the greatest movie hits ever written, "Shallow." And there's plenty of other great tunes in the tracklist too — "Always Remember Us This Way," "I'll Never Love Again," the "La Vie En Rose" cover.

Even the country-rock songs from Bradley Cooper (who, reminder, is not a professional singer) are mostly good! "Black Eyes" RIPS, and "Maybe It's Time" feels like a long-lost classic.

But sadly, there are so many mediocre filler tracks on this thing. The second half of A Star Is Born's hour-plus runtime (Gaga's longest!) is padded with generic songs like "Look What I've Found," "Heal Me" and "I Don't Know What Love Is." The only good one out of the bunch is the silly, intentionally-bad "Why Did You Do That?"

In the movie, these filler tracks serve a point – they're meant to show Gaga's character selling out. They work in the movie when you hear them for a few seconds and see Cooper make a drunkly disappointed scowl. But I don't want to listen to them, and sadly, they make up half the album.

In other words — A Star Is Born would've made an incredible six or seven-song EP. But as an 63-minute-long record? It's a slog.

BEST SONGS: "Shallow", "Always Remember Us This Way," "Maybe It's Time"

WORST SONG: "Heal Me"

#6: Joanne (2016)

After Born This Way and ARTPOP, I get why Gaga needed to make a more lowkey, back-to-basics album. I also understand that many of these songs have extremely personal lyrics for her.

But is a down-to-earth album what I really want from our most outré popstar? Not really.

Luckily, Joanne is better than that description suggests. Yes, there are some bland acoustic ballads and awkward hippie-era throwbacks (two styles that are really not in Gaga's wheelhouse), but there's also some Springsteen-style heartland rockers! And those go hard in the paint.

Joanne works best when Gaga works the record's dusty aesthetics into her brand of weirdo pop, like on the sizzling "John Wayne," the winking "A-YO" or the delightfully extra Florence Welch duet "Hey Girl."

The record also has "Perfect Illusion" — a glorious red herring of a lead single that sounds nothing like anything else on Joanne. It's a roided-up mixture of woozy Tame Impala production and hair metal histrionics, and it rules. It might be Gaga's best-ever lead single! (at the very least, it's her most underrated.)

And there is one slow tune that's unambiguously great: "Million Reasons," another solid Gaga lighters-in-the-air power ballad pastiche.

Despite what some Little Monsters may tell you, Joanne isn't a disaster. There's some great stuff in there, and even the worst songs are just forgettable. But it's still far from her best.

BEST SONGS: "Perfect Illusion," "Diamond Heart," "Million Reasons"

WORST SONG: "Come To Mama"

#5: Chromatica (2020)

When Chromatica was released near the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, it had been seven years since Gaga had released music in her classic gonzo-synthpop vein. I can easily picture the record serving as an "ugh fine, I'll give you what you want" response to the many Little Monsters annoyed with Gaga's half-decade of folksy ballads and Julie Andrews cosplay.

I'll say this about Chromatica — outside of The Fame Monster, it's her most consistent record. There's not a single track that's a glaring mistake. And the three singles — "Stupid Love," "911" and the triumphant Ariana Grande duet "Rain On Me" — easily stand among her best tracks.

But although "all bangers, no ballads" album sounds rad in theory, it doesn't really succeed in practice. Chromatica is solid, but it's also a very same-y record. It feels like Gaga had one really great idea for the album ('90s club music with super-depressing lyrics) and repeated it over and over and over again to diminishing results.

There are some songs that are able to separate themselves: the three singles, of course, as well as the goofy "Babylon" and "Sine From Above," the Elton John duet that's the closest Chromatica gets to a ballad. But by the end of the album, you feel more worn out than electrified.

Also — and this is probably unfair, but still — Chromatica came out just a couple months after another retro-dance blockbuster pop album: Dua Lipa's magnum opus, Future Nostalgia. That's not a flattering comparison.

BEST SONGS: "Rain On Me," "Stupid Love," "911"

WORST SONG: "1000 Doves"

#4: The Fame (2008)

Out of all of Gaga's records, The Fame is most like a time capsule. It REEKS of late '00s/early '10s pop — which isn't an entirely fair criticism, seeing as Gaga popularized that era's sleazy, synthy aesthetic. It's also not a bad thing! I don't mind a little nostalgia!

As you already know, The Fame's singles are masterworks. "Just Dance," "Poker Face," "Paparazzi" — these tracks have titanic legacies for good reason. And although it's probably the least-beloved of this album's hits, despite being a total banger, "LoveGame" should still be commended for having arguably the most Gaga lyric ever (you know, the "disco stick" line).

And even though those tracks are front-loaded on The Fame, there are some gems deeper in the tracklist. "Summerboy" is basically Gwen Stefani covering The Strokes (so obviously, it's great). "Eh, Eh" is adorable. "Starstruck" is the most 2008 song ever recorded, with aggressive Auto-Tune and Flo Rida showing up to make Starbucks jokes.

Sadly, The Fame still feels like Gaga before she became fully-formed at certain points. The back half has a number of songs that feel like generic club tracks forced by the label, and "Paper Gangsta" is one of the clunkiest songs in Gaga's catalogue.

But at the very least, the bad songs on The Fame at least serve as little nostalgia bombs for that era of pop. And the best songs are untouchable classics.

BEST SONGS: "Paparazzi," "Just Dance," "Summerboy"

WORST SONG: "Paper Gangsta"

#3: ARTPOP (2013)

For much of Gaga's career, she's been ahead of the curve. She tries something, and a year or a few years later, other popstars try something similar to diminishing results.

That doesn't just apply to the successful stuff, like Gaga's extravagant music videos inspiring many copycats from 2010-2013. It also applies to the mid-late '10s trend of legacy popstars making a controversial record with risky aesthetic or lyrical choices that backfired: reputation. Witness. Man of The Woods.

Gaga did this first, with ARTPOP — arguably the most abrasive, and bizzare major label album released by a major modern popstar. And she did it better, because unlike Swift, Perry and Timberlake, Gaga's weirdness was for real. And it was in service of some prime, hyper-aggressive bangers.

ARTPOP isn't Gaga's best work — some of her experiments on it are major misfires, from the obnoxious "Mary Jane Holland" to the bland Born This Way leftover (and Romani slur-utilizing) "Gypsy."

But when ARTPOP is on, it's ON. The opening stretch in particular, from "Aura" to "Venus" to "G.U.Y." to "Sexxx Dreams," is chaotic synthpop at its finest. Those songs took Gaga's classic sound to an apocalyptic, demented extreme, and they're fantastic.

"MANiCURE" is a great glam-rock banger, "Dope" is another classic Gaga piano ballad, the title track is some sikly-smooth dreampop; even the misguided, clunky trap anthem "Jewels N' Drugs" is bad in a hilarious, charming way!

Trust me: ARTPOP will go down in history not as a flop, but as a gutsy, underrated record from a legend. Less Witness, more In Utero.

BEST SONGS: "G.U.Y.," "Venus," "Sexxx Dreams"

WORST SONG: "Gypsy"

#2: The Fame Monster (2009)

Objectively speaking, this is probably the best Gaga album.

It's her one record with no fluff, no filler — only 34 minutes and 8 tracks, all of them stellar.

It's the record that took Gaga from "wow, this new woman is a fresh new face in pop!" to "this woman IS pop."

It's the record with her signature track, "Bad Romance," which was accompanied by arguably the greatest music video of the 21st Century. (It also has my absolute favorite Gaga track, the relentlessly catchy "Telephone.")

I don't think I need to explain what makes mega-smashes "Bad Romance" and "Telephone" and "Alejandro" great, nor the accompanying legendary deep cuts "Speechless" and "Dance In The Dark." They speak for themselves.

However — the sleek, calculated perfection of The Fame Monster, while incredible, isn't something I return to often. It's just not the side of Gaga that's my favorite. That honor would have to go to...

BEST SONGS: "Telephone," "Dance In The Dark," "Bad Romance"

WORST SONG: "So Happy I Could Die" (but it's still pretty solid)

#1: Born This Way (2011)

One of my favorite podcasts is Blank Check. The concept of the show is to analyze each movie by a famous director — in particular, those who had big success early on and then got a blank check to make whatever crazy passion project they wanted. Here's a great example: because Batman was a massive hit, Tim Burton got to make whatever Hot Topic-core movies he wanted to for decades, from Edward Scissorhands to a creepy Willy Wonka remake.

That long-winded tangent is just to say: Born This Way was Lady Gaga's blank check. By early 2011, she had conquered the pop universe, notching hit after hit after hit. Every other pop star was copying her quirky music videos. So the label let Gaga do whatever she wanted — and she didn't waste that opportunity.

Born This Way is wildly overproduced. It's both extremely trend-chasing (those synths were cutting edge at the time but charmingly dated now), but also deeply uncaring about what the teens want (I don't think Springsteen and Queen homages were big at the time). And I love every messy, overblown second of it.

From the hair-metal/synthpop hybrid opener "Marry The Night" to the majestic '80s power ballad "The Edge of Glory," Born This Way starts at an 11. And Gaga never takes her foot off the pedal for the album's entire hour-plus run time. Clanging electric guitars, thunderous synths and Clarence Clemons (!!!) sax solos collide into each other as Gaga champions every misfit and loser in the world. It's gloriously corny in the best way possible.

Born This Way is also the perfect middle ground of pop-savvy Gaga and gonzo Gaga. It doesn't go quite as hard as ARTPOP, but the hooks are stronger. And the oddball moments are tons of fun, from the sci-fi biker anthem "Highway Unicorn" to the goofy presidential-sex banger "Government Hooker" ("Put your hands on me/John F. Kennedy" might be the greatest line in pop history).

Born This Way will always be my favorite Gaga album. It's armed with nuclear-grade hooks, slamming beats, and soaring anthems. Although it's not as untouchably pristine as the Mt. Rushmore of '10s pop classics (for the record, that's 1989, EMOTION, Lemonade and, of course, Melodrama), Gaga isn't best served by meticulousness. She's proudly tacky and histrionic, and so that's what makes Born This Way an utter joy.

BEST SONGS: "The Edge of Glory," "You and I," "Marry The Night"

WORST SONG: "Bloody Mary"