Chapter 1: “Uh, anal?”
You’re head down, ass-up and bent over Negan’s (very uncomfortable) leather couch, reading an old Cosmopolitan magazine, and that can only mean one thing — it’s a Thursday aka your night with Negan.
“Thirteen bag trends you’ll see this fall,” You read beneath your breath, eyes scanning the once glossy pages before inconspicuously flipping to the next page. “Oh, at-home facial recipes for combination skin.”
“You say something?” He’s panting, eyes closed and head tipped heavenward, so there’s no point in even half-assing your performance.
“Oh, yes! Harder, baby!” You moaned — page flip. “God, you’re so big. I love it when you fuck me with your big, hard cock!” Page flip.
Negan laughs because he’s an arrogant, selfish prick, and for a brief moment, you entertain the idea of being truthful — You’ve never made me come, not even once — before tossing it into the dark depths of your mind.
“I know, baby. I’m fucking you so good, aren’t I?”
Another page flip, and an eye roll.
You pretended to pant your agreement, rolling your hips in a way that made his thrusting briefly stutter. “Fuck my pussy, baby. Fucking rail me.”
What?! Brad and Angelina are getting a divorce?
Okay, here’s a brief confession. You’re a selfish cunt, and that’s not meant to be degrading in any way. It’s what scientists would call an unequivocal statement. For example, the sky is blue. Air is vital to human beings, its composition consisting of 21% oxygen and 78% nitrogen. Rosé is the superior wine, and Y/N is a selfish, spoiled bitch, that frankly never learned the value of a dollar and hard work, and wouldn’t even in the aftermath of an apocalypse.
It’s the damn truth. Rather than work for your keep, you would rather be fucked by a maniac.
When you’d arrived at the Sanctuary (unwilling, you might add), the thought of working in such horrific conditions was enough to make your skin crawl. You’d entertained the idea of marrying a Savior — Simon had that 80s pornstache that admittedly, made you slightly curious — before Negan had come to you with an enticing offering.
Negan was drop-dead gorgeous, full lips and intense, mischievous green eyes. Hot sex and the ability to once again do the bare minimum in life? How the hell could you turn that down?
Of course, the entire thing had been too good to be true.
You’d been hopeful in the aftermath of the first night. Maybe it had been a fluke? The foreplay left a lot to be desired, but you made the excuse he’d been eager to fuck his newest wife. The second week your hope had weened, and by the fifth, you’d learned to stash lube and a magazine up your dress when it was your day of the week.
So it goes.
Life could be worse. After all, you had a neverending supply of rosé, good company, and the thing you'd craved the most, stability. Negan stuck to a routine and most of the time you were in bed by eleven with a romance novel and a glass of wine.
His sex formula: Get nude. Grope breasts. Grab _____’s ass. Bend over the nearest flat surface, and fuck for twenty minutes or so.
He never strayed from the pattern, and for that, you were thankful because — THE FUCK?
The foreign, wet pressure is enough to send you scrambling forward and toppling face-first over the couch. Arms flailed. Legs sprawled. Your head connected with the damn coffee table, colors bursting across your vision like goddamn fireworks. “What the hell are you doing?” You squawked.
Even upside down, Negan looked puzzled and extremely pissed, but you can’t bring yourself to care, glaring at the culprit that had been the cause of your now bleeding forehead — his wet thumb.
What the fuck?
He squinted. “Is that a magazine?”
Chapter 2: "I’ve been faking it.”
In which, the reader has a confession to make.
the plot in this fic is ankle-deep, short and to the point. a mini-fic. x
“…and then…he tried to stick it in my ass.” You chugged the rest of your wine before regarding the other wives around the dinner table.
“What the fuck?” Amber breathed, reaching to pour you more rosé. You clutched the glass with both hands, taking a grateful sip. “He’s never wanted anal before, right girls?”
The other wives nodded their agreement, looking mildly concerned. Negan was well endowed and taking it up the ass sounded moderately painful. The silver lining? Negan swore he’d never force you to do anything that you weren’t comfortable doing. Even though, you know, the foundation of your relationship was built on discomfort and manipulation through the solicitation of sex.
“What in the hell would make him even think that I would want that? I am not a backdoor whore,” You said.
“You do say, ‘Fuck me in the ass,’ like a lot,” Tanya so helpfully said.
“Rhetorically, T! Not as a goddamn invitation.” You bit your lip, considering stuff and things. Had you been sending out unconscious vibes? Hmm? No, definitely not. “I curse, that’s apart of my charm. Not once have I ever asked for a finger in the ass, nor will I ever.”
“Okay, simple fix. Just tell Negan that you don’t want his dick up your ass. It’s just not possible, because…” Amber gestured, making a circle with one hand before crudely shoving her fist through it. “Kill two birds with one stone. You stroke his ego and turn him down.”
“Oh, my fuck. You’re a genius, Amber. Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Oh, wait. I did, and you know what he said? I quote, ‘Maybe you can pick up some tips in your goddamn Cosmo magazine.’” You sighed heavily. “Girls, I have a confession to make. I’ve been faking it .”
“I knew that wasn’t your natural hair color.”
“Not my hair, Tanya,” You said, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
"You don't have to try, sweetheart. It's not like Negan's keeping you around for your brains.” Frankie gave Tanya’s large breasts a pointed look before telling you to continue.
“I’ve never orgasmed with him,” You confessed. “I don’t know what it is because he’s goddamn gorgeous and he gives me things, you know?” They nodded understandingly. “Every time I think I’m close, I just…lose it. Tell me that I’m not the only one.”
“Honey,” Amber said, reaching across the table, and patting your arm sympathetically. “You are the weakest link.”
“I once had five orgasms in one night,” Frankie said.
The newest wife, you hadn’t bothered to learn her name, said, “Really? I had six.”
“Does the orgasm count if it’s from foreplay?” That’s Tanya.
“How in the fuck am I the only one?” You interjected. “Have I somehow lost the ability to orgasm? You know, when I was living with that cult in the woods I did have the flu for almost a year — you don’t think my lady parts could be broken, do you?”
You absentmindedly brushed your bandaged forehead. You could’ve talked to Dr. Carson about it last night, but the thought hadn't crossed your mind what with the blunt head injury and Negan's fuming figure always lurking in the background. A broken vagina. Damn.
There’s a lull in conversation as the sound of approaching footsteps fill the room, and beneath the table, you crossed your fingers in hopes that it wasn’t Negan about to walk through that door. To say he’d been pissed was an understatement, and he'd barely accepted the shitty excuse about the magazine. You were hoping that by next Thursday he’d completely forget.
Simon entered the room. “Y/N, Negan wants to see you.”
Well, shit. No such luck.
Chapter 3: “Well, good for gay men.”
In which, a deal is made.
“Hello, my dearest husband,” You said, poking your head through his office door. “You wanted to see me?”
You’d meant to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, but stumbled having read the title of the book in his hand: On The Road To In Her Ass: An Anal Sex Guide
“What the fuck?” You said slowly, taking a step back. If you made a run for it now, you’d most likely have a five-minute head start. That cult you'd left — correction, been forcibly taken from — sounded really good right about now.
Negan caught the minuscule movement, quirking a brow and pointing to a chair. You sat down, crossing your legs with a small huff. “Its been a long time coming, sweet cheeks. I’m an ass man, through and through,” he sang, bookmarking a page and setting the book aside.
“I don’t do anal,” You protested, and because your husband is a fucking psychopath, and a horny one to boot, you softened your tone. “I mean, it wasn’t in the contract, sir,” You tacked on even going so far as to do a mock curtesy. He narrowed his eyes, clicking his pen impatiently.
“What exactly don’t you like about anal?”
“Um, it’s unsanitary and painful.” Duh.
“Gay men do it all the time,” he pointed out.
You crossed your arms. “Well, good for gay men.”
“If you go about preparing for it the right way, anal sex can be pleasurable — that includes sanitary practices and stretching your ass beforehand.”
“Did you read that in your ass book?” You could tell he was losing his patience, and you knew that you should probably stop antagonizing him, but you were drunk. Loose lips sink ships and all that shit. “Okay, I take that comment back, and I apologize. Why don’t you just ask one of the other wives though?”
“Would you believe me if I said it would be my first time? That I wanted you and your sweet ass to be my first.” When you hesitated, he said impatiently, “Just speak your damn mind, Y/N, I won’t kill you for it.”
Good to know.
You drew in a deep breath, gathering your nerves. “Okay, no. I wouldn’t believe you. Simply put, you’re a man-slut, and that’s not meant to be taken as slut-shaming. I’m saying it factually. You see, scientists would call that an unequivocal statement—”
He rubbed his beard, regarding you thoughtfully. “I never realized how much of a smart ass you were until this moment.”
“How could you? I don’t think we’ve ever had a full conversation.” The statement came more resentful than you’d expected it too.
He noted your tone suspiciously. “This have anything to do with the magazine from yesterday?”
“I told you that I like to do some light reading in the evening. It soothes me.”
He leaned back in his chair, a deceptively kind smile on his face. “Y/N, would you like a glass of wine?”
In hindsight, you should have known that the entire thing was a trap.
One hour and thirty-five minutes later…
“I’m not sure if I should, Negan. Can I call you Negan?” You asked, collapsing deeper into the couch cushions with a drunken laugh. “What kind of name is Negan anyway?”
He pursed his lips, taking another sip of whiskey, watching you make a drunken spectacle of yourself. “It won’t leave this room,” he said.
For the past half hour, Negan had been trying to coax information out of you, refilling your wine whenever it got too low in hopes that you'd slip up while you were drunk. Add that to the several other glasses of wine you’d had during dinner, and well, bad things were bound to occur.
Consider this confession #2. Maybe you were what some people would call alcohol dependent. Okay, scratch that, you were very dependent on alcohol. But how else were you supposed to spend the rest of your life? If anything, you’d been told you were a lot more fun when intoxicated, and an excellent karaoke partner. The only downsides were, of course, the hangovers and the drunken mistakes that were made when you were drunk off your ass.
“I’m not cheating if that’s what you’re thinking,” You said, the urge to cry overwhelmingly present. “Please don’t cut my head off and put it on a stake, please! I swore that I would never say it out loud. Honestly, I think I’d rather die.”
Negan stood, taking a seat beside you on the couch, carefully taking your glass, and setting it down on that damn coffee table. “Please?” he asked.
A beat of silence.
“Okay, but you can’t tell my husband. He’s a psychopath.” You shuffled closer, announcing, “I’ve never had an orgasm with him.”
The triumphant smirk he wore fell, and he blinked rapidly. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“Hey, you said you wouldn’t kill me. No take backsies,” You slurred, noting Negan's rising tone. “It’s not like I haven’t tried to come. You’re a handsome guy, and I want to enjoy the sex, I do. But I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
The wine had loosened your tongue. “You’re so into fucking , and I guess that’s just not my style.”
“… but you’re always so wet,” he protested.
“Lube, dude. Anyway, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to take it slow, spend more than a handful of minutes on foreplay. But sex is more for your benefit than mine, so I guess it doesn't matter what I want...”
“So you’re telling me that my magnificent cock hasn’t ever made you cream your panties?”
“No, I didn’t say that,” You protested. “Let me try again. I have these romance novels, and they have this slow build between the characters that ties your stomach in knots and chemistry that makes you breathless. They make love passionately, and honestly, I’ve never experienced that, but I think I'm more into that than this...” You surprised him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’m sorry I have a broken vagina, Negan. It’s not you. It’s me.”
It’s your turn to be surprised when he leaned in to kiss you, an actual kiss, not the sloppy, wet glide of tongues that you usually anticipated. Unexpectedly, your nipples hardened in tentative interest. Huh. He broke the kiss. “How about this? If I can make you come — you let me fuck you in the ass.”
You’re still reeling from the kiss, and there’s the foreign feeling of heat in your belly you’d only read about in your novels. You want Negan to kiss you again, and that’s the reason you find yourself agreeing. “Okay, yeah. You’ve got yourself a deal.” A pause. “Just don’t tell my husband, okay?”
Chapter 4: “Passion.”
In which, there’s passion.
thanks for the love on this story. x
also, i had so much fun writing Ana and Gustavo. it's so cliche.
Gustavo took a confident step forward despite Ana’s protests, his bright green eyes roaming hungrily across her heaving bosom. “Your mind and your body are at war. How does it feel to deny yourself of such pleasure?” he asked.
Her back pressed against the barn door and she could do nothing as he slowly closed the remaining distance. “Gustavo,” she breathed once he’d broken their kiss. “Take me.”
His tongue traced her breasts bound by her corset and he lovingly mouthed the skin, his other hand reaching for the hem of her—
You paused in your reading, listening intently to what you’d thought was the sound of your bedroom door opening and closing. The bathwater in the tub noisily sloshed as you lost your footing against the rim, and you mentally cursed your clumsiness. You’d probably just led your killer straight to you, and of course, you’d be the one to die in a bathtub. Fuck, that was so depressingly fitting.
“Huh,” You whispered. “Also slightly comforting.”
The door crept open, and you drew in a lungful of air, prepared to go out kicking and screaming because—
“Negan?” You lowered the romance novel you’d planned to use as a makeshift weapon. “What the hell, dude?”
Two days. It had been two days since you’d interacted with Negan and agreed to his half-assed plan. You figured that he'd been away on a business trip, too busy to antagonize you. You didn’t care for your husband's, cough, career choice, cough, so you always told yourself that he was away on a business trip.
“I thought I’d drop by unannounced,” he said nonchalantly, and you watched him take note of your bathroom filled with soft lighting from the candles he’d once brought you and a tub overflowing with rose-scented bubbles.
“Oh, well. That explains nothing.” The man had seen all of your bits so you weren’t exactly scrambling to cover your tits as he stared unabashedly. “You never do, uh, house calls.”
In actuality, Negan didn’t do the emotional bits of a relationship at all.
A wife had never stayed the night in his bed and he never came to a wife’s bedroom. Negan made himself as scarce as possible and you figured that was for a number of reasons.
It was the #1 rule in the Wives Commandments, etched in (metaphorical) stone: Thou shall not fall for the emotionally unavailable psychopath.
Swear to God, the Wives Commandments was an actual thing. Frankie, a calligraphy enthusiast, had taken the time to scrawl them on paper and then frame it for the new wives. So, yeah, you were really confused at to why your husband was in your bathroom and taking off his boots.
“I can't visit my wife?” he alluded, shrugging off his shirt. He’d recently showered and the smell of evergreen drifted towards you. "What are you reading?”
You flushed, slightly embarrassed to be caught. “Remember those romance books I was talking about? This one’s called Beating Hearts.”
He pursed his lips, highly critical of the cover art: a shirtless man with oiled abs and a woman donned in a corset “You actually meant it when you said that you read that trash?”
“You’ve never even read it! How the hell do you know its trash?”
“Alright then, let’s read it.” He dropped his pants, and because you’re sitting in the tub, you’re face-to-face with his crotch, and honestly, you’re flattered, watching him slightly harden.
“Isn’t it Tanya’s night?”
“Your point?” He motioned for you to move forward, and you did, letting him sink into the water with a soft hiss. “Why the hell is the water so hot?”
“I’m practicing for when I have to burn in hell.”
It’s weird at first, the tub is larger than average but Negan is tall and there’s an elbow in your rib and a knee digging into your hip. Gradually you relax and find a comfortable position, your back molding against his chest; and once he gets used to the water he’s all languid muscles and soft sighs too.
“Guess we can burn together.”
“It’s a date.”
The conversation lulled and a minute glance over your shoulder confirmed that he’d closed his eyes, enjoying the warm bath. Maybe its all the romance novels that you’ve been reading lately but you can’t help think of him as beautiful. Yeah, he’s a handsome fucker — if you’re into psychopaths — but there’s something different in this moment. He’s not yelling, making a crude joke or smirking. He’s just him. Stubbled cheeks, laugh lines and soft lips, the bottom slightly fuller than the top.
You can’t help but kiss them.
“What’s that for?” he asked softly, eyes still closed.
“Cause you’re keeping me company, and I often feel lonely.”
They could call you a vulgar mouthed bitch, but in the same breath, they’d have to call you truthful. As it was, life demanded to be felt, and you weren’t going to cushion the blow with lies.
He hummed noncommittally but his hand came forward to stroke your collarbone, the droplets of water cascading down the swell of your breast before disappearing into the water. “Read to me?”
That feeling is back, a soft heat that simultaneously feels like soft knots in your lower belly. It’s ridiculous because you’ve been horny before, but this is horniness induced by Negan which is something your body isn’t sure how to come to terms with.
You take a deep breath, clearing your head, and begin to read.
His tongue traced her breasts bound by her corset and he lovingly mouthed the skin, his other hand reaching for the hem of her dress.
“What are you doing?"
“My love, I have to taste your sweet nectar—”
“Really?” Negan asked, interrupting. “Sweet nectar?”
“It’s a little outdated but the passions there,” You defended.
“Why don’t they just fuck if they’ve got so much passion?”
“I guess they could have a quick fuck and be over with it in a handful of minutes, but then there’s something left to be desired. They wouldn't have a chance to explore their intimacy on a platonic level. Trust me, being patient and building up the tension is way more rewarding. There are heated glances and secret meetings, and that just makes things stronger between them. Plus, the sex sounds way hotter.”
“Well, damn.” His eyes are open now, contemplating. “When you put it like that, shit starts to make sense. Keep reading, woman.”
“I’ve waited for this moment. My existence was but a void until I laid eyes upon your soul,” Ana said, aching with anticipation.
His hand grazed her slickness.“You’ve gone without your undergarments?”
“The heat is incorrigible and I yearn for you, Gustavo. Take me, please.”
“I have to taste you first. The thought of having your honey on my tongue is maddening,” Negan interrupted, reading aloud for you, his tone colored in astonishment. “The broadness of his tongue swept across her slit and she moaned in delight, working to free her breasts as Gustavo’s tongue furrowed deeper within her wet channel. He groaned hungrily, the sounds of their coupling reverberating through the abandoned barn.”
“Gustavo, my love,” You read, taking the heroine’s part. “I’m coming undone, drink me. Take me with your tongue.”
You continued to read, Negan’s hands wandering, brushing against your ribs, a firm stroke of his finger along the inseam of your thigh. It’s a gentle fire that settles below your skin. You spread your legs, urging him to touch where you want him most. He doesn’t.
“I see why you love these books so much,” he said, laying a soft kiss on your shoulder as you came to the end of the chapter.
Wetness had begun to form between your legs, distinguishably different than the bathwater as he continued to run his tongue along your skin. Your head lulled, falling to rest in the cradle of his neck as he suckled on your skin.
Just like the book, you thought.
“I’m a romantic at heart.”
“A simple fuck won’t do it. You need it soft and passionate,” he speculated.
“I think so,” You breathed, lips mere centimeters from his own. He was hard against your lower back but doesn’t move to do anything about, instead leaning forward to claim you in a gentle kiss. The softest embrace. It sends warm sparks dancing along your spine.
You’ve never had a chance to taste him, but he lingered on your tongue now: nicotine and honeyed whiskey. There’s an overwhelming chance that you might hand over your rosé in favor of getting drunk off of him.
The book made a distant thud as it dropped to the floor, your hands entangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. His response is just as drunkening, the tips of his fingers brushing the underside of your breasts.
“Negan, what are you doing to me?”
“Giving you what you want,” he answered.
“I can have anything?”
“In this moment.”
“Well, that’s more than you’ve ever given me.”
Another confession, the first of many actually: You’re a materialist. Though, something had changed in the last few months. A gradual shift that you really didn't care to dwell on. Material objects weren't filling that gaping hole in your chest as much as they’d used to, and maybe it's because that holes becoming bigger.
This, however, is like a balm to your soul. It’s company, and it's on borrowed time so that makes it all the bittersweet. For that reason, you try to hold every minute before lovingly letting it pass.
“Look at you,” You laughed, taking in Negan’s bubble coated form. You lead him into the shower, stumbling, and he caught you, laughing at your expense.
The warm water washed away the suds, and you brushed away the lingering bubbles under his watchful gaze. It darkened when you’d dropped to your knees.
Sex was transactional with Negan. There’d been rushed s for your benefit, but you’d never done this before. Maybe it was too intimate. Yes, that was it. It crossed a line that both of you weren’t entirely comfortable with. Yet you hop, skip, and dance across it now, embolden and impassioned.
“That’s absolutely beautiful, sweetheart.” His head fell against the shower tile, the image of you reaching between your legs, gathering your wetness and coating his length, dancing behind his eyelids.
The warm tip of your tongue hesitantly brushed against the beading tip. It’s surprisingly addictive, the taste of him on your tongue. “J-Just like that,” he sighed, catching himself on the small window ledge when you dragged your tongue along the underside of his cock.
And while you appreciated his attempt to be considerate, you didn't want him to hold back. You urged him to move, the thought that you should be wary soon becoming eclipsed by the gentle tugging of your hair as his hand went to the nape of your neck. Not so much forcing you onto his length, but holding your head as you sucked and licked him.
“You taste really good.” The confession echoed in the shower stall.
“I could get used to this.” You twisted your wrist, and he swayed and cursed. “Having you at my mercy, touching you like this.”
To prove your point, you took him down your throat, tearing down the last of his composure. Pins and needles danced across your scalp as he fisted a handful of your hair, holding you firmly in place. Breathing slowly through your nose, you allowed him to fuck your mouth, your hands wandering to your neglected clit.
You peeked from beneath your lashes and your eyes locked. It's his breaking point: the soft hum of your moans against his cock, and an unnamed emotion reflected in your eyes. He came, pulsing down your throat. “Holy shit. What was that?”
You can’t help but smile smugly. “Passion.”
Chapter 5: “...d*ck in my mouth.”
In which, there's talk of phalluses.
Last night with Negan had been mind-blowing and opened your eyes to some exciting possibilities. Orgasms. Lots of orgasms.
There’d been chemistry in the air, and a white-hot heat in your belly that lingered even now in the early hours of the morning. You were still in awe of Negan's sweet touches, and his ability to be so, well, romantic. And like the romantic slut that you were, you’d been ready to give up your anal virginity right then after that super suave, ‘Passion,’ comment when there’d been a knock at the door.
Negan cursed, which felt strange because he’d had his head buried between your legs, and Simon cursed once he’d realized what he’d interrupted. Of course, you’d cursed the timing and even tried to take a swing at Negan’s second-in-command.
In conclusion, you were horny.
And, well, Simon could identify your ass in a police line-up.
But, you digressed, last night Negan had left things unfinished, and the idea of handling it yourself wasn’t nearly as appealing. You’d tossed and turned all night, deciding to give up on sleeping in favor of going for a jog when the sky outside your window had turned a dull-ish grey.
Now, if someone had told you several years ago that you’d spend your free time during the apocalypse willingly exercising as a way to metaphorically and physically run away from the ever-encroaching feelings of guilt, shame, and anxiety that came with making a deal with a psychopath — well, you’d have looked them in the eyes and said, 'I wholeheartedly believe you. That totally sounds like something I would do. You know, I was always looking for the right motivation. Have I finally lost those five pounds?'
If running from your problems was an Olympic sport you would have won the gold medal. As it was, your only consolation prize was knowing that you wouldn’t have to engage in any social interactions unless it was on your terms.
Or so you thought.
“What the hell are you guys doing up so early?” You inquired.
Frankie, Amber, and a very hysteric Tanya greeted you upon your arrival of the parlor. There’s a brief moment where you consider just putting that shit on a shelf to deal with later and just fill your water bottle like you’d planned when Tanya runs into your not so outstretched arms.
“Oh, honey. What’s wrong? Did your curling iron go out on you again?” You asked, carefully selecting a banana from the early morning spread. ‘Cause protein.
“It’s worse than that!” Tanya cried.
“Sweetie, don’t make that face. You don’t want wrinkles, do you?” You cooed, calmly smoothing out the creases on her forehead.
“You’re right.” She took a step back, fidgeting with a pigtail. “It’s just that Negan didn't come to visit me last night, and he never misses a night, Y/N. He says I have magic hands, and only I can help him de-stress.”
Magic hands. Ha. Cute. You’d once seen Tanya glue her magic hand to her face with eyelash glue.
“Oh, that? Yeah, he was with me.” You indicated with the banana exactly what you’d done the night before.
“I sucked his dick...last night...” You pronounced each word slowly and carefully.
“Dick in my mouth,” You said, looking to the others for assistance.
“What don’t you get, hun?” Frankie asked Tanya gently.
“I get the dick sucking. I'm not that stupid. What I don’t get is Y/N’s mouth on Negan’s penis — willingly — when she only does the bare minimum in life.”
“I resent that,” You protested. “I do...enough.” A pause. “And don’t say penis. It’s so not sexy.”
“You know what’s not sexy? Falling asleep with your makeup on and waking up to this!” She pushed her bangs aside to reveal a massive pimple.
You couldn't resist. “I have a Cosmo article you’re going to love, T. Do you have combination skin?”