Written for Shameless Big Bang 2025!
Summary:
A little bit drunk, a little bit high, and a little bit lonely, Mickey realises he wants a relationship, not random hook-ups. When he reaches out to a handful of people from different parts of his life and asks them to set him up on blind dates, he ends up on multiple awful dates with Ian Gallagher.
Due to the extenuating circumstances of every bad date, they begin to form a friendship that could be so much more if they could just get their heads out of their asses.
Click above to read and see the gorgeous art by @geonbaeeeesblog
DAY TWENTY-FOUR/AO3/@gallavichthings
“Such a slut,” he says, sliding his knife along your stomach, sharp point mixing the mess you’ve both made. “Never seen you so pretty, Mick.”
“Fuck off.” But it’s breathy and soft and you’re too fucked-out to offer more.
You watch, though, eyes half-closed, as Gallagher, uses the blade to scoop up the come. You watch, though, as he meets your gaze, his lips quirking up into that smile you’ve come to know so well. You watch, though, as he lifts the knife to your mouth, expectant.
And you watch his eyes – dark, dangerous – as you part your lips willingly.
DAY TWENTY-THREE/AO3/@gallavichthings
“I thought I told you to stop fucking other people.”
“I thought I told you it was all part of the job.”
He presses his knife to the mark at your neck. “Letting them bruise you is part of the job?”
“Comes with the territory.”
“Hmmm.” A flick of the wrist, a sharp scratch. “I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.”
You inhale deeply, let the knife dig into your skin. “What’re you gonna do?”
He smiles. “What do you want me to do?”
You want him to erase the marks with ones of his own.
DAY TWENTY-TWO/AO3/@gallavichthings
“Fucking stay down,” he growls, getting to his feet.
“Eat dick, Gallagher,” you say, aiming a kick at his shin.
“Such a fucking – Jesus, why do I even bother with you?”
“Because you can’t get enough.”
You get to your feet, watching Gallagher watch you. He wipes at the blood on his chin and you tongue at a loose tooth.
“You’re such a shit,” he says, but he’s smiling. Dark, dangerous.
Because he knows.
With fucking, you won’t fight back.
Physically, you have a chance.
He grabs you by the collar and shoves you against the wall.
He fucking knows.
DAY TWENTY-ONE/AO3/@gallavichthings
“Fuck you’re good at that.”
You can’t reply. Hell, you can’t do much more than stare up at Gallagher as he fucks your mouth and fists his hand in your hair.
“So pretty,” he says, staring down at you and pulling on your hair.
You moan like a fucking whore.
“That’s it,” he mutters, slipping a thumb in next to his cock. “Gonna make me come. Where d’you want it, Mick? In your mouth? On your face?”
Your eyes flutter shut as the hand in your hair tightens.
“Oh, you filthy fuck. You want me to come in your hair?”
DAY TWENTY/AO3/@gallavichthings
“Are you wearing it?”
The voice makes you hard, makes the cock ring in question squeeze around you.
“Fuck off.” You don’t turn to look at him.
“Show me.”
“We’re in the middle of the fucking opera, so I repeat – fuck off.”
“No one will see.”
You get harder.
The cock ring gets tighter.
“How’d you find me? If you’re here for my kill –”
“Relax,” he whispers. “I’m here for you, not your kill.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Oh, Mick. I always know where you are.”
If it weren’t for the cock ring, you might come then and there.
DAY NINETEEN/AO3/@gallavichthings
There’s a knife at your throat.
A year or two ago, it would have felt like a threat, something to fight, but now …
Fuck.
Now you lean into it, watch in the bathroom mirror as the blade presses into your pale skin, pant and moan and try not to beg as Gallagher thrusts into you from behind. Your gaze goes from the knife to his and back again, watching, waiting.
He smiles.
The knife presses harder.
Someone bangs at the bathroom door.
Blood.
A speck, but that’s all it takes to make your eyes roll back as you come.
DAY EIGHTEEN/AO3/@gallavichthings
“Remember,” he says, hand squeezing yours that little bit too tight, “you’re my incredibly loving husband who would do anything for me.”
You keep your eyes on the ballroom and squeeze back. “Then stop saying shit that makes me want to stab you.”
“Stop saying shit that makes me want to fuck you.”
“Stop saying shit that makes me want to kill you.”
“Sweet talker.”
“Asshole.”
“Husband.”
You stop and glare at him. “One time thing, Gallagher. Once this bitch is dead, this ring comes off.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” You cock a brow.
“Maybe.” He smirks. “But you’ll still be mine.”
DAY SEVENTEEN/AO3/@gallavichthings
You’re on the floor of an empty theatre with a mouthful of dick when you feel it. Hands at your waist, your jeans, your ass cheeks, and then … soft but firm, wet and sloppy. Gallagher’s tongue in your ass, the vibrations of his moans against your hole as if he hasn’t eaten in days.
And it’s so fucking good and so fucking distracting that you forget yourself, forget Gallagher’s dick in your mouth, until he presses in, chokes you, and you match his moans with ones of you own. Match your sucks with his licks until you’re coming untouched.
DAY SIXTEEN/AO3/@gallavichthings
It starts the way it always starts – a fight. But this time, somehow, you get the upper hand. You end up on top of Gallagher, both hands around his neck, watching as the light fades from his eyes. Watching as you kill him.
You don’t want to kill him.
You don’t know what you do want, but it’s not that.
You loosen your grip. Not much, just enough to let him inhale, let him smirk, let him get enough oxygen to his brain that when he moves, it’s a hand to your hard dick.
“Fucking pervert,” he says, voice hoarse.
DAY FIFTEEN/AO3/@gallavichthings
“Come the fuck on, Gallagher.”
He hums, but doesn’t move. “Where’re your manners, Mick?”
“Fuck you is where my manners are.” The blunt head of his dick presses at your hole and you hate the whine that escapes, the way you automatically push back against him. “C’mon, man.”
“C’mon, what?”
“C’mon and fuck me.”
Gallagher’s large hand sweeps up your spine, doing anything but calm you. “You and I both know that’s not what I mean.”
“Jesus Christ, I fucking hate you.”
“Do you?”
“Just fucking fuck me, already.”
“Try again.”
“I –” Fuck, not his name. “Gallagher … please.”