Chapter Text
It all started when Carl slammed a six-pack down on the table like he was challenging the gods themselves.
“Alright, bitches,” he yelled triumphantly, “it's time for... ADULT SUPER ULTRA MATURE TRUTH OR DARE!”
From across the room, Fiona rolled her eyes with mechanical precision. “Since when is you and mature even in the same sentence?”
Carl just grinned, the feral grin of a man armed with tequila. “Since I brought tequila!”
That got everyone’s attention. Cheers erupted like it was Christmas morning.
The players assembled: Fiona, Lip, Ian, Debbie, Carl, Kev, Veronica, Frank (who hadn't been invited but had somehow materialized, drunk), and of course, Mickey—who had been “dragged into this bullshit” by Ian and was already regretting every life decision that led him here.
The Rules were simple:
Pick Truth or Dare.
If you refused? Off came one item of clothing.
Lose all your clothes (except underwear)? You were done—and the group got to choose your punishment.
The room practically vibrated with the energy of future regret.
---
ROUND 1: WARM-UP
The first dares were casual—by Gallagher standards.
Kev was the first to go, and after drawing a dare card, tilted his head and then, heroically, proceeded to shotgun a beer through his nose. “Burns like syphilis,” he coughed, eyes watering.
Debbie’s turn came next. She was dared to text her ex “I miss your feet.” She stared at the group like they’d asked her to join a cult. “That's the weirdest shit I ever heard,” she muttered, typing anyway, squinting at the screen like it might bite.
Fiona, never one to back down, dared Lip to flash the street from the porch. Lip just shrugged. “Neighbors already hate us, what's one more dick sighting?”
Mickey, already two beers deep and feeling untouchable, raised his hand for his turn.
“Dare,” he said, smug as hell. “Hit me.”
Carl, practically vibrating with glee, leaned forward like a goblin about to unleash hell. “Alright, Mick — French kiss Frank.”
The collective gag that followed was synchronized like a choir. Even Frank looked confused.
Mickey stood up, gave them all a dramatic middle finger, and peeled off his jacket instead. First item down. He dropped it to the floor like a gauntlet.
---
ROUND 2: SPICY LEVEL UP
The game escalated like a fire in a fireworks store.
Veronica dared Carl to get a tattoo of the word “Pussy” on his foot. “Fuck no!” he shouted, tossing off his hoodie instead.
Ian’s turn was cruel. He had to call his ex Caleb and tell him he wanted to get back together. Ian didn’t even consider it. “Fuck that guy,” he grumbled, stripping off his shirt.
Then Frank—somehow still standing—dared Fiona to sniff Lip's armpit for thirty seconds. Fiona recoiled in horror. “I'd rather be homeless again,” she spat, yanking off her sweater instead.
And Mickey? He just kept dodging every outrageous dare like a pro, stripping bit by bit—T-shirt gone, socks gone, belt gone—until he was sitting there in nothing but boxers.
Ian leaned over and whispered with a smug grin, “You're about to get fucked, dude.”
Mickey smirked back. “Please, they can’t handle me.”
He had no idea what was coming.
---
THE FINAL BLOW
By the final round, Mickey was practically vibrating with faux confidence, barefoot and in boxers, sitting in the center of the group like a gladiator about to face the lions.
He lost.
And the family pounced.
Punishment brainstorming began immediately.
“Make him sing ‘I'm a Little Teapot’ in the street!” Debbie offered gleefully.
“Make him clean the toilets with a toothbrush!” Lip suggested, rubbing his hands like an evil scientist.
“Let Frank tattoo something on him!” Frank added, to the horror of everyone.
Then Kev, drunkenly trying to suggest "make him do planking or somethin'," slurred:
"...S-spanking?"
The room fell into sudden, electric silence. Every head slowly turned toward Mickey.
Mickey’s smirk vanished.
Fiona’s eyes sparkled like she’d just won the lottery. “Ohhhh, that’s perfect.”
Carl, already clapping like a game show host, started the chant. “SPANKING! SPANKING! SPANKING!”
Lip jumped in, no hesitation. “He deserves it. Drank my last IPA last week, bitch.”
Debbie, arms crossed, nodded firmly. “And stole my fuckin' Reese’s!”
Ian was practically doubled over with laughter. “Rules are rules, Mick.”
Mickey groaned like a man condemned, tossing his head back dramatically. “You’re all sick.”
Kev handed him a pillow, solemn and ceremonial. “Put it on the floor. All fours, Milkovich.”
And just like that, Mickey dropped to his knees, face in hands, ass in the air.
“I fucking hate you all,” he muttered.
---
Fiona went first.
She strutted forward like she was about to take the stage, cracked her knuckles with a grin, and said sweetly, “This is for all the times you clogged the shower drain with your prison shank hair.”
Her hand came down hard on his left cheek. SMACK!
Mickey yelped.
The room howled with laughter.
Next was Lip. He crouched beside Mickey’s ass like he was mapping out a battle plan.
“Alright, I’m gonna divide this fat fuckin' ass into quadrants,” he said, tracing imaginary lines. “Northwest is mine.”
He delivered a sharp, quick smack to the top left. A perfect red handprint bloomed.
Mickey growled, “You’re dead, Gallagher.”
Carl’s turn. He backed up, did a full wind-up like a pitcher, and—
THWACK!
Dead center.
Mickey bit his lip, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a sound.
Carl spun and high-fived Kev like he’d just won a championship.
Debbie came next, skipping with joy.
“This is for all the socks you stole!” she chirped, patting Mickey’s cheek first—then whacking the bottom right with a vengeance.
Mickey actually whimpered.
Kev stepped up, chuckling like a drunk uncle at a barbecue. He jiggled Mickey’s ass experimentally. “Soft but firm! Good consistency!”
Then gave a slow, deliberate slap, like he was seasoning a roast.
Veronica strutted over and circled him.
“Whewwww, somebody been doin’ squats,” she said with a smirk. She pinched both cheeks before delivering a stinging center slap that echoed off the walls.
Mickey swore under his breath. His face was as red as his ass.
And then, of course—Frank.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause.
But rules were rules.
Frank stumbled forward, raised his hand like he was swatting a mosquito, and gave Mickey the saddest, wettest slap imaginable.
Mickey visibly shivered. “I need to bleach my soul.”
---
THE FINALE: IAN
At last, Ian rose, arms folded across his chest, eyes glowing with wicked satisfaction.
He approached slowly, voice low and playful. “You really thought you could get away with stealing my last Pop-Tart?”
From the floor, Mickey mumbled, “It was strawberry, bitch.”
Ian leaned down, kissed one of his boyfriend’s bright red cheeks, and then delivered a savage slap that sent Mickey lurching forward an inch.
The room erupted in cheers and whistles like someone had just scored a goal in overtime.
---
Mickey lay facedown on the floor, defeated. His ass throbbed like a drum solo, and his pride was somewhere buried in the yard.
“Y’all are fucking dead tomorrow,” he mumbled into the pillow.
Ian threw a blanket over him like he was covering a corpse. “You lost fair and square, Mrs. Spankovich.”
The family grabbed more beers, still laughing hysterically, while Mickey plotted about twenty different revenge scenarios in his head.
(Not that he minded… but he’d take that secret to the grave.)