⋆ʟɪᴘ ɢᴀʟʟᴀɢʜᴇʀ⋆
Summary: On a cold Chicago night, Lip's frustration with college boils over into a heated argument in the backyard about his drinking and weed habits.
wc: 2,4k
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The November Chicago cold cut right through your skin, but the air in the Gallagher backyard felt even denser, thick with that dirty South Side humidity that seeped straight into your lungs. You were sitting on the splintered wooden steps of the back porch, knees pulled tight to your chest underneath a sweatshirt three sizes too big for you. The only light came from the yellowish bulb flickering above the kitchen, casting long, warped shadows across the overgrown grass and the remains of a half-scrapped car.
You heard the kitchen door creak before you actually saw him. Lip appeared, dragging his boots, his shoulders slumped under a faded denim jacket and his eyes glued to the ground. He stumbled barely a millimeter as he stepped down the first stair—a movement almost imperceptible to anyone else, but not to you. You knew how to read every single millimeter of his body language. He smelled like cheap draft beer and the stale air of whatever sketchy dive bar near the college he was supposed to be coming from.
He sat down next to you without saying a word, letting his entire weight drop and making the wood groan. His hair was messy, a dirtier blonde than usual, and the dark circles under his blue eyes looked like bruises. Without looking at you, he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a half-smoked, slightly crushed joint, along with a worn-out promotional lighter. His fingers, stained with motor grease and pen ink, trembled slightly as he tried to light it. The wind blew out the flame twice.
—Give it here —you said, reaching out your hand.
Lip let out a low grunt, but he handed you the lighter. You cupped your hands around his face to shield the flame from the wind. Your skin brushed against his; he was freezing, but his cheeks were burning from the alcohol. When the tip of the marijuana caught fire, the orange glow lit up the tension in his jaw for a split second. Lip took a deep drag, closing his eyes as he held the smoke in his lungs before slowly letting it out. The sweet, earthy smell of cheap weed immediately mixed with the night cold.
He passed you the joint. You took a short hit, feeling the smoke scrape your throat, before handing it back. The silence between the two of you used to be comfortable, a refuge from the constant chaos of living around the Gallaghers, but tonight it felt like a short fuse.
—Where were you? —you asked, breaking the quiet. Your voice sounded more muffled than you intended, but the worry weighed on your chest like a stone.
—Around —he answered evasively, taking another long drag. The paper crackled as it burned down—. With some guys from campus. Rich pricks who think coming from the suburbs is some kind of sideshow attraction.
—You smell like a distillery, Lip. Don't bullshit me with the idea that you were just smoking with preppies.
Lip let out a dry laugh, completely devoid of any real amusement. He ran his free hand over his face, rubbing his eyes in frustration.
—Are you gonna give me a breathalyzer test now too? I already have enough with Fiona sticking her nose into my life every five minutes. I just had a couple of beers to deal with the economics professors' bullshit. It’s not a big deal.
—It’s not just a couple of beers and you know it —you said, turning completely on the step to face him. The marijuana smoke was making your senses a bit hazy, but the anger kept you painfully lucid—. You’ve been coming home at all hours for two weeks, reeking of booze, with your eyes bloodshot. You have midterms on Thursday, Lip. You spent months complaining about how you didn't fit into that goddamn rich-kid university, and now that you have the chance to shove your brilliant fucking brain in their faces, you decide to throw it all away?
—Throw it all away? —Lip snapped his head toward you, finally holding your gaze. His blue eyes were blazing, a dangerous mix of drunkenness, exhaustion, and a wounded pride you knew all too well—. You have no fucking idea what it's like over there. Everyone looks at me like I'm some freak. They think because I know how to fix a radiator and come from a house with a leaky ceiling, I'm some fucking charity case. I need to unwind. I need to turn my brain off for one second, okay?
—And your way of unwinding is turning into your father? —The words slipped out before you could filter them. You knew you had crossed a line the second Lip’s face hardened, morphing into a mask of pure hostility.
The joint hung suspended between his fingers, the smoke rising in a thin thread toward the black Chicago sky. Lip stood up abruptly, forcing you to look up at him. The shift in height gave him a physical advantage that usually intimidated anyone, but not you.
—Don't you ever compare me to Frank again —he said, his voice eerily low, dangerous—. Don't compare me to that piece of shit. I go to class. I work at the shop. I keep my grades up. I do whatever the fuck I want with my free time, and if I want to drink a bottle of vodka so I don't throw myself out of the library window, I will. You're nobody to tell me which path I'm taking.
You stood up too, digging your boots into the wood of the step, leaving barely any inches between you and his chest. The distance between the two of you vanished, reduced to nothing. You could smell the weed, the hard liquor, and the furious heat radiating from his body.
—I don't give a shit about your Gallagher pride, Lip! —you yelled back, your heart hammering against your ribs—. Look at what happened to Ian! Look at Fiona trying to pay the bills while you're busy feeling sorry for yourself with a bottle! I see you, Lip. I see you hiding the flask in your jacket before going to office hours. I see how your hands shake in the morning until you can get that first sip down. You're not turning your brain off, you're destroying yourself because you're terrified of failing, and it's easier to blame the alcohol than to admit you're scared.
—Shut your fucking mouth! —Lip roared, kicking an empty tin can that rolled across the yard with a metallic clatter. He stepped so close that his hot, erratic breath hit your face—. You don't know a single shit about me. You don't know the weight of this. You think because you spend your nights sitting out here with me, you have the right to judge me. You’re just a nosy little brat who doesn't know when to lock her jaw.
—A brat? —You laughed, a hysterical laugh born from pure frustration and the pain of watching the person you loved dig their own grave—. I'm here because I love you, you idiot! I'm here holding down the fort with you while you're busy draining bottles! Because I care about what happens to you, even if you're too busy trying to self-destruct to notice!
—Oh, yeah? Is that why? —Lip dropped the joint onto the ground and crushed it with the toe of his boot with unnecessary violence. He took another step forward, pinning you against the wooden railing of the stairs. His eyes dropped from your eyes to your lips, and then shot back up, heavy with a fury that was no longer just about the argument. It was months of built-up tension, a chaotic, toxic attraction that had always floated between the two of you and that the alcohol and weed had just caused to detonate—. You love me? Or do you just like playing social worker with the broken neighborhood boy?
—Go to hell, Gallagher —you spat out, trying to shove his chest to push him away from you.
But your hands against his denim jacket didn't move him a single inch. Instead of backing off, Lip grabbed your wrists with a brutally firm grip, pinning them against your own body. His touch burned. Your rapid, ragged breaths were the only sound left in the yard, clashing against each other.
—Let me go —you said, though your voice lacked its earlier conviction. Your eyes remained locked onto his, defiant.
—Make me —he challenged, his jaw rigid.
The space between your lips was ridiculous. Neither of you moved for a second that felt eternal, measuring your strength, letting the mutual anger warp into an electric current that raced down your spine. Lip swore under his breath, a muffled word that got lost when he closed the gap and slammed his lips against yours.
The kiss was a violent collision. There was no softness, no preamble, no romance. It was rough, urgent—a clash of teeth and lips that tasted like the weed you had shared and the bitterness of the alcohol he carried in his mouth. Lip let go of your wrists only to run his hands through your hair, gripping your strands tightly to tilt your head back and deepen the kiss with an almost animal desperation. You let out a gasp of surprise that he muffled by shoving his tongue in, claiming your mouth with a possessiveness that made your legs shake.
Your hands, free now, didn't push him away. They dug into his shoulders, bunching the fabric of his jacket, pulling him toward you with the same violence with which he held you. You pressed your body against his, feeling the hardness of his chest against yours and the rigidity of his need hitting your thighs. The anger was still there, simmering, but it had channeled into a destructive, addictive physical urgency.
Lip shoved you backward without breaking the kiss, forcing you to retreat the few steps separating you from the back door. He kicked it open with his back, pulling you into the dimness of the Gallagher kitchen. At this hour, luckily, the house was unusually quiet; the younger ones were probably asleep. Lip pushed you against the kitchen counter, causing some clean dishes to rattle in the drying rack.
He lifted you up by your thighs. You immediately wrapped your legs around his waist, seeking more contact. Lip bit your bottom lip hard, drawing a gasp out of you that he used to slide his lips down your jawline, straight to your neck. His hands moved down to your ass, squeezing tightly, hoisting you higher against him as his pelvis pressed hard against your center through your clothes.
—You’re still an asshole —you whispered into his ear, panting, as you dug your nails into the scruff of his neck.
—Shut up —he growled against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers all through your body.
With clumsy, desperate movements, Lip started getting rid of the obstacles. He yanked your oversized sweatshirt off in one go, leaving you in your tank top in the middle of the cold kitchen, though you barely noticed it over the heat radiating from his body. His hands flew down to the button of your jeans, yanking the zipper down impatiently. You shifted on the counter to make his job easier, letting him slide your pants and underwear down to your knees.
He didn't bother taking off his own clothes; the urgency was too much. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans with one hand while holding you by the back of the neck with the other, devouring your mouth again. When his hand slid down and found the space between your legs, you were already completely wet. Lip let out a hoarse groan at the feel of your slickness, brushing his fingers against your lips before shoving his own clothes aside. Without any more delay, he lined himself up between your open legs and, with one firm, direct thrust, buried himself completely inside you.
The whimper that escaped your throat was smothered instantly. Lip didn't use his hand this time; he pressed his mouth right against your ear, his breath hitching as he grit his teeth.
—Shh... Shut your fucking mouth —he hissed suddenly, his voice a harsh rasp that set off goosebumps across your arms.
His words, rough and authoritative, only turned you on twice as much. The adrenaline of doing it on the counter where they ate breakfast every morning, with half the family sleeping just yards away, tightened your stomach. Lip stayed still inside you for a second, stretching you out, cursing under his breath while his hands gripped your thighs so hard you knew they’d leave purple bruises tomorrow.
When he started moving, it wasn't a gentle, rhythmic slide. He hit you with short, hard thrusts—a blunt, heavy pounding that made the wooden counter vibrate. You had to bite the back of your hand to keep from screaming whenever he bottomed out, digging your heels into his back to force him even deeper. Lip was unhinged, driven by the haze of weed and alcohol clouding his eyes, using you like a life raft in the middle of his shipwreck.
In the middle of the frantic rhythm, Lip stretched his left arm blindly across the counter, knocking over a plastic spice bottle that luckily landed on a dish towel without making a sound. His fingers fumbled around until they found what he was looking for: the crumpled pack of cigarettes Fiona had left on top of the microwave. Without stopping his pace, his pelvis pounding rhythmically against your ass and dragging muffled gasps from your chest, Lip pulled a cigarette out with his teeth.
He flicked the lighter with absurd dexterity, the spark illuminating his sweaty, focused face for a split second, and lit the cigarette. He took a long drag, holding the smoke in while his hips kept hammering away at a relentless pace that was making you lose your mind.
He looked down at you, the smoke trapped between you in the dim kitchen light, and exhaled the gray air right into your face. His eyes were hooded—a dirty, wild look, completely detached from reality.
—You smoke too much, Gallagher —you teased in a breathy whisper, arching your back when he rubbed his thumb over your clit with his free hand.
—And you talk too much —he shot back, taking one more quick drag before leaving the cigarette resting on the metal edge of the sink, still lit, burning down into a thin stream of smoke.
Having both of his hands back on you was the breaking point. Lip grabbed you by your armpits and dragged you right to the edge of the counter, forcing you to lean way back. The shift in angle made him slide into you so cleanly and deeply that tears pricked your eyes. He started taking his frustration out on you ruthlessly—fast, dry thrusts, his denim jeans rubbing against the sensitive skin of your bare thighs in a chaotic friction. The pleasure clouded your mind completely; you weren’t thinking about the argument anymore, or Frank, or Thursday's midterms. There was only the constant impact of his body, the smell of tobacco, and the desperate need to finish.
Lip realized you were hitting the edge by the way your walls started squeezing tight around him, trapping him. A muffled curse escaped him and he dropped his entire weight onto you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he accelerated his pace into a frantic blur. The climax hit you in intense waves that forced you to bury your teeth into his shoulder to keep the rule of silence; Lip let out a rough, sordo groan against your skin as he felt you twitch, giving three final brutal thrusts before coming deep inside you, pinning his body against yours until he ran out of air.
The silence crashed back down on the kitchen, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of your chests thumping together as you breathed. The thread of smoke from the cigarette on the sink kept rising, almost burnt out.
Lip pulled out slowly with a low groan, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Just as you slid off the counter and finished pulling up your jeans in one quick tug, buttoning them with no intention of hiding, the creak of the wooden stairs froze both of you mid-motion.
—Lip? —Debbie’s sleepy, high-pitched voice echoed from the hallway connecting to the stairs.
Lip zipped up his jeans with a smooth movement of pure Gallagher instinct, right as the girl's silhouette appeared at the kitchen doorway, rubbing one eye.
You stayed leaning against the counter, arms crossed over your chest and your hair a complete disaster, holding Debbie’s gaze without flinching. Nobody in that house got freaked out by seeing someone half-dressed at odd hours, and you weren't about to degrade yourself by hiding under a table like you’d done something wrong.
Debbie was wearing worn-out flannel pajamas and mismatched socks. She looked at Lip first and then drifted her sleepy eyes over to you. She swept her gaze over both of you with absolute indifference and annoyance, way too used to her family’s chaotic comings and goings to be scandalized by finding her brother and you reeking of sex and smoke at three in the morning.
—What are you guys doing awake? —Debbie asked, her voice raspy from sleep, wrinkling her nose as she stared at the smoke floating in the air.
—Nothing, Debs —Lip answered. His voice sounded completely normal, a little deep, as he picked up the dying cigarette from the sink—. Couldn't sleep because of a midterm headache. Came down to get a glass of water.
Debbie let out a skeptical snort, staring hard at your crookedly buttoned jeans and your cheeks still flushed from the effort.
—Fiona’s gonna kill you guys if you wake her up —the girl grumbled, lazily turning back toward the stairs—. And make less noise with the dishes, you can hear everything from upstairs. People are trying to sleep.
—Go back to bed, come on —Lip told her, his tone strangely soft, almost paternal, as he watched her disappear.
Debbie’s footsteps headed back up the stairs until the slam of her bedroom door echoed from upstairs. Only then did you let out a muffled laugh, the lingering adrenaline of the scare turning into pure amusement.
Lip let out a chuckle too, shaking his head as he looked at you with a mix of entertainment and respect for not running away. He bent down to the floor to pick up the massive sweatshirt he had stripped off you earlier and handed it over.
You pulled it over your head, feeling the kitchen cold quickly reclaim the room now that the heat of the moment was fading. Sex hadn't fixed a single damn thing, and both of you knew it perfectly well. The flask was still in his denim jacket, college was still a hostile environment for a South Side kid, and Thursday's exam was still looming. But as Lip gave one last tug to your sweatshirt to pull you into his side and leave a short, firm kiss on your forehead, you knew that at least for tonight, you had managed to buy a few hours of truce from the storm.