British Bitch.
Carl Gallagher x Reader
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You were the new girl in school. The only British kid for miles. Safe to say, you hated it. You had befriended Debbie Gallagher, her having informed you of her juvenile-destined brother, as well as the fact that he only thought with his dick, instead of his brain.
“He gets out today.” She told you, a week ago, rolling her eyes.
“Is he really that much of a twat?” You asked, today, and she laughed - agreeing with you, before making her way to her class, as you made my way to: your own.
You had physics first period, so you made your way to Mr. Hoffman’s class room, he was sleeping at his desk, (as per usual), snoring slightly, as you sat in your seat; situated, in the second, to last: row.
In the row behind, and a couple seats across - an unfamiliar boy, was sat there; feet on the table, chewing-gun loudly snacking in his mouth, hands intertwined behind his head, and an obnoxious smirk - gracing his face.
He noticed your light-stare, and immediately straightened up, pushing his plaited hair back, taking his feet hand, placing his hands on the table, and putting his chewing-gum under the table. He made a distinct kissing noise, and offered you a wink.
The entirety lesson, spent: just copying notes from the board. Ignoring the goo-goo eyes, boarding into the back of your head. “Yo babe, you wanna sneak out?” You heard, and you turned your head - eyes joining with him, whom sat behind. “Are you talking to me?” You raised your eyebrows, an unimpressed look, on your face.
“Of course I’m talking to you hot stuff.” He winked. “No thanks, piss off.” You had replied, returning to your previous position, of board-copying. You heard a scoff, via your remark. “You got a funny accent, where you from?” He continued with his queries - (much to your dismay). “England.” You answered, shortly.
“British girl? Sexy.” You could practically hear the smirk on his lips. You turned around, to face him again. “Making me hard just listening to you, hot stuff.” He groaned, and grabbed at his clothed crotch.
It was to be a long period, of him just *attempting*, to pursue you, the whole time. Of course, failing.
“This kid that’s trying to be black was pathetically flirting, all of first period.” You complained to Debbie, at break - standing in the open-air, for a few minutes - informing your friend off the odd morning, that had ensued. “Wait did you say-” She began, but was cut off, by a newly-familiar voice.
“Hola baby.” The kid from earlier bit his lip, approaching you. “Oh god.” You rolled your eyes, as he stood in front of you, a small smirk making its way, onto his lips, once more. “(Y/n), meet my brother, Carl.” She introduced you, hands running over her face, in an annoyed way.
“Carl, leave her alone.” She began to talk to him, noticeably tired, of her younger brother’s antics. “Fuck off white girl, I don’t know you.” He turned back to you, his cocky expression, returning.
“Fuck off.” You told him, scoffing. “Damn girl, why you gotta do me like that? I’m just trying to talk to the girl of my dreams.” He said, clutching at his heart. “Okay, Shakespeare.” You rolled your eyes. “Me, you, tonight.” He said, arm encircling around your shoulder. You pushed him off, causing an audible groan, from his part. The bell rung.
“I’ll pick you up at seven, baby.” He told you. “You don’t know where I live.” You retorted, cocking an eyebrow. “Debbie does.” He shrugged. “I thought you didn’t know her?” You offered a snarky remark, one of which - he stayed silent to, in response. He began to change the subject. “But,-” He held something in his hand. “You will want this back,” Your phone, sat, in his hand - pleading for your retrieval, from you. “, and if you do... which you will, you’ll have to come get it.” He gave a light tap on your arse, and a wink.
“Fuck you.” You told him, shoving him away from you, with a harsh push. “What time?” He smiled. “Bugger off Carl, it’s not gonna happen.” You approached him, feeling each other’s breath; on your cheeks. You heard the oxygen halt, in his throat. “And thanks.” You winked at the pick-pocket, showing him, that you hand stole: your own phone back.
“Seven.” He shouted after you, as you walked off.
“Fuck off.” You replied.
He chuckled, you were a challenge, he liked that. He wanted...
You.