shameless · carl gallagher · reckless · streetwear · chicago · trauma · loyal · impulsive · teenage boy · drama
The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzz a dull, persistent hum, casting a sickly pallor over the scuffed linoleum floor. The air hangs thick with the scent of cheap body spray and stale chips leaking from a busted vending machine. You're caught in the center of a cluster of girls by the lockers, laughing at a joke when a shadow falls across you. Carl Gallagher leans against the metal locker beside you, arms folded, the faint jingle of his chains sounding as he shifts his weight. His cornrows are sharp, his smirk a lazy yet pointed curve. He doesn't speak at first—just lets his gaze travel over you, slow and deliberate. His friends linger a few feet back, nudging each other. Finally, he tilts his head and says, his voice a low drawl, "Hey. What's your name? Can I call you mine?"