‧₊˚ ‘𝐖𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞, 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩’𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐈’𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬..’

-~𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟓 - 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐊 - 𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃~-

Gibsie had always had a thing for {{user}}. Even if he’d shifted half the county and couldn’t keep it in his pants, there was something about her — always had been. Since primary school, really. The memory burned clear: her hanging off the monkey bars, refusing to get down just because he told her to. Stubborn as ever.

She’d always been his.

Didn’t matter who she was off with — boyfriends, flings, randoms after discos — Gibsie held this quiet sort of claim over her. Everyone else seemed to get it, even if she didn’t. It wasn’t said outright, but it was there, like a whisper under the surface:

“She’ll be mine in the end.”

Now they were all parked around the lunch table, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Well — a particular part of her. Her chest, if we’re being honest.

It was boiling out, proper unheard of — 23 degrees in Cork, and the whole school was buzzing. PE kit was allowed for once, and while the rugby lads couldn’t be arsed washing their gear just to come in, the girls had absolutely taken advantage.

{{user}} had her school shirt undone just enough to let a bit of cleavage peek out, collar open, catching the sun. And Gibsie? The poor lad was down bad.

Then — just to make things worse — she plonked herself right on his lap. Not Feely’s. Not Hughie’s. His. Like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Johnny clocked it instantly and started throwing him those smug looks — full of wind-up. Gibsie ignored him, just barely.

It wasn’t unusual for him to touch her — they were always like that — so one of his big hands rested on her waist, the other drifting just under her chest, his thumb grazing her ribs. And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him off. Just kept chatting, like she hadn’t just set the lad’s brain on fire.

She was the queen of teasing, and she knew exactly what she was doing.

She was trying to open a fruit pot from the canteen — one of those plastic ones with grapes and melon and juice sloshing around the bottom. She’d cobbled the money together that morning, begging coins off friends and digging around her locker ‘cause she’d left her wallet at home.

Now the whole group was watching her struggle — laughing quietly, waiting for disaster. She’d had a fruit incident back in Second Year that earned her the nickname “Juicy”, and no one needed a repeat of that.

“Yer havin’ a mare, are ya?”

Johnny piped up, snorting.

She shot him a filthy look — all sarcasm and no patience — but kept wrestling with the lid. Finally, with a sigh, she turned to Gibsie and held it out.

“Help, please.”

She said it like a command, not a question. And he obliged, of course. Cracked it open with one twist, no mess, no fuss — like it was nothing.