Scarlet Shelby

House of guinness :

series: A marriage brewed in secrets

(sean x arthur x reader)

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

Say Nothing:

series: Ash and Iron

(brendan hughes x reader)

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

Derry girls:

series: Strings and Sparks

(david donnelly x reader )

chapter 1

chapter 2

Hey everyone💕

Sorry for being inactive the past couple of months. It’s been a rough time and uni work + exams completely took over. I really appreciate all the support and patience more than I can say. I’m hoping to get back on track by the end of this month or sometime in February, and I can’t wait to be active again, and of course there would be updates on all of my fics!!

gif by @boyleblr

Summary: While Belfast burns outside a moment of danger happens and suddenly you’re pressed together in the rain, his hand on your wrist, his breath on your lips and shared unspoken feeling.

brendan hughes x fem reader warnings: slowburn and political unrest (violence mentioned)

Morning pulled itself into the room reluctantly, like it feared disturbing the fragile thing left in the quiet. Rain dusted the window in soft, uneven patterns. Belfast sounded half-awake beyond the thin walls—bins dragged, dogs barking, the distant thump of boots on wet pavement.

You were warm.

That was the first thing you noticed.

The second was the weight across your waist.

The slow rise and fall of breath behind you.

And the unmistakable presence of the man you had spent the last month arguing with.

Brendan Hughes was still asleep at your back.

Your body went rigid, a thousand thoughts colliding in your head. You barely dared breathe.

His arm was draped around you—heavy, protective, undeniably intimate in a way neither of you had ever allowed yourselves. Your shirt had ridden up in the night, and his hand rested against the bare skin at your hip, warm and callused.

Heat shot up your spine.

You tried to shift slowly, but his arm tightened unconsciously, pulling you a little closer. His nose brushed the back of your shoulder. His breath was warm, steady, human.

There was nothing political about this moment.

Nothing strategic.

Just two exhausted souls sharing warmth in a world that rarely offered it.

You let yourself breathe.

It was the inhale that woke him.

His whole body tensed behind you—every muscle tightening like wire pulled taut. His hand instantly withdrew, leaving your skin cold in its absence. He sat up fast, posture snapping straight, as if ashamed to have been caught vulnerable.

You rolled onto your back and found him rubbing a hand over his face, his hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. Even disoriented, even tired, he carried himself like every second mattered.

As if tenderness was a luxury he had no right to.

You sat up, leaning on your elbows.

“Well,” you said softly, “that was cozy.”

He groaned into his hands.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Relax,” you interrupted. “It’s not like you proposed.”

He shot you a look over his shoulder. Something tight. Something half-amused, half-mortified.

He stood, clearing his throat, straightening his coat like it could fix the closeness he’d accidentally shown. You hid your smile badly.

The rain had softened to mist by the time you stepped outside. Brendan walked with his hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders stiff, his moustache twitching whenever he caught you looking at him.

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t either.

But the air between you was different—charged, cautious, threaded with the memory of warmth neither of you meant to share.

Halfway down the Falls, he finally spoke.

“You handled yourself well yesterday.”

You blinked.

He didn’t compliment easily.

“God, Brendan. Twice in two days? You’re spoiling me.”

He ignored the jab.

“You kept your head. Not everyone does.”

There was a weight behind the words. You understood what he was really saying: I was watching. I noticed.

But before another word could pass between you, the tranquility shattered.

A shout from up the road.

Boots. Running.

A burst of panic humming through the street like electricity.

Brendan grabbed your arm instinctively.

“Move.”

You followed without hesitation.

Around the corner, a patrol had stopped a boy—young, terrified, no older than sixteen. His schoolbag had been dumped on the ground, contents spilled into the gutter. A soldier’s hand pressed into the boy’s chest, holding him back.

Your heart hammered.

You shouldn’t intervene.

You knew that.

But the boy was trembling.

And Brendan saw the look on your face.

“Don’t,” he warned in a whisper.

You didn’t listen.

You stepped forward.

That was when the soldier swung his arm out, shoving you back before Brendan could react. Your foot slipped on the wet pavement—you went down hard against the kerb, pain slicing across your forearm as it scraped the ground.

Brendan snapped.

Not aggressively—not stupidly—but with a flash of fury so sharp it cut through the rain.

He hauled you up, placing himself between you and the soldier with quiet, iron control.

“She slipped,” he said, voice low, steady, dangerous in its restraint. “Watch where you’re swinging.”

The soldier stared at him, hand twitching at his rifle—but Brendan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give him anything to escalate.

Finally, the patrol moved on, dragging the boy with them.

You exhaled shakily.

Brendan turned instantly, grabbing your injured arm. His hands were careful but firm, eyes scanning the cut.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

You scoffed.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That not what I asked.”

His voice—low, rough—pulled your gaze back to him.

Rain clung to his hair.

A drop slid down his cheek.

He didn’t notice; he was too focused on you.

You swallowed.

“I’m fine.”

He shook his head.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You didn’t have time to answer.

He lifted your wrist gently, inspecting the scrape. His fingers brushed a tender spot and you hissed.

His jaw clenched.

“We’re getting that cleaned.”

“It’s nothing—”

“It’s not nothing.”

Something cracked in his voice.

You stared at him.

This wasn’t anger.

This was fear. Quiet, buried, unwilling to be admitted.

Fear of losing someone else.

Fear of watching another body fall in a place where too many had already fallen.

Your breath softened.

“Brendan,” you whispered, “I’m alright.”

He looked up.

And suddenly the world narrowed—rain hushed, street blurred, sound dissolved.

It was just his face inches from yours.

His eyes locked on yours.

His hand still wrapped around your arm like he was afraid to let go.

You felt his breath brush your lips.

He stepped closer.

Slowly.

As if pulled by something outside his control.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Just once.

Just enough.

And you knew—if you leaned forward—if you moved even a hair—

He would kiss you.

His forehead almost touched yours.

His breath came shallow.

Your pulse thundered.

His nose brushed the side of yours.

Your lips parted—barely—just enough for hope to slip through.

Then—He stopped.

Pulled back like he’d been burned.

Eyes hardening.

Chest rising with a breath he didn’t want you to see shake.

“We need to get you home,” he rasped.

You stood frozen, the ghost of the almost-kiss burning between you.

He released your arm.

The absence ached.

The rest of the walk was silent.

At your door, he paused—hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff—but his eyes softened in a way you’d never seen.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he said quietly.

You stared at him.

“You weren’t scared.”

He held your gaze.

“I was.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped back before you could respond, turning sharply, walking down the street like he needed distance before he did something he couldn’t take back.

You watched him go.

And despite the pain in your arm, despite the rain soaking your clothes, despite everything—

You touched your fingertips to your lips.

Because if fate hadn’t interfered—

If a moment hadn’t snapped—

He would’ve kissed you.

And God help you both…

Summary: A drive to the coast turns into something softer than either of you expected. Between salt air and laughter, David lets a little too much slip — and suddenly, the space between a casual date and something more feels dangerously thin.

david donnelly x fem reader warnings: slowburn(for now),fluff, both reader and david are 18y, political unrest.

The drive out feels like holding your breath for miles.

The windows fog, the heater clicks, and the tape in the dash warps in the middle of a Cranberries chorus — but neither of you cares enough to stop it.

You watch soggy hedgerows blur past, each village smaller than the last, each road narrower.

David drums his fingers on the steering wheel, though the rhythm doesn’t match the music.

His knee bounces sometimes.

Yours does too.

No one speaks for half the journey — not because it’s awkward, but because it feels like anything louder than breathing might break whatever this is.

Finally he nods toward the sea ahead, steel-blue and endless.

“There she is.”

You don’t answer. You just look.

The chip shop is barely a shack — just a counter, one flickering bulb, and a gull perched like it owns the place.

He orders for both of you without asking.

You pretend not to notice that he remembered how you like your chips salted.

You sit on a cold stone wall overlooking the harbour.

The boats knock gently in the tide.

Salt stings the wind; it carries someone’s radio from down the pier — Oasis, Slide Away, tinny through the stormy air.

David hands you a cone of steaming chips.

“Hot enough to melt your tongue off. Careful.”

You blow on one, burning your lip anyway.

His laugh is soft, almost boyish, almost secret.

“Tragic,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder. “Gone too soon.”

You roll your eyes, but you smile. You can’t not.

For a while it’s quiet — not heavy, just peaceful.

“Feels like you can breathe out here,” he says eventually, voice low.

“Town’s so loud and it’s not even the noise — it’s the… eyes.”

You know exactly what he means.

The villages, the whispers, the soldiers at the corner shop pretending they’re invisible but standing with guns that say otherwise.

“Out here,” he continues, “nobody’s watching. You just… exist.”

You look at him then — really look.

He isn’t flirting.

He isn’t performing.

He’s just a boy with wind in his hair and something heavy in his chest he doesn’t know how to carry.

You say it before thinking:

“You’re different here.”

He glances at you, surprised.

The breeze tugs his fringe and he doesn’t move to fix it.

“So are you,” he says quietly.

“You don’t shrink as much.”

The words hit harder than they should.

You stare at the sea so he won’t see what he does to you.

After food, he suggests walking the little path down to the rocks.

The tide murmurs at your feet.

Wind paints colour into your cheeks; the late afternoon light breaks through cloud in soft gold strips.

He skips a stone. It immediately sinks.

“Right, don’t laugh.”

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

“You were thinking it.”

You grin.

You are both warmer now, freer.

A moment later, he tries again — nearly perfect this time, three skips.

He turns triumphantly toward you, eyes bright.

Your laugh escapes before you can catch it — real, full, unguarded.

His face changes when he hears it.

Like the sound surprised him.

Like maybe it did something to him.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

You feel it everywhere.

It happens quietly.

Not dramatic.

Not planned.

Not fueled by anything but that impossible stillness that sometimes happens when two people stop pretending they aren’t staring.

You’re both standing there, the wind in your coat, his sleeve brushing yours lightly, just lightly, and then—He looks at you.

Really looks.

Slow. Careful.

As if giving you a chance to move, to pull away, to say no.

You don’t.

He lifts a hand — hesitant — touches the back of your hair like it might disappear if he’s too certain about it.

And then he leans in.

The kiss is soft.

Just lips, and breath, and the faint taste of salt and vinegar crisps.

It lasts a second, maybe two.

You feel it long after he pulls back.

His forehead lingers near yours — not touching, but close enough the world narrows to one shared breath.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, but his voice breaks on it.

He doesn’t sound like he wants to be brave anymore.

He sounds afraid of your answer.

Your heart trips.

“…I don’t want to,” you breathe.

Which is the truth — and the problem.

A gull cries overhead, startling you both back into the present.

The spell breaks — gently, not cruelly — like a wave retreating back into the sea.

You step back, brushing your sleeve where his hand had been, even though you can still feel the warmth there.

Neither of you speaks at first. The air tastes of salt and rain and something unspoken.

David’s eyes flicker to the horizon. “Sorry,” he says softly, though it doesn’t sound like regret. More like disbelief. “Didn’t mean to—”

You shake your head before he can finish. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes lowering. “Feels like I might’ve.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy — it’s careful. Like you’re both afraid to move too fast and break it again.

You reach for one of the chips still left in the cone, cold now, mostly forgotten. “Guess we should probably head back before it rains again.”

He nods, glancing toward the car, then back at you. “Right.”

You both start walking, slow at first. Then, after a few steps, he speaks again — lighter, steadier this time.

“Next time, I’ll bring proper food. None of this chip-shop nonsense.”

You try to hide your smile. “Next time?”

He shrugs, pretending at nonchalance but failing completely. “What, you think I’m letting you win the skipping contest with one stone?”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll have to prove you can do better first.”

He grins. “I plan to.”

The words hang between you — quiet, full of promise neither of you dares name.

By the time you reach the car, the sky has split into soft pinks and golds.

The rain never comes back.

You both linger by the car longer than you should. The light is fading fast; the whole coast has turned the colour of old film. You can smell salt on your hands and something like rain on the air.

David leans against the driver’s door, staring at the horizon instead of at you.

“When I was a kid,” he says quietly, “I used to come out here when things got loud at home. It’s the only place that still feels like it’s got space to think.”

You nod. “It’s… peaceful.”

He glances over, one corner of his mouth twitching. “It was. Then you showed up and ruined it.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t join in right away. His expression softens.

“I’m joking,” he adds, voice lower now. “It’s better with you here. I just… didn’t expect that.”

You look at him, and he’s already watching you—open, unguarded in a way you’ve never seen.

He shakes his head once, almost to himself.

“You’ve got this way about you,” he says. “When you play. When you talk. It’s like—”

He stops, sighs. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

You say it before you think about it. “Tell me.”

He gives a small, crooked smile. “It matters too much. That’s the problem.”

Something passes between you then—quiet and impossible to name.

He clears his throat, looks back toward the road. “Come on. We should head back before it gets dark.”

You watch him circle around to the driver’s side, every movement careful, like he’s afraid of saying too much again.

When the car starts, the radio catches halfway through a song—The Cranberries, Dreams.

Neither of you reaches to turn it off.

He doesn’t reach for your hand, and you don’t offer it — but your shoulders almost touch, and somehow, that’s enough.

When he drops you off, he waits until you’re at the door before calling out:

“Same time tomorrow?”

You turn, smiling in spite of yourself.

“Maybe.”

He laughs and the sound fades down the street until all that’s left is the sea in your ears.

gif by @psychecreations

Summary: While Belfast burns outside you’re forced to share a bed for one night and walls come down. In the dark, they’re not fighter and legend — just two tired souls finding safety in each other’s breath.

brendan hughes x fem reader warnings: slowburn and political unrest (violence mentioned)

You didn’t sleep much after that first night.

Not from fear — not that you’d admit — but because your head wouldn’t shut up. Every time you blinked, you saw Brendan Hughes’s face in the cigarette-glow darkness, half shadow, half something unreadable.

The Dark.

You finally understood why the name stuck.

It wasn’t just the hair or the heavy moustache shadowing his mouth.

It was the eyes — like he carried a graveyard behind them and dared anyone to dig.

You told yourself you weren’t intimidated.

Lying came easy when no one heard it but you.

Three days later, he gave you your first real job.

No warning.

No ceremony.

Just a folded slip of paper and his voice low against the morning drizzle.

“Straight to the bakery by the Casement Road. Hand it to the man behind the counter. Ask for soda bread. Don’t linger.”

Simple. Simple enough you almost felt insulted.

Still, your stomach twisted like a fist.

You smirked to hide it.

“Soda bread. Riveting. Bet this shook the Brits to their core.”

He didn’t smile — not fully — but one corner of his mouth lifted beneath the dark moustache like he was fighting it.

“If you’re finished performing, get moving.”

Performing.

God, you hated how much he got under your skin already.

You tucked the paper in your coat pocket, head high, boots hitting pavement like each step dared someone to stop you.

Two streets from the bakery, a patrol rounded the corner — rifles slung casual but eyes hunting.

You felt your pulse slam against your ribs.

Play it cool.

Casual.

Ordinary.

Your hand twitched toward your jacket pocket — then stopped.

Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared.

You forced your body to do the opposite of what your nerves screamed: relaxed shoulders, bored expression, the slow drag of a cigarette lit with steady fingers.

One soldier stared a second too long.

You stared right back, chin up, like he was an annoyance not a threat.

Sarcasm saved you again — not out loud, but in the lift of your eyebrow that said, What? Never seen someone smoke before?

They moved on.

You exhaled slow — only shaking when you turned the corner.

The bakery was warm, smelling of flour and butter — too normal for a world full of barricades and shouting.

A bell chimed as you entered.

The man behind the counter had tired eyes and flour on his sleeves.

He glanced at you, then down at your coat, noting rain and nerves.

“Aye, love? What’ll it be?”

Your voice didn’t betray you. You were proud of that.

“Soda bread.”

He nodded once — understanding more than the words — and took the note from your fingers in the same motion he took coins from the till.

Routine.

Silent.

Danger wrapped in the mundane.

Everything was normal again in an instant. You walked back out into the rain as if you’d bought nothing but bread and boredom.

Except you hadn’t.

You didn’t make it three streets before you saw him — leaning against a brick wall, smoking.

Brendan.

Of course he’d followed.

Of course he didn’t trust you yet.

You marched straight up to him.

“Enjoy the show?” you snapped.

His gaze slid to yours, dark and unreadable.

“Wouldn’t call it a show. More like… rehearsal.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you didn’t get nicked. Good start.”

Your heart was still racing, blood buzzing. His calm only fueled your irritation.

“So that’s it? No ‘well done’? No pat on the head?”

His mouth twitched — half amusement, half warning.

“What do you want, a medal?”

“I’ll settle for basic human acknowledgement.”

“Aye,” he murmured, voice low. “You did well.”

The praise — small as it was — hit harder than it should.

You hated that.

You hated him a little, for it.

Dusk bled into night fast. Patrol trucks roared past. Curfew hit like a slammed door.

You were halfway to your street when Brendan’s hand closed around your arm — firm, pulling you into shadow.

“Not that way.”

“Let go of me.”

“I will if you listen.”

The rumble of boots echoed ahead — street blocked. You swallowed.

He jerked his chin toward an alley.

“Safe house. Move.”

You could’ve argued. You had the fire to.

But you also had sense.

You followed.

It was a small flat above a shuttered shop, lit only by a stub of candle.

Dusty, cold, quiet.

You shivered — partly from nerves, partly from the night chill creeping through the cracked window.

Brendan shrugged off his coat and tossed it at you.

“Put that on. You’re freezing.”

You almost protested.

Almost told him you weren’t fragile.

But the warmth swallowed you like a hug you didn’t ask for.

You buried your nose in the collar — smoke, wool, rain. A man who lived outside more than in.

He noticed — of course he did — but said nothing.

He sat near the window, watching the street below like a wolf guarding a den.

Silence thickened between you.

You broke it first.

“So this is glamorous revolutionary life? Damp rooms and stale air?”

“You expected silk sheets?”

“Expected something other than mildew and your charming personality.”

His laugh was quiet, surprised — real enough to soften the room.

“I warned you.”

“Aye. Still here, aren’t I?”

He looked at you then — fully — and in the candlelight you saw something raw, a tired soul under all that iron.

“That’s what worries me,” he said, voice low.

It wasn’t mockery.

It wasn’t dismissal.

It was truth — sharp as a blade.

Your breath caught.

The room felt smaller.

“I can handle myself.”

“It’s not yourself I’m worried about,” he murmured. “It’s the world that doesn’t care how brave you think you are.”

The words settled heavy.

You didn’t answer — couldn’t.

So he filled the silence, softer now:

“You did well today. Better than I expected.”

It shouldn’t have meant much.

It did.

You looked away first.

He didn’t.

The flat was colder than it looked. Damp walls, the hum of the city pressed tight against the glass, every sound outside sharp enough to cut through bone. Curfew nights always felt like the world held its breath.

Brendan pulled the curtain tighter, checking the street one more time. You were still wrapped in his coat, arms crossed to keep your hands from shaking—not from fear, obviously. From the cold. That’s what you told yourself.

The candle burned low. The shadows between you seemed alive.

You’d decided on the damp couch in the corner, the springs threatening mutiny with every shift. Brendan turned from the window, took one look at the sad thing you were trying to lie on, and frowned like the furniture had offended him personally.

“You’ll freeze there.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Don’t be stubborn.”

“If I wasn’t stubborn,” you muttered, “I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

His jaw twitched—something between amusement and exasperation. Then he nodded toward a small side room.

“There’s a bed through there.”

You blinked. Slow, suspicious.

“And I suppose you magically don’t need sleep?”

“I’ll take the chair.”

You snorted.

“Right. And tomorrow I’ll take a stroll down the Shankill in a tricolour dress. I’m not letting you pass out upright like some tragic statue.”

He raised a brow.

“We both fit,” he said finally. “If you stay to your side.”

You stared. He stared back.

Challenge in your eyes, warning in his.

“Just keep your moustache away from me,” you muttered, pushing past him into the tiny bedroom.

“It’s staying attached to my face,” he replied, deadpan.

“Unfortunate.”

He huffed a laugh, following you.

The bed wasn’t much. Lumpy mattress, thin blanket. Better than concrete, worse than comfort.

You dropped onto your side of it like you were claiming territory in a war. Brendan lay down carefully, boots off, coat folded. He kept his back to you. You did the same.

You could have touched him if you moved an inch—not that you would. Obviously not. Ridiculous thought.

The room smelled of rain, candle smoke, and him. The kind of scent that crept in when you weren’t paying attention.

Silence settled. Heavy. Awake. Alert.

Then his voice, rough and low:

“You did well today.”

You rolled your eyes—grateful you were facing the wall so he couldn’t see the flicker in them.

“Careful, Brendan. You keep complimenting me and I’ll think you’ve gone soft.”

“Not likely.”

You smirked into the darkness.

“You sure? Because offering me half your bed’s a bit tender, isn’t it?”

“It’s practicality,” he muttered.

“Sounds like denial.”

You felt him inhale, like he was biting back a retort.

“Go to sleep.”

“That an order?”

“A request,” he said quietly. “You’ll need the rest.”

Something in his voice anchor-dropped into your chest. Concern, rough around the edges. Hard-won. Unwilling to be spoken aloud.

You shifted, pulling the blanket up, and the mattress dipped slightly beneath him—solid weight, steady breathing, warmth radiating through inches of distance.

Too close.

Not close enough.

Not that you’d ever admit either.

Outside, boots thundered past, echoing through the street. You held your breath without meaning to.

Brendan’s voice came low, certain, unshaken:

“They won’t come here.”

You exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

“And if they do?”

“Then I’m here.”

You hated the way that comforted you.

You hated how real it sounded.

You hated that you believed him.

You whispered, barely audible:

“Don’t get used to sharing beds.”

His voice, a quiet hum behind you:

“Don’t intend to.”

But neither of you moved apart.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Shadows shifted. Boots echoed far away. Every time the wind rattled glass you felt it in your ribs.

At some point your breathing hitched — only for a second — but he noticed.

Of course he noticed. He always did.

The mattress dipped. A hand hesitated behind you, suspended in the dark like a question he wasn’t sure he should ask.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

That was enough permission.

Slow, deliberate, Brendan shifted closer — an inch at a time like he feared startling you.

His arm slid around your waist, nothing claiming, nothing bold — just solid warmth anchoring you to something steady in a city that never stopped shaking.

Your breath stilled.

No one had held you like that in a long time.

Maybe ever.

He didn’t pull you tight, didn’t trap you.

He was there, not taking — just offering.

A quiet, human moment in a world that rarely allowed softness.

His forehead brushed the back of your shoulder, a barely-there touch, like he was checking you were real.

You felt him breathe — slow, grounding, tired deeper than bones.

Then fingers — rough from cold nights and harsher decisions — threaded gently through your hair.

Not possessive but protective.

“Try to sleep,” he murmured, voice low, almost a rasp.

“You’re safe.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your throat had gone tight, heart doing something it had no business doing.

You weren’t supposed to need anyone — especially not him.

But his hand kept moving through your hair, slow and steady, like he was soothing a ghost only he could see.

The city outside stayed cruel.

But in that thin-walled room, in that narrow bed, neither of you had to be iron for a moment.