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i write for fun, go easy on me

[likeyoualive]

× simon “ghost” riley likes the lights off .

short summary ; amid the dense, heavy fog enveloping manchester's streets, rain floods and seeps through cracked drains. you’re confined behind doors with your roommate, who prefers to keep the lights off. the humidity is so intense that it's hard to tell if your breathing trouble stems from the slightly open window or his company .

tags / notes ; nsfw , 18+ , female!reader , older!simon , roommates , praise , he’s a mechanic , simon retired early , he’s a softie , not sure if he’s in character , he watches you bake , you guys aren’t that close , small talk , fingering , grinding , manhandling , swearing , ‘casual’ sex .

part two soon .

—

01.

there's always something wrong. It doesn't matter if the vacuum has done four laps around the flat like a teenager drying themselves on a track field, or if the soap beats the rust off the dishes in the sink. as long as you and riley share a flat, something will feel strange.

It wasn't that you were judgmental, as that is completely untrue. when circumstances called for your opinion and thoughts, you did pass judgment, but at this point, you were unable to express them to anyone but him, which he was not a choice. after graduating from university, all of your roommates had moved out, and you were left struggling to make ends meet on your own.

you did a shit ton of research and even searched facebook groups for locals looking for a roommate, but you found nothing. after many long and demanding shifts, you could have sworn that your fingers had left permanent marks on your face from raking them down the skin for hours every day.

returning to the topic of judgment, yeah, you weren't. additionally, you had no right to be picky at that particular time. for this reason, you quickly agreed when the auto repair shop two blocks down recommended one of their new hires.

when your financial stress and anxieties were slightly postponed, your heart leaped to your ribs and ached with relief. a year later, in that hazy, unforgettable moment, you would swear at yourself and shake your head in shock. you could remember everything. the clanking of metal, the rumble and hum of engines, and the small talk of men of all ages wearing filthy clothes and tough, oil-stained shoes. longtime employee eric pointing with a ten-year wrench at a man hunched over a maroon truck that looked screwed.

he was big. you didn't care about it. goodness, you needed fucking help, and money was money.

since you had to rush to work following your hurried visit to the shop, you hadn't bothered to exchange numbers with him directly. Instead, you jotted your number on a sickly yellow sticky note and gave it to eric along with his customary fifteen-pound tip.

while deciding what to do first on the way there, you mistook the gas pedal beneath your shoe for the break. you even drove with two hands to truly focus on the road ahead of you that day after a shock left your back in a chilly, cold sweat.

simon riley was his name.

after you provided him with some details regarding the "move-in" situation, he texted you back:

Simon Riley (roommate) : That will work for me. I’ll update you if anything comes up. Thank you. 😁

simon often responded with sluggish, one-word messages and emojis as basic as a green checkmark or a yellow thumbs up. It was similar to how your father texted you, but you chose to ignore it since you thought he would talk to you more on the day you two agreed to assist him move in.

even that day, he didn't say much, and when he signed some documents, you were a little taken aback by his.. advanced age. he was in his late 30s. worked for eric after supposedly retiring. you thought to yourself, "I have an old man living with me."

it was funny, kinda.

old was an exaggeration on your part, but you had only graduated from university a year and a half before, so living with an older man was a bit of a stretch for you. your wallet cried at your conflicting ideas and emotions, silently pleading with you to back down and let things be. which you eventually did.

you assisted him in moving into the spare room that had previously belonged to tristan and then left him to unpack on his own. although the flat's furniture and doorbell remained the same, much changed over the course of thirteen months.

you had to replace the nice rug your sister had bought for you in the bathroom because simon had ruined it with his shoes one night after a particularly long shift. he apologized. awkward. his heavy boots produced sticky black residue on the soft, ivory carpet, which had once been maintained spotless. his keys were not hung on a keychain, but rather dropped on the table beside the front entrance after a shift. honest and dull.

shoes dumped next to yours irritated you because one was always upright and the other was on its side. almost tripping you several times. they were quickly removed, generally with the heavy laces partially undone, and toed off before being abandoned.

the air was contaminated with a man's musk, cologne swooshing past your nostrils as you moved through the flat, and the scent that proved that a woman also lived there—lotion on "your" side of the bathroom counter for after showers, and a mist of sweet fragrance that kissed the soft cushions of the well-loved sofa.

It didn't feel like you'd been living together much, but that was because you two mostly kept to yourselves most days and when you were both off—usually tuesdays or saturdays. he spent his free time cradling the tv remote in his heavy hands, sliding his thumb around the remote’s nubs and skipping through channels to locate Sky News, or his particular favourite: some kind of documentary.

folding his arms and getting comfy with an arm over the cushions, he let out a grunt every now and again to twist his abdomen and crack his sore back, which had been strained by his work at the shop.

you preferred to sit at the rounded kitchen table rather than listening to background noise of politics and anchors discussing global concerns on the blue-light screen your roommate was immersed in for a few hours. although you were aware of the issues at hand, constantly listening to them exhausted you and caused you tension.

you folded your leg under you, pressed your palm to your chin, and breathed out slowly, lips rippling. squinting at your laptop. you had on a pair of sweat shorts you'd loved to fucking death for the past couple years, as well as a hoodie a size larger than your own in your favorite color. swallowing practically all of your shorts to the hems. you also wore socks throughout the flat for comfort or until you had thoroughly vacuumed the space.

that’s what you two had planned for today. well, planned was a reach. It was raining in manchester. It was known to be rainy in the UK, yet the "rain" simply sat in the air around them, misting everything till it dripped. today, it rained and the humidity was excessive. making it nasty and sticky if you opened the door or cracked a window seeking fresh air, which you wouldn't find.

both you and simon were at home. unfortunately, it seemed the rain would not stop till this monday evening.

biting the inside of your cheek, you favored your right side and bit down slowly, allowing for the agony to subside before pressing your teeth down against the flesh harder. your fingers fiddled with your hair, feeling the texture between your fingertips as you scanned the emails from your boss, who had forwarded the message to everyone. something about a meeting scheduled for next week.

your eyelids strained, and your hands moved from your hair to your face, pressing the pads of your fingers against your eyes. fucking hell. your brightness was set to its lowest setting, and the screen harmed your eyes.

you blink slowly, trying to acclimate to the lighting.

here’s the thing. you and riley could afford the light bill that was slid under your front door every month, which you split and paid without complaint. that was why you couldn't comprehend the man's urge to keep every light in the flat turned off at all times. was this a personal preference?

If so, it was annoying.

you didn't have a problem with simon, but at this point, you probably needed some blue-light spectacles. that was ridiculous. you had once turned on a lamp, and he craned his neck to see who in god's name had done it, as if he had more than one roommate.

when you insert the charger's cord and connect in your laptop, the magnetic charger clicks into place and the charger's little dot turns green to indicate that it is operating. It blinks once, twice. after that, you relax your shoulders and close the screen, rubbing your palms on its cold surface. nearly two hours crouched over a buzzing laptop reading and responding to a slew of emails you could care less about this weekend, you get up to grab something from the refrigerator. then, exhale loudly as you glance into the refrigerator's sterile light.

this guy only ate fucking eggs. genuinely, it got to a point. I mean, really? five cartons? who needs that much protein?

you grab a carton and decide to make whatever comes to mind. Initially, you were content with making something savory. you then changed your mind after cracking your first egg. the sight of the yolk and the obvious backdrop of the substance made you feel terrible and disgusting.

you rinse your hand under a gush of warm tap water, and hastily wipe it off, grossed out by the sensation of egg whites on your hands.

so, something sweet it is.

you grab your phone and gaze down at it. you couldn't possibly bake in the dark like riley does, because you weren't a damn bat or whatever the fuck else could see in the dark. you move to turn on the kitchen light while ignoring his blatant scrutiny, which causes you to roll your eyes as you turn your face away from his line of sight.

you lean down further to look at the Google recipe you discovered by searching "vanilla custard". now hunting for ingredients in the shared area.

you were hunting for unsalted butter in the freezer when the light blue Robert's radio crackled awake next to the toaster, causing your head to jump back and almost hit a drawer you had left open while looking for sugar.

simon was nudging buttons on the gadget and appeared to have left the sofa to investigate what was going on in the kitchen, which was terrific.

you didn't mind, but he moved so quickly and quietly that you wanted to shake him and tell him to make himself known more often because, gosh.

"jesus, you scared the crap out of me. I thought that just turned on by itself.” you shake your head, shut the freezer with your foot, and stroll past riley, who had yet to recognize your comment or what you were preparing.

he was too busy surfing the radio for anything he could come across on it. you had never used it before he moved in with you because you had no idea how to operate the appliance. It was cool, and looked great in the kitchen. retro-y.

he made good conversation when it counted or when he desired to. you never pushed, and that seemed to help him settle down during the year they spent cooped up in the two-bedroom, one-bathroom flat in the heart of manchester.

"my fault. just takin’ a look at this. was being nasty with me earlier." simon says as his broad thumb presses down on some buttons you're unfamiliar with. his voice was gruff and growly, as if he hadn't had a sip of water since he rolled out of bed that morning.

but you wouldn't put that past him. the six-foot-something man looked as if he only drunk straight diesel fluid at a gas stop and popped energy drinks for kicks.

christ. you work at your own pace and blend according to the recipe instructions. granulated sugar, some table salt, and cornstarch finalized the dry ingredients, leaving a thin layer of powder on your palms. you shake them and brush the mixture on your thighs. whisking the mixture until it resembled flour.

you’d had already cracked the eggs and separated the yolks into a glass dish, so the egg carton wasn't taking up half of the kitchen counter. you measure out whole milk and carefully pour it into the glass bowl, followed by light cream, which you whisk together. keeping the dry and wet ingredients separate, you mixed everything together to rid of any clumps, before pouring the wet ingredients into the dry bowl. with your arm, you fully integrated.

"what's this all about?" simon shifted once he found a station he liked, then lowered the volume in order to hear you over the static and radio waves. he looked at the exquisite, silky concoction you crafted together. he had never considered baking. he was a savory man. someone who would rather eat a pound of steak than a biscuit. not that the biscuits were bad, but they were not his cup of tea.

“what? this?”

“yes. what is this supposed to be? cake?” he hums curiously.

“no, not cake. it’s custard. actually, it’s vanilla custard. I just haven’t added the vanilla extract yet.”

custard. simon couldn't recall the last time he indulged in custard. he had it a couple times as a kid, but after consuming too much sugar at his old job, he later learned that his family had a history of diabetes and that he was vulnerable to it. the custard already smelt wonderful. a little quantity topped with strawberries, cream, and blueberries, if you prefer. It sounded about right on a dismal day like today. “hm, sounds nice.”

“wanna taste it?”

he gradually shifted his concentration and attention to his roommate, who had finally added vanilla to the custard mixture and presented a plastic spoon with a little dollop of a creamy, thick white custard. you felt it would be odd to serve it to him directly, so you handed him the transparent utensil instead.

simon studied it with a careful eye, “why? cause y’don’t want to?”

you manage a brief chuckle. what was he suspicious of? "do you think I slipped poison into the custard? unless you have issues with dairy, you should be alright. just try it. I don't want to because I think that I’ll be too hard on myself."

her sincerity was refreshing. he leaned forward and looked to the side while sniffing the pastry and licking the spoon from the scoop of cream she let him test. he sealed his mouth and slowly allowed the flavors to dissipate on his tongue. his taste buds tingled in delight, and he sucked any remaining custard from his teeth and wherever else it could have become trapped. It was reasonably good.

“mmh.”

you raise a brow, “what’s that mean?”

“sweet.”

well wasn’t he just incredibly descriptive. 

he moistened his lips and nodded, reaching into the concoction and wiping his thumb along the edge of the glass bowl rather than right into it. you furrow your brow and see him taste the concoction once again, as if to confirm his preference for the sweet treat. It wasn’t even done yet. might as well just serve it like this.

"good to know my dessert is sweet, not salty." you joke and decide to try it yourself. If your carnivorous roommate enjoyed the mix, you would too. It was good. probably the best custard you've ever made—well, you hadn't prepared custard before today. It was exceptional for your first batch.

“that wouldn’t be good.” he managed a smile.

he then crossed his arms, eyeing you and listening attentively to the FM station. he enjoyed browsing through channels on the fragile device; at first, he questioned whether it was okay to use because it belonged to you. you repeatedly stated that ‘it was fine’ and only for decoration. he thought that was odd. his regular use of it had you stating it was his now.

this was the most you two had interacted in a few weeks. previously, it was due to a mixup: you questioning if he had mistakenly used your body gel in the shower, prompting him to double-check and sniff his arm. grudgingly admitting that he'd most likely used it after his shift, too exhausted to confirm whose body wash he'd squeezed onto his wash towel, and scrubbed furiously to remove all of the grime off his body from the long day. you’d wholeheartedly laughed and shook your head as his nose twitched in response to your favorite aroma.

a roll of thunder made the floor shake briefly under your socks, and you moved your focus to the window, which was streaked with lines of raindrops running down the glass in a hurry. desperate to win a never-ending race.

he appreciated the rain. It kept him calm, and it was pretty relaxing. flat seemed warmer and more comfortable on days like this. It also reminded him of how terrified he was of the rumble of the sky when he was growing up. his father telling him it was a form of punishment for his behavior. he’d grown to sympathize with it.

"anything new with ya?" simon replies in a quiet, somewhat hesitant manner. you look away from the window, yet you tilt your head. concentrated on your work.

he didn't expect you would say much, and he didn't mind that you two weren't aggressive about becoming friends. It was nice living with you.

his taste receptors were delighted by the sweet, vanilla flavor of the custard's aftertaste. "the usual," you answer slowly as you try to recall what has actually occurred at work during the last few weeks. usually, it was the same old things. a complaint, annoying colleagues, and juggling responsibilities that seemed to drag you down. "boss being a douche and all. busy. you? how’s eric treating you these days?”

he grumbles at the mention of his employer, eric. he’d put them up as housemates more than a year ago. he was a patient, stern, and hardworking man. went easy on riley knowing he served, but also appreciated his effort to assisting customers who came in with a busted tire or blown engine.

"like a princess." he pats his heart, and you resist a small snicker. It came out airy. amused by his expression and method of communicating. simon was a witty guy when he wanted to be; otherwise, he was quiet out of personal preference. but he was not silent.

this is why things felt strange.

one day you two talked, and the next you were brushing your teeth over a sink two feet apart, completely disregarding each other. It was somewhat intimate. after a night of unintentionally sleeping with your mascara on—something you did more often than you should—you saw blunt hairs in his sink and fallen eyelashes in yours. he was mature. when you were on your period, he didn't protest either; instead, he just knotted the trash bag and threw it away as if it were nothing. your roommate didn't give it a second thought, but your sister was shocked to learn this when her own boyfriend made a big deal out of women’s hygiene products.

“maybe he had sisters growing up. he sounds nice.”

"bloody light is hurting m’head." simon pinched his eyebrows, placed a clean palm on his hip, and massaged his eyes. trying to make conversation. there was only one light on, and you needed it to see what you were doing to avoid dropping something or inadvertently pushing stuff off the kitchen counter's ledge, which had some powders and egg shells on it due to your haste to tidy up the area before moving forward. he noticed.

“it’s just for now. you’ll survive.” you say, using a towel to wipe your fingers.

“a’right, miss.”

after placing the plastic-covered custard batch in the refrigerator, you properly wash your hands to remove any sugar that may have remained and left them sticky.

simon was wearing an ordinary black cotton shirt and loose grey sweatpants. sleeves short. he nudged and applied pressure to his shoulder by running his finger up his sleeve and up his bicep. some scars moved as he flexed his arms. leaning back against the work surface.

“how long will that go for then?”

“about three hours. I think. let me check again, and set a timer on my phone. gosh.. I almost forgot.”

simon’s spare hand found the switch and turned off the kitchen light, plunging it into darkness while you focused on scrolling through your phone and setting a three-hour timer.

for the remainder of the day—or until the sun decided it wasn't too bashful to greet the people of Manchester—the sole source of light came from some the windows, with the curtains pulled wide open to provide some light so they wouldn't run into walls like fools.

he heard the sigh that split your mouth an hour later on the sofa next to him. lazily watching a football match.

Manchester City was playing what appeared to be Manchester United on the screen.

with a black whistle between their teeth, the referee held up the red card that Man City had been issued. players gathered to express disapproval of the ruling. frustrated, simon mumbled a series of slurs at the tv while slapping his knee and reclining on the couch. obviously furious. you sat a few feet away from him with your legs crossed, a pillow pressed against your chest, and your lips pressed inward as you concentrated. two to two was the score. the game appeared to be very high-pressure.

“this fuckin’ team.” he twists open a bottle of Ribena. “paid the damn ref. ‘ows this fair?”

he had some time to unwind once the athletes stopped jogging at halftime and the commercials began to play. airline, beverage, and shoe company advertisements were aired out loud. In an attempt to defuse the situation, you choose to ask about the game. you were aware of how men could get involved in football-related matters.

“you support City, then? which player on the team is your favorite?” after saying that, you turn to see him stooped over, setting his drink on the coffee table.

“dias. proper centerback. no nonsense, no theatrical diving. he organizes the line, reads the threat before it develops, and doesn't mind putting his body in the way of a flying boot. when the squad takes a hit, he's the one barking orders to get them back into formation. you can trust a bloke who treats a clean sheet like a successful extraction."

“oh! dias! I did see him, he had that assist didn’t he? number.. three?” your eyes lit up in recognition at the name. simon had nearly stood up in celebration when City earned themselves that point.

for the first time since you joined him on the couch nearly an hour ago, he moved to face you.

you had a clear schedule for the rest of the day. only thing on your mind being the custard in the fridge. his heavy brown eyes stare at you for a time, surprised that you’re so focused on the game, and then he laughs heartily, causing his shoulders to shake.

he cracked his knuckles, nodded at your excitement, and expressed gratitude for your efforts to watch the game with him. even if you recoiled at an off-sides in disbelief. "right, number three. tall lad.”

simon was pleased with you.

a month or two earlier, johnny paid him a visit and they went to a pub down the street, where he told him about his new position. explaining how, after a few weeks, he figured out how the workspace operated and got the hang of it, and how the job was easier than he had anticipated when he first started. describing it as being simpler than breathing. when he mentioned having a roommate, johnny shook his head in astonishment.

asking a lot of probing questions, he almost lost it when he realized it was a manchester girly who was a handful of years younger than him.

“big, leadin’ question ‘ere,” johnny had said. “she pure fit?”

“quite a forward question.” simon slurred out in response to the inquiry.

he found you attractive.

he didn’t admit it to his closest friend’s face at the moment, even when he was hindered from the liquor. under the pub's overhead lights, he shook his head and raised the bottle to his lips while his gaze strayed to couples and best pals who were engaged in conversation and laughing boisterously.

however, he was unable to lie about that. he always claimed he didn't have a type. he did not care enough to break down a lady into the precise qualities he desired in her. mum warned him that it was unrealistic and that he wouldn't ever get along with a lady if he made mockery of the way she did her hair, or the dress she picked out that made her want to spin around in every mirror.

fuckin’ hell.

—

a/n ; hey! I haven’t written a fic in years. this is just me practicing. part two soon, maybe. I’ll see how this one does. love this guy. x