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thenoahsebastianfiles · 7 months

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I just yelled at my phone. Ohhhh noooooo.

Fic: The Devil's Prayer Book - Part Seven || Bad Omens

Noah Sebastian x reader

Summary: “If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stake, and the quitting time.” He's a part time housemate, full time pain in the ass. But after losing a game of poker you find yourself completely at his mercy for one whole week. Sounds simple? Not quite. It never is.

A.N.: thanks be to @throwingmetothelions, @the-way-of-words and @ladyveronikawrites for being the best cheerleaders. ILUSFM. There is a change of POV in this fic, so we finally see a little bit of this from Noah's POV. Please remember this is fiction and doesn't represent him in any way except as a fictional character.

CW: Language, negotiation of sexual relationships, free use sex arrangement and inexperienced Dom/sub relationship. Smut. Gosh, there's a bit in this: oral (fem rec), p in v sex, mind restraint kink, mild choking kink. Voyeurism if you squint. Dirty talk. But also shitty men doing shitty things, angst up the whazoo this chapter I'm so sorry. Also anger issues and panic attacks, anxiety and some really stupid man stuff. Content warnings are on a chapter by chapter basis so please read each time to see if it's for you

This is a work of fiction based on real people. If that's not your jam, please press the back button.

Masterlist here.

Tag Team: @kingdomof-omens @cncohshit @hopelessromantic17 @throwingmetothelions @the-way-of-words @strawberryruffilo @ladyveronikawrites @badnoahmens @bluegarrett @itsvictoriaarose @chels3a-smile @theoneandonlykymberlee @bluechalcedony @mixxymess @thesazzb @collapsedglasshouses @thescarlettvvitch @jakekiszkasguitarpick @blackveilomens @jungleflowerz @catj422

Part Seven

It surprises you when you wake and find yourself alone. You’re not a light sleeper but still. Something about the night before had made you think the situation had changed between yourself and Noah, but now you were back in no man’s land, alone and uncertain.

Sitting up, you look around Noah’s room: his boots are gone, the jeans and hoodie that were thrown over the back of his desk chair are also missing. When you pad quietly down the hall, you see his keys and wallet, always set on the hall table when he’s home, are also missing. As you sip from a glass of water in the dim first-light in the kitchen, you see your phone on the dining table flashing the tiny light that tells you that you have unread notifications.

Noah: Hey, had to go to the studio. Back later. Dinner?

Timestamped 5:56am. You glance at the microwave. An hour ago.

You let the phone clatter down onto the table again, forehead wrinkling in a mish-mash of emotions. Your mind begins to run through increasingly apocalyptic scenarios as you potter around the house doing mindless chores until you finally toss on your gym clothes, grab your running shoes and your drink bottle, and head for the basement to run out your frustration on the treadmill.

By the time you return to the apartment you’ve managed to talk yourself into a state of anger: anger at yourself for falling for his stupid games again. Anger at Noah for playing with your emotions again. Anger at the world for putting this man in your life and making him so damn irresistible. Anger at the sink that splashes your fresh shirt, anger at the lifted corner of carpet that catches on your toe and almost sends you ass over through the living room. You feel anxious and on edge as well as angry now, hesitant to do anything except go back to bed and sulk.

Thankfully, a friend from out of town calls as you’re washing your breakfast bowl and you take the out gladly, heading out a few hours later for a catch up lunch downtown at one of your favorite restaurants on the waterfront.

You probably have too much to drink. It’s warm in the salty sea air and the company is good; for a few hours you manage to forget about Noah, catching up on news from home and all the gossip you wouldn’t normally really give two shits about. Suddenly it’s riveting. It doesn’t escape your notice that you’re stalling going home but you push the accusing voice in your head away with sauvignon blanc until it quietens sufficiently once more.

It still feels too early to go home when you part ways with your friends, so you get off the trolley a few stops early and walk the rest of the way, enjoying the weekend bustle of your neighborhood, the voices of people who sound nothing like him and the echo of music that doesn’t remind you of it.

You feel almost sober by the time you reach your floor; stepping out of the elevator and into the corridor, you heave a deep sigh as you pull out your keys. His car hadn’t been parked in the garage so you’re pretty sure he’s not home; the silence of the apartment when you pause inside the door for a moment confirms it.

Sighing, you push off the door and head for your bedroom and the soothing warmth of your hoodie and gym shorts.

It’s clear by half-past nine that Noah has forgotten the text from this morning. You’re not hungry anyway: a mix of the dull thud of a hangover and a full belly from lunch that's soured further by the sting of his apparent rejection and your own complicated feelings about it, have you settling on the sofa with a book and a cup of tea. It’s almost half-past ten when you finally hear the sound of the elevator rumbling up to your floor, but you also hear Noah before he even gets inside the front door.

“...don’t fucking do this, seriously…no, that’s not even fucking close, are you out of your fucking mind?! Why are you fucking like this? Do you like causing me mental anguish?! You do, don’t you?”

He sounds pissed. Not just annoyed, but angry, wildly pissed. The way he sounds when someone is pulling at the loose ends of his temper deliberately.

You sit up, folding the corner of your book as you set your now-cool cup of tea down on the coffee table. Your body starts instinctively when the apartment door flies open and rebounds off the wall.

“No…no. That’s not– okay, no, I didn’t– Jesus fucking Christ, will you let me finish a fucking sentence for once?!”

One boot hits the ground at the end of the hallway, bouncing into view as he kicks it off. It’s followed quickly by the other one, then the sound of footsteps as Noah walks toward the kitchen.

“This is honestly the biggest waste of my time– oh, really? Is that right? What are you gonna fucking do? I could stick a fork in this right fucking now and you wouldn’t be able to do shit about fuck–”

He pauses by the hall stand to empty his pockets. From the side you can see how he closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath, shoulders rising and falling as he listens to whomever is on the other end of the line speak. His jaw clenches, lips pursing together as he exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You and I both know this will end really, really fucking badly if you do that… why?! Why?! You fucking know why! No, don’t you– you do that and we’re both fucked. You don’t care!? What do you mean you don’t care!? I fucking care! This is my livelihood you’re fucking with!”

Noah turns around then and stops dead.

He meets your eyes across the room and all the breath leaves your chest. You can hear someone yelling down the phone at him but his focus is entirely, one-hundred-percent on you. His mouth opens and closes like a fish and it would almost be comical except for the wild panic that burns in his wide eyes. Your phone chooses that moment to vibrate an incoming notification, the shrill sound against the glass jolting you out of your trance. You glance down at it automatically, breaking eye contact, and that’s all Noah needs.

When you look up again he’s gone, disappearing back down the hallway toward his bedroom. You jump when the door slams closed. Letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you get to your feet and hurry to your own room.

You don’t like this. This feels…dangerous. There’s an anger radiating from him that seeps through the walls, something you’ve never felt before, and your heart rate rises, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin.

Then something smashes against the wall of his bedroom and you jump in fright again. You want to go to him but you can’t make your body move. He terrifies you. There’s another crash, a scream of anguish, and something else thuds hard against the wall, rebounding over the ground, and your body once again makes your mind up for you.

Opening your bedroom door, it only takes you a few strides to bring you to Noah’s room. It’s closed tight but unlocked; the handle turns when you gingerly wrap your fingers around it, pushing it open. Your eyes widen as you take in the scene inside, lit up only by the light coming from the hallway behind you, and you’re sure it would probably look worse in daylight.

His phone lies on the end of his bed, the screen shattered, electronic wires and circuitry hanging from its mangled casing. His bureau has been wiped clear of the trinkets and photos and his desk upended on its side, contents strewn across the floor; you can see from your place in the doorway the laptop on the ground by the bathroom door, screen shattered and hanging from one hinge. The potted plant from his side table lies strewn amid dirt and broken ceramic below a crack in the drywall by the window and your chest tightens; you’d bought that for him when you’d first moved in together.

“Noah?”

The room is quiet so when you step inside and onto broken glass it cracks beneath your slippers and echoes like a gunshot. It takes you a few seconds to figure out what it is: the lamp has been ripped from the wall, its mangled remains pushed out of the way by the bedroom door as you open it.

You can’t see him anywhere. But then your vision clears a little and you see the smear of blood on the bathroom door frame, and panic rises in your chest.

“Noah?” you call again quietly. “Noah?!”

“...I’m in here.”

The bathroom door opens and the light goes out, but not before you see the bandage on his hand. Eyes widening, you step toward him instinctively in the dark, holding out your hands.

“Do you need me to–”

“It’s fine,” he replies. In the darkness you can hear him stepping across the debris strewn across the floor. You lose track of him but then the warmth of his body brushes past you.

“Noah–”

You turn to follow him as he shrugs off your hand on his arm and stalks down the hallway toward the kitchen. He paces back and forth restlessly as if unsure of what to do first.

“Just–I can’t,” he mutters, “I need to– we need to–”

You stop and watch helplessly as he tugs a clean shirt on and slips his bare feet into joggers. For the first time you see how pale he is, the heaving of his chest as he tries to force air into lungs that refuse to cooperate, the panicked, drawn expression on his face and the tightness of his jaw.

You take a step toward him.

“Noah, wait, please don’t go out like this–”

The keys slip from his shaking hand and hit the ground a second before his fist hits the wall. The plaster cracks but doesn’t give.

“Stop it,” he spits, turning to you with his clenched fist held close to his chest. There’s blood on one knuckle and it drips down his finger, flying off when he shakes his hand. “Just stop it. Stop pretending you fucking care, because you don’t.”

The flare of your own anger takes you by surprise. “Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me,” he snarls, bending to pick up the keys from the ground before he tosses them on the table and goes to the sink, flicking on the tap before shoving his hand under it.

You breathe a little easier, knowing he’s changed his mind, but you can still see anxiety coursing through him and it piques your concern, the same as it did the night before. You’re not sure how to handle this, so you choose the softest way you know.

“You really think that?” Your voice is quiet. “You really think I don’t care? About you?”

He scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stares at you, shrugging. “You’re just like all the rest of them, right? Just another emote on your Twitter profile, something to gossip about with the other groupies?”

That statement stops you in your tracks. Crossing your arms, you narrow your eyes at him, all sympathy gone as your anger rushes back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Am I?” he exclaims, turning off the tap and throwing his hands in the air. “You tell me!”

“Fuck you!” you retort, screwing up your face. “Do I need to remind you that you’re the one who started this dumb fucking game, asshole? You’re the one who suggested it, you’re the one who said you wanted my body with no strings attached! You’re the one who kept pushing and refusing to let it go–”

“You could have said no!” he yells.

“I fucking tried!” you exclaim, “Lord knows I fucking tried. But that was before I–”

You catch yourself before the words slip out but he’s quick, a mile ahead of you in every direction, and he figures you out even as you stand in silence in front of him, just staring at each other.

“Finish that sentence.” Noah murmurs, eyes narrowing, never leaving yours. You shake your head.

Tearing your eyes from his, you drop your gaze to the ground between the pair of you, covering your mouth with your fingers as everything wells up in your throat, choking your breath and making your eyes sting with tears that you try to force away in sheer desperate determination.

You glance at the bandaged hand that comes to rest on your shoulder as he stops in front of you.

“Please finish that sentence. Please…”

You’re not doing this. Not here. Not like this.

Shaking your head, you step backward, but you don’t get far. Your back hits the wall but still you look down at your feet, ignoring the way his fingers push your hair back from your face, the careful way his fingertips move over your skin. Closing your eyes against the feeling of his breath mingling with yours as he presses his forehead against yours and it makes you sigh despite yourself.

“Before you what?” His words are barely more than a whisper but you hear them so very clearly. There’s a calm hopefulness in his tone that breaks your heart wide open, and when you glance up into Noah’s face you see it written there, too. Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes as you reply:

“Before…before I fell in love with you.”

For a second you think that this is it, you’ve messed everything up. That he’s going to run and you’ll never see him again. Everything you have, your friendship, your home, your safe place – everything – gone in seven simple words.

Noah stares down at you, his face unreadable. But then he dips his head to press his lips to yours and everything stops.

All the air leaves your body. You could have passed from this world and not cared in the slightest. Noah huffs a small noise when you open your mouth to him, letting his tongue in to curl over your own. It’s a desperate kiss, something feral that tugs at the edges of your control, and it’s only a second before you find yourself answering back in kind.

“I don’t know what it is about you that drives me so fucking crazy,” he murmurs, tugging your shirt up off over your head. “Why do you stay, huh?”

Your skull thunks against the wall, your fingers embedding themselves into his shoulders when his teeth scrap over the curve of your throat, little bites he soothes with a swirl of his tongue. It makes your body arc up into his, your fingers flex and bite into his skin, and the low groan that echoes through him takes your breath away.

“You know why.” You hate the way your voice shakes. Noah tilts his head, brow creasing as he studies you.

“You’re the best thing in my life,” he mutters, nudging his nose over yours, “and you’re not even mine.”

��I thought I was.” Your chin rises in defiance. “Or at least for a week.”

His mouth covers yours, his tongue licking at the seam of your lips again until you let him in again. You don’t fight him when his fingers encircle your wrist and he lifts your arms above your head.

He holds you there with one hand, his weight against you as he ruts his rock hard length against your thigh, and the pair of you move in unison: your body flexes into him, a vicious give and take that sets your insides alight, and you almost sob when he ducks his head to take your nipple in his mouth.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” you moan, and the defiance rises in you once more. The desperate need to cling to him has you fighting his grip but he holds you still, shoving his free hand down the front of your gym shorts.

“God, fuck, you’re so fucking wet,” he mutters, fingertips slipping through the slick mess of your folds. You can only nod, eyes squeezed closed as he slides two fingers inside you unhindered, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit. You bite down against your lower lip as his fingers curl inside you. You’re already on the edge and it would be shameful, how much you want it, except it’s Noah and nothing else in the world matters except this.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” he whispers, face buried in the mess of sweaty hair that falls from your ponytail. Nothing comes out when you go to reply, your throat dry and useless from the short, shallow breaths currently keeping you conscious, so you simply nod again, reveling in the bloom of heat in your core that Noah’s fingers begin to drag loose. He doesn’t let up, pumping them into you relentlessly until your thighs start to quiver and weaken, and you cum with a loud cry of his name.

“There’s my girl, good girl,” he whispers, and you can feel the curve of his smile against your neck, the gentle huff of breath as he pulls his fingers from you; you can smell yourself, feel the stickiness on his fingers as he holds your chin and pulls down your jaw, crushing his lips to yours again.

You kick off your shorts when Noah pushes them down your thighs. Your arms are numb now, still pinned above your head, but you can’t concentrate on that because then he lifts you off the ground, his hips pressing into yours. You desperately wish you had use of your hands, to feel the weight of him, the softness of his skin, to guide him into you when he shuffles his sweats down over his hips, but then the pressure of the head of his cock presses against your slick entrance, and every single thought flees your mind.

Noah lifts his head from your shoulder, staring down at you. His forehead is furrowed, his fingers embedded in the flesh of your thigh. You nod, breathless, voice failing again.

His mouth falls open as he rocks his hips forward and you can’t help the gasp that escapes you when he slides his cock inside you for the first time. The first gentle roll of his hips steals your breath again as he drives himself deeper and deeper with each thrust, but the hiccupping sob you let out makes him pause.

He cups your face silently, staring at you, and he’s beautiful like this: pupils blown wide with lust, breath coming fast against your skin, cheeks flushed with the heat that you’re sure colors your own heated face. His name slips from your lips before you can stop it and instead of feeling like a mistake it just feels…normal. Natural.

Like it should always have been like this.

Your mouths slam together at the same time as he thrusts up into you. You think you might hear him say your name but between the sound of your blood rushing in your ears and the gasping breaths, the noises you both let out, you can’t be sure. When he lets go of your wrists you drop your arms around his neck tightly, fingers twisting in his hair until you feel it taut from his scalp; Noah hisses through his teeth, hips stuttering, fingers tightening in the flesh of your waist.

“Ffff…oh fuck, girl…”

You just nod, forehead furrowing as you bite your lip and keen high in your throat. You don’t need words. All you need is this, the way you’ve craved Noah for months now: his hands on you, clutching desperately at your skin as he holds you up against the wall, the sweet ache of your inner walls around his length. It’s not gentle anymore, it’s a need that begs to be satisfied, that won’t stop until it is, and you’re not sure if it’s his or yours or the sum of parts greater which is stronger, but it hurts, this desperation you feel, and you’re sure Noah feels it too.

“Fuck, gonna, please…can I?” Noah rushes out between shallow breaths.

You tighten your legs around his waist because you want him buried in you when he cums, a primal urge to be filled, owned by him. You can only nod frantically, whimpering into the curve of his neck as he swears and doubles down, driving himself into you relentlessly. God, you’ve fucking dreamt of this but nothing your mind could invent even approaches how good this feels, how fucking perfect each sharp roll of his hips aches so sweetly, how each thrust hits a spot inside you that makes you cry out his name.

You cum again with a scream you muffle against the side of his face, and you’re sure it must deafen him how you wail out each wave of pleasure that breaks over you. Somewhere between the spasms and jerks of your body you hear the deep groan that explodes from his chest, the sting of his fingernails as he holds you still against him, so tight they cut half-moons into your skin and set bruises into your flesh. You feel his cock pulse and empty into you, the heady, musky scent of your mixed fluids rising as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

Your bed is only half made when he lays you gently down on it. Breathing hard, you stare at the ceiling as Noah returns to you with a damp cloth in hand, wiping you down gently. It feels strangely awkward, like nothing’s changed, except everything’s changed and you can’t get past this, not now. You’re about to sit up on your elbows and speak when you feel his breath against your cunt, how he pushes one knee up and out, licking into you with a groan.

“You taste so fucking good,” he whispers against your oversensitive folds and it makes you shiver, bare tits puckering proud as you stare down at him between your legs. “I fucking told you before, I can’t get enough of you…”

Your body folds up, hands burying deep in his hair flush with his skull as you grind against his face, crying out his name. When two fingers slide into you again it aches so good, a muscle memory of him only minutes ago breaking you apart, and it doesn’t take long for him to have you clenching around his knuckles again.

His cock is hard against your thigh when he sits up and grasps at your waist, turning you over onto your stomach, and for a brief moment you sing silent praises for virile young men and non-existent refractory periods. Bracing yourself up on your hands and knees, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the floor to ceiling mirror of your wardrobe: you’re a mess, hair everywhere and face flushed, make-up running down your cheeks, lips kiss swollen pink to match his.

Noah meets your gaze in the reflection and pauses, running his hands up your back, over each bump of your spine; he lets out a satisfied sigh.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, a lopsided grin quirking up one corner of his mouth. You gasp as he twists his hand in your hair and tugs your head back viciously, your back arching as he sinks into your wet heat again. Your body screams at you as he keeps pulling until you rise onto your knees, your back coming to rest against his chest.

“Watch,” he says firmly.

With wide eyes you look on as his hands roam over your body, dipping between your legs before rising to cup your tits. The slow, steady thrust of his cock rocks your body back and forth but he holds you tightly in place with one arm wrapped low over your hips. It doesn’t feel real, what you see, but it sure as fuck feels it. You can see the movement of his cock in and out of your pussy, the glisten of slick soaked skin…everything about this threatens to send you into sensory overload. It’s too much and not enough, all at once.

It’s perfect.

The dark lines of his tattoos contrast against your bare skin, inked fingers spread wide across your belly, and you watch in silence as his other hand sneaks up over your chest, coming to rest at the base of your throat. You meet his eyes in the lewd reflection; Noah gives a gentle squeeze of your neck, hips stuttering and his mouth falling open when you lift your chin and bare your neck a little more for him, nodding briefly your assent.

You close your eyes as his fingers tighten around your neck, falling back a little against him as the burst of pleasure rises up the back of your thighs once more. A sob hiccups up into your throat as the head of his cock nudges something sublime inside you, and your eyes roll back in their sockets.

“Oh God,” Noah whines, “oh fuck, are you cumming again? You gonna cum for me again, oh fuck, oh shit, baby…cum on my cock, that’s it…”

You gulp in a lungful of air as Noah loosens his grip on your throat, thighs giving out with the strength of your orgasm. Your body quakes against his and there’s a wild, breathless sound that echoes around you that mixes with the purr of praise he whispers against your ear, and with a start you realize the sound is coming from your dry, tortured throat as you scream through your climax.

The next thing you feel is the softness of your sheets beneath your chest and the heavy weight of Noah falling over your back, the harsh snap of his cock into you a few more times before he stills and groans out his end into the back of your neck, breath hot and fast in your hair.

It’s a long time before you can bring yourself to disentangle your limbs from his. Your body feels sated, boneless, and you’re hot, your throat parched, but still you’re loath to move from his embrace. Not that he lets you; each time you try his arms tighten around your waist, a heavy thigh rising to rest over yours, weighing you down until you eventually give in.

“Imma pee on you if you don’t let me up,” you mutter. There’s a snort of amusement from behind you but his grip loosens nonetheless. Turning in his arms, you find his mouth with yours, kissing along his jaw until you can slot your lips against his.

Noah kisses you slow now, lazy open-mouthed kisses that have your toes curling and heat pooling fast in your belly. He says nothing but he doesn’t have to: the tired, satisfied smile you feel in reply to your own, the soft, quiet way his hands move over the dips and rises of your body, speak volumes more than any words could.

You wake in the middle of the night to a mouth on your belly as he pushes you onto your back. Your cunt aches but still you let him push your legs open and bury his face in your slick folds, and you sob out your climax to the ceiling, fingers twisted in tortured sheets until Noah pries them loose to curl around his as he pushes his hard length into you once more.

You’re sure he leaves bruises on your thighs when he cums, face pressed into your hair, and you think you hear him whisper ‘I love you’ as you drift off to sleep again but dreams come easy and lies are just as eloquent, so you can’t be sure.

It’s a strange thing, coming back into consciousness out of a deep sleep. Or he’s always thought so, anyway.

The smell of her reaches him first, all shampoo and body lotion, sweat and the heady scent of sex. Noah groans quietly, his cock stirring with interest. Rolling over onto his side, he blinks sleepily, trying to focus.

It’s still dark, and she’s still just a motionless form in the darkness beside him. But as his vision clears he sees how her back rises and falls steadily with each breath, how she shifts in her sleep, and how her hair falls from her neck when he reaches out and trails a fingertip over her shoulder, how she doesn’t wake but still reaches back for him unconsciously.

The panic that rises in his chest takes Noah by surprise. He sits up, trying to force air into his lungs; he freezes as she rolls over to face him, a deep sigh leaving her body as she settles back into sleep, but he can’t take his eyes from her face.

She’s fucking beautiful.

“Fuck…fuck.”

Noah scrubs a hand over his face and scrambles as carefully as he can from the bed, trying not to wake her in his haste.

This is a mess. A huge, goddamn fucking mess. Cold, terrifying anxiety rushes through him as he stares down at her. Sweat drips down his spine and he feels hot, too hot, even though he’s naked as the day he was born. Noah cards a hand through his hair as he steps backward toward her bedroom door.

This stupid fucking bet. It was only supposed to be a bit of fun, a way to blow off steam while he was here. His stupid goddamn ego to think he could keep it simple, that feelings wouldn’t come into it. Of course they would. Those feelings had always been there, ever since the first time he set eyes on her all those months ago, just beneath the surface, bubbling away until he couldn’t ignore them anymore.

Until last night. Until he lost control of everything.

Noah slips out of her room and quietly pulls the door closed behind him.

His room is still a bomb site, shit strewn from one end to the other, but he ignores it, going straight to the bathroom where he flicks on the shower and dives under it, not even bothering to let the water warm up. She feels embedded in his skin, sunken between the cells of his very being, and he scrubs hard with the loofah, trying to dig her out. He shivers in the cold water but it’s like an absolution for the multitude of sins he can feel rippling beneath his skin so he just scrubs harder.

He pauses at the end of his bed when he dumps his duffel bag on the end of it, picking up the remains of his phone. Turning it over in his hands, he finds the SIM card and pulls it out. There’s another phone in his wardrobe so he gets it, shoves the little rectangle of plastic inside and turns it on. He heaves a sigh of relief when the screen lights up and notifications start to flood in. But there’s only one he’s interested in.

Call me when you get this. We need to talk.

Noah almost laughs aloud in relief. He can still save this.

It only takes him a few minutes to shove some of his belongings in his duffel, find his jeans and a shirt, tugging an old hoodie over his head as he makes his way quietly out to find his boots where he’d left them discarded in the living room. Noah pauses by her door as he goes to leave, his hand on the door handle, but he can’t make himself open it.

Fucking coward.

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the cold wood, clenching his jaw against the voice in his head that screams at him not to let this go, fighting the wave of nausea that rises in his throat.

Gritting his teeth, Noah pushes off the wall. He’s out the door quickly, down into the parking lot quickly before the guilt takes over. The screaming in his head is deafening now; turning the key, he’s grateful for the sounds of the SUV, the loud music that bursts forth from the speakers to drown everything out. Plugging his phone into the cradle on the dash, Noah puts the car in reverse.

The sun is just rising as he hits the 5, pushing his foot to the floor. The car answers immediately leaping forward as the engine roars. It’s only just gone six o’clock in the morning but Noah dials anyway.

“Hey.”

He flinches at her voice. “Hi,” he replies. “So um…about last night.”

She laughs and he feels foolish, grits his teeth against his pride.

“I’m on my way home,” he continues, “just leaving San Diego now.”

“A day early?”

“Yeah,” Noah replies quickly, clearing his throat. “I…I have some groveling to do. I was an ass to someone important and–”

“You sure fucking were,” she retorts scornfully. “Take me out to dinner tonight? Make it up to me?”

“Dinner and dessert,” he says quickly, relief flooding through his chest. “Look, you, um…you didn’t, you know…?”

He can almost hear the way her eyes roll back into her skull. He’s a fucking simp for her and they both know it.

“No I didn’t say shit, dad doesn’t know,” she replies, “your record deal is safe. Just…Noah?”

“Hm?” He flicks the indicator and puts the boot in again, gliding out across the lanes to overtake a slower car.

“Don’t fucking talk to me like that again, okay?”

She hangs up on him and Noah heaves a sigh of relief. The uneasiness he feels doesn’t give though, settling in his gut like a rock, but he ignores it, focuses on the road and pushes all thoughts of the night before from his mind.

Somehow, you’re not surprised when you wake up alone. It’s only been three days and it’s become your new normal. You roll over onto your back and stare at the ceiling for a second, cataloging the places you can still feel him on your skin. Your core aches sweetly, and when you press your fingers into your hip you can feel the sharp bite of bruises left beneath your surface. Your pillows smell of him.

Sighing, you sit up in bed, stretching out your limbs before you get up in search of coffee.

While the press brews on the stovetop, you find your phone still on the coffee table with your book and the remains of your cup of tea from the night before. You pick up your phone and the tea, tossing the tea down the drain as you flick the screen of your phone, frowning when you find it quiet with no trace of him.

Sighing, you flip through to your messages, pulling up Noah’s contact.

Hey, you off to the studio early again?

Your phone rings almost immediately.

Noah.

You answer as you pour your coffee.

“Hey you.”

“Hey! Hi! Good morning!”

You smile at the sound of his voice. It’s instinctual.

“In answer to your question I’m taking off early back to LA. Some…stuff has come up.”

Something loosens in your chest, the last remaining claws of anxiety letting go of your heart. Your brain clicks into gear and you recognise the road noise in the background of the call, and it further assuages your restless mind.

“Oh, okay, I was just checking–”

His laughter is light. “Sorry, it was last minute, I missed a call from the label last night while we were…you know…”

Heat rises to your face and you smile. “It’s fine, I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you are okay. You seemed really angry when you came in last night.”

There’s a pause and you wonder briefly if you’ve misstepped by bringing it up again.

“I–I’m fine, thank you,” he sighs, “it was a misunderstanding. I’m headed back to deal with it. I’m…I’m sorry if I scared you, it wasn’t my intention.”

“No, no it’s okay,” you reassure him hastily. “Are we still on for the Padres game on Sunday night?” you ask cautiously, not wanting to seem pushy. “It’s okay if you have to cancel–”

“Absolutely,” Noah replies quickly, “I’ll be back Sunday after lunch. Look, I gotta go, I’m about to hit the hills…”

“It’s okay, drive safe, and say happy birthday to Mikey for me,” you tell him, bidding him goodbye before hanging up the call.

You sit for a while on the balcony, staring off into space as you sip your coffee slowly. It feels surreal, like you might have dreamed the whole sordid thing, but every time you close your eyes all you see is him. The memory of his hands over your skin is so fresh he could be right there with you, the taste of him heavy on your tongue. So many feelings rush through you as you think back over the past six days, some of them not so great, but the majority of them coalescing together to sink and pool in your belly warmly.

Six days.

By the time he gets back, your agreement will be over. You wish he were here, so you could hash this out and figure out where you both stand, if this is just something you both need to get out of your system or if it’s something more, but the last thing you want to do is bother him with something like this when he’s so clearly tied up with important record label things.

The band always comes first. Always.

He’s always said that and you’ve never questioned it, not once, except now you’ve been left hanging, unsure of where you stand, and you’re not sure if you’re overthinking it or not thinking about it enough. There’s a creeping uncertainty that rises up your spine the more you go over things and in the end you have to push it to the back of your mind, certain your thoughts would spiral if you let them.

It doesn’t take you long to straighten his room. You place all of the broken items in a box and set them atop his desk when you have it upright again. The plant you take into your bathroom, setting it in a small tub of water to try and nurse it back to life; you’ll find a new pot for it another time, you figure.

By the time you’ve righted the furniture and vacuumed up all the debris and glass, it’s after lunch time. As you sit down with some leftover spanakopita you find yourself scanning through social media. The party is already in full swing, you see, judging by the flood of Snapchats, Instagram stories and messages that flood your feeds. These boys don’t do things by halves, you know, and you giggle at the apparent drunkenness already on display.

The rest of your day runs away from you and before you know it you’re at the airport picking up the client you have booked in for a site visit for the following day. Dinner is a quiet affair at a fancy restaurant, easy conversation that takes your mind off of missing him.

Occasionally though your mind wanders back to him, or something reminds you of him and you drift away, caught in a daydream of a memory that makes your cheeks color and your thighs clench together. It drives you to distraction and you know your professionalism is slipping a little as you glance at your phone discreetly again, only to find it blank. Again. You pour another glass of wine as the dark thoughts and doubt begins to creep back in.

Your boss shares a taxi home with you. As you’re stopped to wait for a red light, she glances at you, putting a hand on your knee. Miles away, lost in thought, you jump and look up, startled.

“How long’s it been since you had time off?” she asks gently.

The question throws you for a loop, but then your brain clicks into gear. “I had a half day on Tuesday,” you reply, but she just chuckles, shakes her head at that.

“I mean a proper holiday,” she clarifies, smiling fondly at you. “With that boyfriend of yours.”

“He’s not–”

You stop speaking mid-sentence as you realize what she’s doing. She’s not the boss because she’s stupid.

“So he lets you live in his house, buys you expensive gifts, takes you out to parties, but he’s…not your boyfriend?” She raises her eyebrows at you. “It’s my job to know what’s going on with my staff,” she says pointedly, and you feel your ears heat up a little as you wonder momentarily how much she’s seen or heard.

“I–” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “I pay rent. I–I’m not sure what we are, Patrice,” you finish with a sigh. You’re clutching at straws and both of you know it.

She lets go of your knee, but not before she squeezes it briefly. Turning her head, she stares out the window for a moment before looking back at you, her expression serious.

“You’re a smart woman, honey,” she says quietly, “and I know you’re not the kind of person to let a man walk all over you. But if he’s not willing to call a spade a spade, wouldn’t you rather hit him with a fucking shovel before he breaks your heart?”

You look at her for a few moments, dumbfounded, before turning your gaze down into your lap, picking at the skin around your fingernails. You remain quiet until the car pulls to a stop in front of your apartment building. Patrice presses a kiss to your cheek and squeezes your shoulder but says nothing, just offers a quiet reassuring smile before you step from the car and head inside.

Your phone dings as you step into the elevator and you fish it out of your purse quickly, hopefully, but it’s just Patrice, telling you to take the following week off, or else. You thumb the message away and are about to shove the phone back in your pocket when it goes off again, twice in quick succession.

Noah: They’re making me dress up tomorrow.

Noah: Fucking save me. Please.

You snort in amusement

I have to work, sorry bud, no can do.

The three little dots bounce for a long time, long enough for you to get up to your apartment and inside the front door. You’re tossing your keys onto the hall stand and kicking off your heels when your phone bursts to life with an incoming call.

Noah.

You answer but pull the phone back from your ear immediately when the line connects and the staticky boom of extremely loud music screeches from the handset.

“H-hello?” He says your name and you immediately recognise the unsteadiness in his tone: he’s absolutely wasted.

“Hey! Everything okay?” you reply, switching to speaker phone. It’s marginally better.

“Yes! Hi! Hello!” Noah exclaims. “Everything– yes, everything’s fine, just–just lemme just– fuck, excuse me dude…”

The sound of music fades and you realize he’s either stepped outside or into another room; you hear clearly when he takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly.

“God, they’re fucking annoying…” he starts, and you giggle.

“Noah, are you drunk?”

He laughs self-consciously, letting out a small belch. “Yup,” he replies. “Sorry, I just…just wanted to…God, I’m sorry…”

You giggle. “Sorry for what?” you ask, grinning as you flick on the kettle.

“It’s late and I…” He breathes in deeply again, sighing as he lets it out. “I miss you,” he murmurs breathlessly. “Just wanted to, I don’t know, hear your voice or s’mthing.”

Your heart leaps into your throat and warmth spreads across your chest.

“Where are you?” you ask, quietly avoiding his statement.

“M’in a store room or something, I don’t know,” he slurs, and you can hear the stupid grin that raises the corners of his mouth. “We went out after dinner, they’re…somewhere. What’re you doing?”

“I just got home from a work dinner,” you tell him, setting the phone down on the counter to pour water into your tea. “I’m about to take my cup of tea and go to bed.”

“Bed sounds…bed sounds really good right now…” He lets out a groan that turns into a yawn and you can picture him: arms up-stretched, a sliver of tattooed belly visible, in the way he always does when he’s trying to find that last bit of energy to finish off whatever he’s doing.

“Hm, yeah it does,” you admit, pushing open your bedroom door. “I, uh, I cleaned up your room, I hope that’s okay. I didn’t want you cutting your foot or whatever when you came home and–”

“What would I fucking do without you?” he murmurs, and you huff a laugh at that one as you settle into your bedsheets.

“Probably starve and live in squalor,” you retort sassily. “I’ll send you the bill.”

“What are you wearing?”

The question makes you pause for a second but then you roll your eyes. “Go back to the party, Noah. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Spoil sport,” he huffs haughtily, but there’s a sharp edge of cheekiness to his tone that makes you giggle quietly.

“Good night, Noah,” you tell him.

“G’night,” he groans, and you hear the music grow louder as he opens the door to wherever he is.

“Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not wearing anything,” you tell him, before you end the call and set your phone down on your side table. It cheeps a message almost straight away, and you snort in amusement when you pick it up again and read it.

Noah: Cruel.

Deserved.

Noah: Yeah I know x

You wake early to a flood of group chat messages and social media posts that make you laugh out loud as you run through them while preparing your breakfast. There are a lot of blurry selfies, even more clips of exceptionally bad skateboarding in the dark and some very out of tune singing as they try to hail a cab down amid crowds of other bodies. It looks wild, just like old times, and your heart pangs a little. You miss your friends in LA a lot.

Glancing at the time stamps, you’re not surprised at all to see that the last few were sent barely two hours ago but you flick off a quick message anyway.

Let me know you’re all alive when you get this.

You’re heading up the front steps in your heels two hours later, unlocking the front doors to the new building for the owner when you finally feel your phone vibrate an incoming text message in reply. You know exactly who it’s from; it’s Saturday and you’re the only one at work. All of your friends are down in LA at the party.

Holding open the door, you gesture your client inside with a smile, telling him you will be with him in a moment. Then, following him inside, you pull out your phone and open the message, watching absently as the suited man takes in the newly renovated interior, designed by you.

Noah: I’m dying.

Grinning, you fire off a reply: Self inflicted. Zero sympathy.

The little dots bounce to life.

Noah: I still have twelve hours of this. Please give me an alibi so I can come home.

Oh how the mighty have fallen. Suck it up. Go eat and shower, you’ll feel better.

Noah: A hug would make me feel better.

You pause before replying, enjoying the warmth his insinuation brings to your core.

Define ‘hug’.

He doesn’t reply immediately and you’re about to tuck your phone away and return to your client when the dots begin to bounce once more.

Noah: Can I call you later?

After two. Ttyl x

Your client welcomes you back with a reassuring smile a mile wide, and you click into work mode immediately.

Your client takes you out for dinner, he’s a pleasant man, reminds you of your dad. You find you have a lot in common. He tells you that you remind him of his daughter, and you sit there long after dinner, talking about life and growing up in rural California. He seems…lonely, grateful for the chance to just sit and chat without business getting in the way.

You can relate.

It’s late when you finally head home, and it comes as no surprise that you get a text message from your boss soon after you walk in the door telling you that you have just landed three more sites with this client. It’s only an hour later that a gift basket arrives from her, with a note telling you that you have the whole of the next week off.

Noah doesn’t call. It doesn’t bother you in the least; you figure with all the hustle and bustle of the party he’s gotten caught up, and the steady stream of group chat messages reassures you. You can see him online and in the chat so you know he’s up and awake, hangover banished for the moment. It makes you smile, but you also feel the pang of jealousy, because he’s always been good at backing up after a night out whereas yourself? Useless.

The glow of success settles in your chest as you kick back on the balcony with a wine in the late evening air, watching the last vestiges of orange fade from the horizon. Your phone chirps regular updates and you sit in the group chat for a while, talking with friends. They’re really getting into it and the photos get more and more unhinged until you’re giggling at the sight of two grown ass, shirtless men lugging a keg in through the front door.

You shake your head, yawning. It’s definitely past your bedtime. So, after leaving a voice message for Mikey wishing him happy birthday, you haul your ass off the deck chair and make your way inside. As you’re washing your glass and setting it on the dish drain to dry, you get a reply from the birthday boy, but as soon as you open it your blood runs cold.

The glass slips from your hand, cracking as it hits the edge of the sink. Setting your phone down calmly on the countertop, you back away from it.

Numb.

You feel nothing for a few seconds. But then you feel vomit rise to your throat and you lurch toward the sink, clutching the edge of the counter with a white-knuckled grip because your thighs grow shaky in time with your hands as you bring up your dinner into the basin.

Clutching a clammy hand to your forehead, you close your eyes against the dizziness, swallowing down another wave of nausea before taking a deep breath and reaching for your phone again.

You have to look again. You have to be sure.

You are sure. Tears immediately prick your eyes and the phone slips from your grip again, thudding onto the counter. But when it lands you look down at the picture still on the screen, and you can’t help the sob that escapes you.

It’s an innocent photo: a Snapchat screenshot of Mikey holding up a beer, the words ‘wish you were here’ across the text line. But it’s the background that holds your attention in all its heart-breaking, soul-crushing reality. Because in the background you see Noah, kissing another woman.

The next part will be the final part of this story.

Thank you for reading. Part Eight coming soon.

#noah sebastian #bad omens

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