Written By: Lily Zen
Warnings: Strong Language
Notes: Just a little ditty that popped in my head. Don't ask me why. Also, the rating is solely for the language used in this piece. If it weren't for that, I'd probably say it's only a T.
Puck loves women.
Everybody knows that.
He loves to fuck 'em, lick 'em, kiss 'em, suck 'em…and pretty much whatever else you can imagine.
What everybody doesn't know is that Noah also loves women.
It's almost a spiritual thing, the way Noah loves women. He loves the way they laugh, the way they smile, the way they smell, the way they hug…
He thinks there's probably some psychological shit there about watching his piece of shit dad beat up on his mom when he was little, and after that being raised in a single parent home that contributes to his clandestine (yeah, he can use big words too, so suck on that, Berry!) worship of the fairer sex.
Nobody would ever call him a momma's boy (they wouldn't dare because he'd fucking kick their asses), but in some ways he is. Noah does love his mom—she puts up with a lot from him and works herself to the bone to put food on the table and keep the roof over their heads, and he'll never, ever forget the time he broke a dish in the kitchen and Eli went after him but his mom stepped in; it was humiliating that he'd needed protecting, but totally bad-ass the way she stood up to his dad with all the ferocity of a bear—but he's definitely not tied to her apron strings or anything like that.
His mom was definitely the first example of female archetype in Noah's head.
Then, of course, there was his sixth grade music teacher, Mrs. Barrett, who wasn't exactly the most gorgeous older woman ever, but had always smelled like some sort of subtle, expensive perfume and wood polish. She had helped Noah get much better at guitar and he'd even learned how to play a little piano hanging out with her during study hall. It was a reprieve from his home life and having her undivided attention for that little while was awesome. Mrs. Barrett made him feel like he was talented and that he would succeed. She always would say, "Just buckle down and do it. It may be tough now, but after about twenty or thirty tries, it'll seem like a cake-walk."
After that high school hit. Noah got his growth spurt early. He was cute and the girls made sure he knew it. His first time was with Giselle. She was a foreign exchange student from France, and he never could pronounce her last name right so he's not gonna massacre it right now.
Giselle was a Junior when Noah was in his Freshman year. She was tall and thin with thick, blonde waves in her hair, and brown eyes that were warm with her good humor. They hung out a couple times with other people present, then at a party one night Giselle whispered in his ear, "Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir? I am told most Americans know what this means."
Noah, wide-eyed, nodded.
Giselle smiled, her pretty pink lips stretching outside of their normal rosebud pout. "Come with me." She took his hand then and led him to Gary's older sister's room, who was away at college right then. It was empty, surprisingly, and decorated tastefully.
Afterward, embarrassed, hypersensitive, awed, and still a little turned on, Noah held Giselle to his chest and played with her hair. Her arm was slung over his waist and she was pressing playful kisses over his pecs. Every once in awhile she would let out a giggle. It was safe and happy, the best he'd felt in a long time. That was the night Giselle earned herself a place amongst Noah's deities.
There were a lot of others after Giselle. To name a few, Santana Lopez, Quinn Fabray, and the Cougars. None of them really made an impact. Sure, he liked them all well enough in that way that he liked women of all shapes, sizes, and personality types, but none of them altered the course of his life. Quinn, maybe, since she was the mother of his child and all that.
Then there was this girl.
In a dingy coffee shop, out way too late for a school night, it was open mic night. Noah didn't usually come to places like this. They were always full of hipsters and indie kids and wannabe-type motherfuckers. However, it was really late and he needed some place to hang out for awhile. He'd had another nightmare about Beth showing up on his doorstep twenty years from now, angry as fuck, and possibly the worst part was that he'd had a receding hairline and a beer gut. So not bad-ass. So he ordered a cup of coffee (just coffee, please, not some crazy-ass chocolate-caramel-crap bomb with a hint of coffee flavor that cost more than the ingredients were worth) and grabbed a seat at one of the computers.
He heard her before he saw her. The soft chord progression and then a repeated plucking noise as she tuned one of the strings by ear. Noah missed the beginning of the song because he was checking his facespace page, but when it did sink in, he just stopped and listened. Her voice was strong, clear with a resonance in it that said if she wanted to, she could go low. There was a slight twang to her voice like she'd lived in the south once or maybe learned to sing listening to Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn.
Noah turned in his seat and watched the rest of her song, mesmerized by her long violet hair and the dark fringe of her lashes against her pale cheeks. She got applause from the audience; he was one of them.
"You're good," he said afterward, walking up to her as she packed away her guitar. She looked up and he fell a lot in lust (and a little in love) with her gray-green eyes. "Thank you," she replied with a smile on her red-tinted lips, "You're cute. Who are you?"
"Devon," she said with a twist of her red-tinted lips, and she shook his hand firmly, "Nice to meet you, Noah."
"You too," he replied, and asked, "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"
Devon wrinkled her nose and gave a slight shake of her head. "I don't usually drink the stuff, but a cup of tea would be great. Black if they've got it, green if they don't." When Noah showed up a minute later, Devon had her hair tied back in a neat ponytail, revealing features that managed to be both sharp and beautiful at the same time and her feet perched on the chair directly across from her. She swung them off as he approached and accepted the hot tea with a nod of gratitude.
"You have a really nice voice," Noah complimented after he got comfortable in the chair she'd been using as a footstool, "And you've got mad skills on the guitar. I was really impressed."
"Thank you. I don't usually play acoustic, but this late at night I didn't really feel like hauling down my electric and an amp." Devon laughed easily and shrugged her shoulders, "Too much work for just one song."
"Yeah, I get that."
"So are you playing anything tonight?" Devon quickly turned the subject onto him, "Maybe doing a little spoken-word with some bongo drums?" There was a slight edge of dark humor in her voice, like she'd just told a joke but only to herself.
Noah raised his eyebrows. "Spoken word?"
She laughed outright then and shook her head wryly. "I thought so. You don't seem like the kind of guys that usually come here. For one, your pants are clearly designed for men. Second, your sweatshirt says McKinley High Football. It's refreshing to see somebody come in here who's not an art snob."
A frown settled on Noah's face, the kind of glower that made some (a lot) of people flinch away from him. Devon didn't react at all. "Oh," he finally said, "So what's spoken word again?"
"People reciting their shitty poetry to random slapping on some tribal drums. Some of its okay, but most of it is utter crap." Her answer was so blasé that he had to grin.
Two hours later, she was one of his favorite people, his ladies that he loved, and they hadn't even kissed.