Disclaimer: Never have before, and probably never will.
Author's Note: So many things I should really be working on, and yet, here I am. Working on this, and not working on them. Yea! :D
Dedication: This collection is dedicated to theladyfeylene (on livejournal— AKA Alchemist Experiment here on fanfic-dot-net), who's work in the LxNaomi fandom has not only made me incredibly happy, but also inspired most of these ideas.
Warnings: No real point or purpose to this ficlet, so don't expect a clever back-story relating to how L and Naomi got this far in their relationship. Sometimes, you just wanna write the fun stuff, you know? In the same vein, this is rated M for lime. X3
A Collection of LxNaomi Ficlets and Drabbles
"L," by itself, is an awful letter. She hates how difficult it is to pronounce: how it fights against her native tongue, giving her an obvious accent. She also hates the staccato articulation; to hold it out, one must either change the letter into a girl's name ("Elle") or risk sounding ridiculous (experience has taught her that there is nothing sexy about holding out a "luh").
Yes, "L," by itself, is an awful letter. Which is why—especially at times like this—that Naomi is thankful for her Japanese heritage: "Eru" is so much more conducive to sex. Easier to purr into his ear (nibbling on the lobe, feeling him squirm against and inside her); simpler to hold out, either in jest or in breathless ecstasy (the two syllable name becoming three, four, five, six, seven beats long, increasing with each thrust in and slide out, thrust in and slide out); more fun to pant, moan, squeak, and scream in the throes of passion…
And more than that, he's not "L" when he's "Eru"—not a detective, not a super-sleuth, not even a genius. He is simply a man, a man like any other: pale and exposed and trembling, fingers biting into her hips as his toes curl with pleasure. Just a man… mortal and strange and under her spell, hissing her name in his own native tongue: English. English so fast and fluent that even Naomi has a hard time following it.
But she understands the gist, and she loves the irony of the reversal: swapping languages as they exchange kisses and sweat, flipping positions and roles as he gives her control.
"L" would never surrender control; "L" fights to be the best, to win the round, to be on top. But he is not "L" right now: this is "Eru," the man—her partner. He trusts her. So she transforms in kind: she is no longer Misora Massacre, member of the FBI, detective and underling and leather-clad motorcyclist. Instead, she, like "Eru," is reduced to minimalist terms: she becomes nothing more, or less, than a woman.
And they are lovers.
In a world full of complex equations, unanswerable questions, cases to be solved and criminals to catch; confessions to garner, people to stop, problems to prevent; suicides and genocides and homicides and accidents; everyday difficulties ranging from how to afford food to what one might be planning for their future; from the quandaries that drive humanity as a whole ("What is the meaning of life?") to things as stupid as Naomi's personal inability to properly pronounce certain letters of the Roman alphabet ("L")… it is inexpressibly wonderful to remember (and re-remember) that truth— to truly appreciate the almost impossible simplicity of it.
"Eru—!" she chokes, head thrown back and black eyes jammed.
"Naomi…" he breathes, biting back a groan. Her name sounds both familiar and strange when he speaks it now—the lack of an honorific makes her thighs quiver, and his faded British accent sends shivers down her spine. He reciprocates these nonverbal reactions with a hiss, a buck, a kiss that makes her head spin… and Naomi knows (even if the world never will) that they love each other.
Love, plain and simple.
She wishes everything could be that easy.