I selfishly filled my own prompt with this little ficlet, again for a
challenge on livejournal. It follows S3E2. Also, I managed to stay way
under 2000 words. So challenge completed, ficwriterjet ;)
Summary: After the case with the comedian, Chloe has a bone to pick with Lucifer about “staying put”.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, and I’m not making any money from this story.
Warnings: non-consensual spanking of an adult. I do not advocate this behaviour in real life, only in fiction.
“Detective, I still think this is wholly unnecessary.”
“You let me be the judge of that,” the Detective replied cold-heartedly, not even looking up from her dinner preparations. “And keep your butt on that chair.”
“Yes, exactly. Yours. On that chair.” He sunk back, defeated, and tried not to think about the severe humiliation of being treated like a naughty child. It was very hard.
“Don’t you think it’s been long enough already?” he asked after an eternity of restless fidgeting.
“Lucifer,” she said slowly, turning to finally look at him, banished to a chair next to the kitchen table that kept him well away from temptation but clearly in her line of sight. And suddenly faced with her furious expression, he somehow wished that she’d continued to ignore him. “You would do well to sit quietly and think about the concept of following orders.” He opened his mouth to interrupt, but didn’t even get a word in edgewise. “Especially those that are meant to protect you from your own foolishness and lack of self-preservation.” He squirmed uncomfortably. “So stay put and be quiet.”
Sighing dramatically, he resigned himself to his fate of watching the Detective prepare dinner. It didn’t suffice to distract him from the ridiculousness of the whole situation though, and he scowled at the indignity of basically being put in time-out. It was embarrassing.
The Detective’s blatant ignorance of his wishes did not help to appease his temper. She shamelessly refused to acknowledge his presence other than to scold him whenever he tried to rise from the chair or voice his displeasure.
After fidgeting for an inordinate amount of time that should surely suffice to ponder ‘his lack of self-preservation and impulse control’, he decided that enough was enough and rose to offer his infinite knowledge on preparing food.
She whirled around, and the expression on her face made him falter involuntarily.
“Detective, it’s been ten minutes at least!” he cried in outrage. Purely to make her realise that she was over-reacting and certainly not because that look was making him all kinds of uncomfortable and he wished to defend his actions. “Surely I have been sufficiently educated on the concept of ‘ staying put’.” He used air quotes to underline the ridiculousness of the whole ordeal. The Detective’s eyebrows rose dangerously – they almost seemed to disappear in her hairline – before crashing down again. Something sloshed uncomfortably in his stomach, before forming into a tight ball of dread. It made him fidgety. Not that he’d ever act on that silly notion, thank you very much.
He looked at her imploringly, trying to convey without words the silliness of her actions. He was a grown man. He had helped catch the bad guy – or bad girl in this case. There had been that short moment where the woman had held a gun at him, but it had all been for a greater good. Surely she could see that.
Apparently, she did not.
Reaching for the bowl of kitchen utensils, she grabbed a wooden spoon and before he could voice even the tiniest complaint, she had seized his arm in a surprisingly strong grip and angled his body to the side.
He had a split second to realise what she was about to do, before the spoon descended in a mighty smack on his butt. Startled, he jerked his hips away from the sharp pain.
She didn’t heed his loud protest in the slightest and smacked him again.
“You do not get to be glib about taking foolish risks with your safety!” she lectured sternly, all the while peppering his poor backside with sharp smacks. He tried angling his body away from her instrument of torture, but she just yanked him back with astonishing strength and carried on.
“It hurts!” he yelped, moving his hand to cover as much of his butt as he could reach. It was fruitless, as she only redirected her aim. The evil implement left blotches of excruciating pain behind wherever it landed and he had trouble biting back the embarrassing yelps that threatened to emerge.
“A bullet to the chest would have hurt a whole lot worse!” she replied and he seriously doubted the verity of that statement as his body jerked in response to the awful sting.
“Yes! Okay! – Ow!” His leg twitched as the spoon landed low on his butt, almost reaching his thigh, and his hand moved to rub at the new sting. “I’m sorry!”
“I don’t need you to be sorry,” the Detective said, smacking the other cheek ruthlessly. “I need you to listen when I tell you to stay put!”
“Okay!” he agreed quickly. At this point he’d tell her pretty much anything if it meant that she’d stop hitting him. “I’ll listen!” He did feel bad about making her worry, though. That was never his intention. “I promise!” he added as it became clear that she wouldn’t stop smacking him.
“Detective!” he whined, and stomped his foot in discomfort. “I’ll be – ow! – more careful!”
“You had better be!” she said ominously, but thankfully stopped her onslaught. He backed up a couple of steps when she released his arm. His hand joined the other one on his butt and gently rubbed at the sting.
“Now, sit back down and think about your foolishness and disobedience and how you’re going to make better choices in the future,” she said, pointing at the chair with the wooden spoon. He took in her still furious expression and wisely decided against voicing his complaints about the necessity of pondering his choices any longer and sitting in general. Instead he gingerly lowered himself onto the unyielding surface and squirmed in discomfort, grimacing slightly, but when he looked up again, he saw that she appeared to be mollified by his acceptance.
He spent the next minutes quietly contemplating his choices and behaviour backstage, as the Detective busied herself with dinner preparations again. He did feel bad about worrying her and involuntarily thought about the despair he felt every time a gun was pointed at her. His gut clenched at the realisation that she apparently worried as much about him as he did about her.
He glanced at her, noticing for the first time the strain in her shoulders and that she seemed to be banging the pots a bit more than strictly necessary.
“I’m sorry for worrying you,” he said after some time. “I’ll- I’ll do better.” She looked at him over her shoulder, taking in his posture.
“Okay, then,” she said, making a come hither motion with her hand. “I could use some help here.”
He practically bolted off the chair, glad to reduce the pressure on his still stinging butt, and approached her, already rolling up his shirt sleeves. She squeezed him affectionately in a one-armed hug around his waist, moulding herself to his side for a moment.
“Don’t scare me like that again.”
“I won’t,” he promised. “I’m sorry.”
“You had better,” she replied, tilting her face up to look at him. “That chair has plenty of experience in curbing naughty behaviour,” she added with a wink.
“That spoon certainly did its part as well,” he added wryly, making her chortle and squeeze him again.
“Promise you won’t scare me like that again,” she demanded again.
“I won’t,” he said sincerely. She nodded and put some vegetables to cut in front of him.