do what now
Title: Ilex vomitoria
Summary: "Dammit, it was his house, it was his topiary, he could throw up wherever he liked."
Fandom: Smallville
Word Count: 357
Rating/Warnings: R, AU, language
Pairing: One-sided Lex/Lana, Clark/Lana
A/N: I wrote this years and years ago, and then sat on it. I intended to do more with it, but I've come to like it as it stands as a Lex character study. Ilex vomitoria is the scientific name for yaupon holly; the name comes from the American Indian practice of brewing the leaves into a tea, drinking massive quantities, then throwing up (though it's not an actual emetic), in order to bring mental clarity. You can still get yaupon tea, but I'm not brave enough to try it.
He was going to have to pay the gardener extra this week. That thought wildly bubbled to the top of his mind as he ruined the holly. Dammit, it was his house, it was his topiary, he could throw up wherever he liked.
He’d raised a toast to Clark and Lana. That was the first drink. And to his credit, he was not drunk at the reception. He had danced with Lana and patted Clark on the back and done all that good best man shit- a damn sight better than Clark had done for him. And then they had left on his private jet- Clark had flatly refused to have the wedding at the mansion, Lex guessed he still didn’t trust him- and Lex’s date- what was her name? Kelly or Kylie or something like that- had wanted to fuck him, and for some ungodly reason, he’d sent her home.
Lex pulled himself up. He needed water. And bread. Mostly bread. And sleep.
Dammit, that was supposed to be him at that altar. None of this was going like he planned. Lana was supposed to be beside him, to be his queen. She was supposed to have his cute little redheaded babies, goddammit. Now she was going to be scraping out a living with Clark’s broke, flighty ass in Metropolis. She deserved better than that.
He decided to call her up and tell her all about it, but as he felt in his pockets for his cell phone, he remembered. A much wiser, much more sober iteration of himself had entrusted it to his secretary at the reception, under strict orders that it was not to be given back until at least noon the next day. He smiled at the recollection. He had to hand it to himself; he could be damn smart at times.
He staggered back into the house, looking at the pool with longing before giving it up as a bad idea. Last thing he needed was to be one of those great scandals- "Luthor Drowns Self In Grief". Fuck that. In fact, fuck 'em all. He'd just live forever. That'd show them.
Summary: "Dammit, it was his house, it was his topiary, he could throw up wherever he liked."
Fandom: Smallville
Word Count: 357
Rating/Warnings: R, AU, language
Pairing: One-sided Lex/Lana, Clark/Lana
A/N: I wrote this years and years ago, and then sat on it. I intended to do more with it, but I've come to like it as it stands as a Lex character study. Ilex vomitoria is the scientific name for yaupon holly; the name comes from the American Indian practice of brewing the leaves into a tea, drinking massive quantities, then throwing up (though it's not an actual emetic), in order to bring mental clarity. You can still get yaupon tea, but I'm not brave enough to try it.
He was going to have to pay the gardener extra this week. That thought wildly bubbled to the top of his mind as he ruined the holly. Dammit, it was his house, it was his topiary, he could throw up wherever he liked.
He’d raised a toast to Clark and Lana. That was the first drink. And to his credit, he was not drunk at the reception. He had danced with Lana and patted Clark on the back and done all that good best man shit- a damn sight better than Clark had done for him. And then they had left on his private jet- Clark had flatly refused to have the wedding at the mansion, Lex guessed he still didn’t trust him- and Lex’s date- what was her name? Kelly or Kylie or something like that- had wanted to fuck him, and for some ungodly reason, he’d sent her home.
Lex pulled himself up. He needed water. And bread. Mostly bread. And sleep.
Dammit, that was supposed to be him at that altar. None of this was going like he planned. Lana was supposed to be beside him, to be his queen. She was supposed to have his cute little redheaded babies, goddammit. Now she was going to be scraping out a living with Clark’s broke, flighty ass in Metropolis. She deserved better than that.
He decided to call her up and tell her all about it, but as he felt in his pockets for his cell phone, he remembered. A much wiser, much more sober iteration of himself had entrusted it to his secretary at the reception, under strict orders that it was not to be given back until at least noon the next day. He smiled at the recollection. He had to hand it to himself; he could be damn smart at times.
He staggered back into the house, looking at the pool with longing before giving it up as a bad idea. Last thing he needed was to be one of those great scandals- "Luthor Drowns Self In Grief". Fuck that. In fact, fuck 'em all. He'd just live forever. That'd show them.