DISCLAIMER: Sadly the denizens of Smallville and the Jossverse belong to a whole host of people who are not even slightly me - DC comics, the WB, UPN, Joss Whedon, Simon & Schuster etc. Just playing. Don't sue.
COMMENTS: For the lovely ladies of the PPO. (And because every time I hear that desperate yell of "Claaaaaaaark!!!" it cracks. Me. Up.) Thanks to Ellen for Beta work.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a pretty girl in possession of a good cleavage must be in want of a brain.
Victoria Hardwick had used this particular preconception to her advantage on more than one occasion; and although she was not, in fact, quite as bright as she believed herself to be, Victoria was by no means a bimbo. It took her a while to tumble to the fact that the man in her bed was thinking about someone else; but hearing him cry out the name of an underage farmboy when he came in her mouth, however, pretty much gave the game away.
The fact that she was only fucking Lex Luthor in order to fuck him over was neither here nor there; no girl liked to discover that she was playing second fiddle to someone else. Being subsequently rescued, stark naked and dripping, from an invisible assailant by the aforementioned farmboy did absolutely nothing to assuage Victoria's sense of injury. Nor did the farmboy's unflattering ability to utterly resist her wet and soap-smeared charms, or the way his irritatingly flawless features lit up at the sight of her lover. Victoria's dignity and her pride were both thoroughly bruised. As she shook the dust of Smallville from her Manolo Blahniks, she vowed to herself that she would exact her revenge one way or another.
Unfortunately her initial plans fell through, as even the best laid plans of mice and men were wont to do; and Victoria was obliged to fall back on the tried and trusted method of falling on her back. Luckily she was better at laying billionaires than she was at laying plans.
After the first Bellini she felt far more powerful; champagne would do that for a girl. Victoria hadn't minded the sex so much. It had been very - creative. (And she'd always had a penchant for Uncle Lionel.) Besides, she knew how much it would infuriate her father when he found out. But the humiliation of being obliged to barter herself like this was still galling. Half of her plastic was already useless and Sir Harry was making noises about disinheriting her - not that there was much left to inherit at this point in the game. By her third glass, Victoria had become convinced of her own blamelessness and had realised that all her troubles were entirely caused by Lex Luthor. By the sixth glass she had progressed from indignant to bitter to downright murderous. Her expression must have been perfectly transparent, because the blonde girl propped up at the bar beside her took one look at her face and nodded knowingly.
"What did he do?"
Victoria glanced at her interlocutor with an expression of hauteur only slightly marred by her inability to focus properly, and then returned her attention to the champagne cocktail. "I'm sorry, but I don't believe we've met. And I don't believe I feel like 'sharing' anything, thank you."
"Sure you do. Go on, tell me all about it. It was a guy, right? It's always a guy. Did he tell you he'd love you forever and that you were the most important thing in the whole of creation? Promise you a lifetime of orgasms and breakfast in bed on weekends, children and a joint account and a house with a mortgage and holidays to sunny places every year? And then suddenly change his mind at the last minute and decide that actually you were right all along and it was just the heat of the moment that made him propose, what with another Apocalypse hanging over his head, and really he didn't want to marry you at all but he didn't have the spine to tell you this until you'd let yourself really believe that he was different and maybe you'd always been wrong about men being evil, and now everyone you'd ever met was there to see you get humiliated at the altar in the silly white dress that you'd gotten so excited about?"
Victoria blinked. "No."
"Oh." The blonde girl frowned. "But it was a guy, wasn't it? And you hate him, right? He humiliated you and ruined all your plans and now you're feeling all vengeful?"
Victoria knocked back the last of her drink and smiled at the bartender as he promptly placed another one in front of her.
"Thank you." The bartender was cute. Victoria wondered whether it would be dclass to take him home; and if so whether she cared.
"I mean, I know I'm a little rusty, but I was sure that you were pissed about a guy."
Victoria rolled her eyes. "Yes. Yes, fine, you win," she snapped. "Not that it is any business of yours, but, as it happens there is a man, and yes, I do hate him. He humiliated me, he ruined all my plans, and right now I think that dying in a car crash is too good for him. Satisfied?"
"Hmm. Don't you wish he'd contract some highly unamusing syphilis? Or - or all his hair would fall out overnight?"
Victoria laughed in spite of herself. "Too late. Well, too late for the hair, at any rate."
"Oh. Well, don't you wish that he'd come down with a nasty case of spontaneous combustion? Or develop leprosy, perhaps? Or that he'd turn into a toad? Because toads can't lead you on with their deceptive niceness and their well-shaped torsos, or pleasure you orally for hours at a time until your whole body shakes helplessly and your toes curl and - although come to think of it, toads do have those very long tongues, so perhaps - no. Where was I? Right, toads. You know where you are with a toad. Except the ones that turn out to be princes, but mostly they don't, because most of the time if it looks like a toad and sounds like a toad and smells like a toad it is, in fact, a toad."
Victoria was quite impressed by this ability to go without breathing for such an extended length of time, but she was starting to get the impression that medical assistance of some sort might soon be in order, and perhaps a soothing padded cell. It was sometimes difficult to tell with Americans; they really had absolutely no sense of privacy or personal space. The blonde girl leaned closer and frowned at her meaningfully. "Don't you wish he'd pay for what he did?"
"Of course I do. But I really don't see what any of this has to do with you. Whoever you are," she added, in her best attempt at Lady Bracknell.
"Right. Social niceties." The blonde briskly unfurled a fixed and brilliant smile. "Hi there, perfect stranger! My name is Anya, pleased to meet you." Victoria had the oddest sensation that Anya was reciting something from a script that had been painstakingly memorised. She watched in growing bemusement as her hand was seized in a firm grip and pumped up and down a couple of times. "What's your name?"
"I - Victoria. It's Victoria," she said helplessly. Dear God, she missed London.
"Hello Victoria. Nice weather we're having lately, don't you agree? So, anyway," Anya continued in a more normal tone, "Don't you wish that this horrible man were suffering hideous torments in some distant hell dimension right now?"
"You know, you are quite possibly the strangest girl I have ever met. Are you on medication?"
Anya shook her head irritably. "Really, you aren't even trying to get into the spirit of this, are you? I don't know why I bother. You want vengeance don't you? I know you do. So come on, make a wish already. "
Victoria reflected that she could, of course, just leave the bar, but she'd been here first, damn it. Besides, she didn't like walking any great distance in these shoes, magnificently sexy though they were. She decided to try humouring the nice lunatic."If I make a wish, will you leave me alone?"
"Absolutely," said Anya with disquieting enthusiasm. "And make it something really gruesome."
"Well then. I wish Lex Luthor knew what it was like to lose everything that matters and have all your best laid plans foiled by your ex-lover, and -"
Victoria blinked again. The lighting in this place really was tremendously unflattering. For a moment there she could have sworn - but that was ridiculous. "Sorry?"
"Done. Although I have to say that if it were me, I'd have gone for the unamusing syphilis. Or millennia of torture in a hell dimension. But I'm an old fashioned kind of girl. Still, there's a certain Greek simplicity to it - not bad. Not bad at all. Well, I must be going." Anya frowned, and Victoria once again had the distinctly odd impression that she was trying to remember lines that had been memorised. "Ah, yes - have a nice day. Nice shoes, by the way."
This ficlet was directly inspired by Shrift's words:
New fire-engine red Manolo Blahniks: $515.00.
New Jean-Paul Gaultier suit: $1965.00.
The sound of your lover screaming out the name of an underaged farmboy while you're sucking him off: Priceless.