Note: Oh mah. This is my wonderful interpretation of those millions of awful fanfictions that are about 'he stayd ta her house and tehy had passonate sxe!' Why? 'B/c... uh... the sensee gave tehm a assignmnt.' So, here's my version of that.
But better. So much better. I'm going to make this work. And I'm going to make it HOT.
Edit: Oh God, she's rude. I love her so. Hahaha...
Summary: An actually good version of the traditional 'One week at my house, one week at yours' jive assignment. Why? Because it was his fault in the first place. KaibaxOC (Be warned: They're not going to be playing nice.)
Warning: Probable sensuality, innuendos, and sexual tension. Oh, and psychopathic hatred.
Edit: And crudity. Lots and lots of crudity.
Disclaimer: I didn't kill Gozaburo. Kazuki Takahashi did.
You're So Spoiled!
Seto Kaiba, as a rule, wasn't a fan of people. However, nothing could quite compare to the incomprehensible loathing that had built up between the two of them.
From the instant he saw her, charging in late with legs flying and papers clutched between her teeth, he had been struck by inexplicable disgust. She was crass, loud, rude and opinionated. Her uniform had been mended in some places with bright red darning wool, and she couldn't seem to control her wild masses of hair.
But worst of all, she talked back.
It had been instantaneous. He had shot down her idealistic humanitarian speech on how post-secondary education should be free and gifted students government-sponsored beyond necessity, and she given him the sharpest tongue-lashing of his life. And worse, unlike Jonouchi's explosions, it had made sense. Since then, every class had become a war, the desks between them a verbal no man's land, and all the other students had begun to- quite sensibly- say nothing for fear of articulated murder. She was infuriating.
And today, she was worse then ever.
"Kaiba-san," she cooed with mock respect, "When was the last time you had to worry about having your favourite pants soaked through with blood because you a few cents short of a box of tampons?"
He suppressed an unprofessional shudder, fiercely resisting anything that would give her ammunition. All the young men in the class were beginning to look rather ill- even the steadfastly iron-stomached Jonouchi looked as though he were contemplating escape. He cleared his throat and gave her a slatey glare.
"Never, but before you continue on your feminist tangent," he bit out, "I find it rather unlikely that every month you'd be however many yen," 'God, she's American. Cents?' he thought, "short of a 'box of tampons'. You're blowing this out of proportion."
She rolled her eyes in exasperation, the light of the fluorescents casting a shine across the lenses of her glasses. "Alright, then. Have it your way." She stood, inciting a bitter protest from the teacher, who had been attempting to cool the situation for the past ten minutes. "Girls," she said, looking around. "How many of you haven't been able to afford a box of tampons or pads at the end of the month, or, even, how many of you think that, yes, they are a necessity, and they shouldn't be taxed?" Almost every female hand in the class went up, albeit hesitantly, with apologetic glances towards the brunette; Even some of the cheekier male ones went up. Some of the bolder girls put up both. She looked at him defiantly. "Kaiba-san, they're a necessity. More so then condoms, maybe even more so then groceries- if you don't think so, maybe I'll come over and bleed all over your floor, since you seem to think that's acceptable."
He nearly retched at the idea. "You're being juvenile," he told her coldly. "That was a highly uncouth and unnecessary statement." She laughed.
"Sweetheart," she said, anger bringing out the American purr of her accent, "let me tell you something. People have sex without condoms every day, and they're fine, yet that's an untaxed item. People eat at restaurants, which are taxed, and there's no different in the food they eat there and the food they make themselves, except for effort and service. Every woman on this planet, barring a very small minority, menstruates. It's very messy, it's highly unsanitary, and it's uncontrollable without the use of either pads or tampons. To me, that makes those items qualify on the same level of importance as first aid items." She gave him a cool stare from behind her wire-frames. "Don't you agree?"
He sputtered mentally for a moment, but his silence was just long enough for her to know she'd won, and she smirked and sat down. "Hence," she said, "they should be untaxed. Case closed."
He sulked. "You are so inconceivably arrogant."
She laughed unkindly. "Who are you to talk? You wouldn't last a day in my shoes. I work for every ounce of this ego," she said cockily. He rolled his eyes skyward in disgust.
The teacher found this an extremely apt moment to wreak his revenge and resume control. "That's an excellent idea, Nauswell-san," he said quickly. "A person's lifestyle can have a great amount of influence on their interpretation of the law. I do believe this is a great opportunity for a law assignment."
Nauswell looked slightly confused, but he caught onto the teacher's meaning at once, and quickly decided he didn't like it very much. "No," he snapped. "I refuse to spend time with that."
Anger and comprehension dawned on her pale face. "Ugh! I second that," she said, looking distinctly revolted. "Besides, he'd die from attention deprivation," came the snipe. He glowered at her.
"On the other hand..." the brunet grated out, wishing he could wipe that cocky smirk off her face with a solid slap, "I do think Nauswell-san and I need some quality time together." The 'eww, gross!' expression on her face was almost worth it.
She made false gagging noises. "Maybe if he could control his wild passion for me," she told the teacher. "That's the source of all this ruckus." The girl sent him a little smirk. "Isn't it cute? He's finally hitting puberty!" The other students giggled nervously, looking vaguely terrified.
The teacher sputtered, burying small, chubby hands in his hair. "Well, you'd each have to be paired with someone of the same sex-" he began, but the brunet cut him off sharply.
"No. Only her." His cold, malicious glare brooked no argument.
She snickered, and spoke up.
"Besides, what're you afraid of? That we're going to have sex or something?"
She loudly began to pretend to throw up on the dusty brown tiling.
The glare he sent her could've curdled milk. 'I'm going to break that girl's neck.'
(You're So Spoiled!)
Lounging on her slightly scruffy couch, Jennifer Nauswell began to feel slightly sick, the adrenaline of the afternoon wearing off.
"Your house first," he told her. "I think the strain of adopting both my lifestyle and my company all at once might give someone as simple as you a stroke."
She rolled her eyes, feeling unexpectedly worse. He really was a spoiled little bitch, she thought. And now, she only had the rest of this wonderful- as in completely overcast and depressing- Friday afternoon left of freedom. 'And then the wonderfully exuberant company of world's biggest asshole. I swear, the reason he's so tall is because he's had to grow to accommodate the enormous stick up his ass.' She snickered, thinking of him using it as a pogo stick, and cast a broody eye over her very humble apartment.
It was tiny- in all, the whole thing was two rooms. There was a bathroom, a closet, which really didn't count at all, and this room. This room, which contained her very small bed, her very scruffy couch, her very second-hand television, and her very clean, but very outdated, kitchen appliances.
She sighed, feeling a slight twinge of self-consciousness. Joints popping as she rose, she began to tidy up the contents of her impromptu coffee table- which also doubled as her dinner table, her study desk, and beyond- removing some of the less tasteful magazines and wondering why she was. 'It's to deprive him of material to mock me with,' she told herself. Her subconscious nagged her doubtfully. She beat it down, feeling upset and embarrassed already. 'And he's not even here yet!' The idea of him having any control of her angered her, and she threw the magazines back down on the table.
Her fingers began to itch, and she groaned. "Fuck," she growled, and straightened everything, her hands flying with the cold familiarity of the obsessive compulsive. Over the next two hours, she literally washed the entire inside her apartment, scrubbing strains out of the old, dust-coloured carpeting, touching up trim, wiping down the insides on appliances, the tops of counters, and disinfecting doorhandles. If someone had been there to observe her, they would've been struck by the familiarity of her actions- it was almost as though strenuous obsessive cleaning was hard-wired into her system.
Unfortunately, by the time she was done, he fingers ached, her hands were painfully dry, on the verge of cracking and bleeding, and the apartment only looked marginally better. After all, she thought dourly, there was no fountain of youth for furniture. Old things stay old... except in Hollywood. She smiled privately at the thought, then frowned, aware of how dirty and sweaty she herself had become. Wrinkling her nose, she stripped off and climbed into her newly clean shower.
The mirror began to fog almost at once, and her skin immediately reddened from the scalding heat, but she sighed in relief, muscles unknitting.
Ten minutes later, she was asleep, naked, on the floor of the shower, the water still running.
(You're So Spoiled!)