Seireitei Monogatari

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Title: Hot for Teacher
Characters: Ichigo/Urahara
Rating: T
Warning: kink, daydreams, language
Words: 1501
Description: The geta-boushi is his master, his sensei, and Ichigo tries to convince himself that's all there is to it.

Dedication: To Hirumo Musouka, who requested a tastefully done Urahara/Ichigo. I hope that I managed the tasteful part.


Ichigo can't remember when it started.

Maybe from the beginning. When he first met Urahara Kisuke and saw the curl of his smirk or the gleam of his eyes from under that damn ugly hat.

Maybe from the point when Urahara Kisuke shoved him down a seventy-foot hole and forced him to fight for his existence. When he pushed Ichigo to the limits and taught him the importance of resolve. There's an image there, pushing restlessly at the back of Ichigo's mind every time he gets a private moment. Something about the power behind Urahara-san's character that makes him tighten, intrigued. Aching.

Maybe after they saved Rukia and Urahara Kisuke had given him that strange look and apology aboard the weird flying carpet thing. Ichigo can distinctly remember his stomach doing a backflip then. Can remember something squeezing inside of him, his body going hot and cold. His tongue dry as thoughts, images, sounds come to full life in his mind.

His dreams that night had been particularly graphic.

Or maybe it was after the war, a couple of years later. When the world was no longer in peril and Ichigo could act like the human he was supposed to be and not just an afterthought. When he actually had time to sit and consider and look at people they way they were meant to be seen.

Maybe it was then he noticed just how very attractive Urahara Kisuke could be. And that somehow, a long time ago, he'd developed a rather furious... crush. Lust for the former Shinigami captain.

Ichigo's not sure when he started going for guys, and really, that's low on the list of sheer what-the-fuckery that has invaded his brain. Hollows and Aizen and Vizard and Shinigami aside, he couldn't give a damn about his sexuality. But having a hard on for a man who is likely decades – if not centuries – older than him is just a bit worrisome. Urahara-san is supposed to be his teacher, his mentor. The guy who sometimes answers Ichigo's questions if he's not caught up in being mysterious.

He's not supposed to be high on the list of future prospects for dating. At least, not for Ichigo. But the more Ichigo tries to tell himself of impossibilities and ridiculousness and so on, the more his body reminds him – frequently and wetly, especially at night – that he's just lying to himself and he needs to get with the program.

Ichigo sighs to himself and lets his eyes wander back to the window, completely ignoring the projection and the teacher droning on and on at the front of the room. Sometimes, his college classes seem completely useless. As though he's just forcing himself to cultivate normality because it's what he's supposed to do. Today happens to be one of those days. His finger taps a nonsense rhythm on the edge of his desk; his laptop screen isn’t even turned on.

His senses are keyed. There's a Hollow somewhere. But he barely registers it before it is taken care of in a very permanent way. After the whole Winter War and Aizen incident, more than one Shinigami has been assigned to patrol Karakura and its unusual collection of high-powered souls. So Ichigo can't be sure who did it. Probably another newbie he's never met.

He feels restless, thoughts carrying him everywhere and nowhere. To disarrayed blond hair and a stubbled chin. The clack-clack of familiar geta and an ugly, striped hat. The curve of teasing lips. The low, sultry tones as he's both reprimanded and teased.

“Kurosaki-kun,” Urahara-sensei says, one finger hooked in his tie as he gives it a rough tug and loosens it from his neck. “This is unacceptable.”

Ichigo can't even pretend to be chastened. But he looks askance at the paper with the bright red markings at it.

“What can I say?” he says with a shrug. “I was distracted.” He gives his teacher a pointed look.

Urahara-sensei doesn't budge, just shakes said paper for emphasis. “What do you think we should do about this, Kurosaki-kun?” he asks and slides around his desk until he comes to a stop directly before his student. “These kinds of grades are simply unsatisfactory.”

Brown eyes lazily look his teacher up and down, taking in the fine definition of muscles beneath a well-fitting suit. And Ichigo's tongue drags over his bottom lip.

“Private instruction from Urahara-sensei?” he suggests hopefully.

The smirk that curves his teacher's lips calls heat to Ichigo's skin. One hip leans against the desk, the red-marked paper returning to the wood surface.

“Do you think you'll benefit from it, Kurosaki-kun?” His voice is soft but sultry.

Ichigo lifts a hand, fingers sliding over the ugly black and green striped tie that Urahara-sensei always wears. It feels silky soft to the touch, and he lifts it from his teacher's chest.

“I've always been better at hands-on learning,” Ichigo returns.

He steps forward and places a knee directly between his teacher's legs, pinning Urahara-sensei between his body and the desk. His palms flatten on the surface on either side of Urahara-sensei as Ichigo leans forward, not surprised at all that his teacher doesn't seem to be intimidated. He just smirks in that disarming way of his, meeting Ichigo's gaze.

“I don't know,” Urahara-sensei drawls, tongue sweeping over his lips. “This might require a more aggressive approach. Are you willing to go the distance, Kurosaki-kun? Are you willing to try the tactile approach?”

His hip pressing against Urahara-sensei's, Ichigo is pleased to find a half-hard arousal beneath layers of clothing. His hips twitch, begging for sweet friction.

“I've always been one to take risks,” he answers with a near purr, his hips rolling against Urahara-sensei's sensuously.

Something like a groan rumbles in the teacher's chest. “One with a head for danger, I see,” Urahara-sensei murmurs, grey eyes gone dark and inviting.

“Exactly.” Ichigo's fingers curl against the desk. “So what do you think? Can you help me, sensei?”

His cock throbs within the confines of his pants. The heat of the older man is palpable. And his scent invades Ichigo's nostrils with each inhale.

“I do believe that I can accommodate your needs,” Urahara-sensei returns with a low voice, near a breath against Ichigo’s skin. One hand goes between their bodies until his palm flattens over Ichigo's covered arousal, and he squeezes. “Private instruction is my forte, after all.”

Ichigo smirks and leans in--

Thunk!

“Kurosaki-kun!”

Ichigo startles. He nearly falls out of his chair as a marker from the whiteboard beans him right between the eyes.

“What?” he barks, nearly leaping to his feet with a conditioned response. Thankfully, he doesn’t since his pants are bulging in an obvious way.

And then, he remembers where he is with startling speed as giggles and outright laughter ripple through the classroom. His teacher is looking at him, unimpressed and annoyed. One hand is planted on her hip, and a heel taps on the floor.

“Do you feel that this class is so unnecessary that you do not need to pay attention? If so, I suggest not attending rather than insulting me here in the classroom,” she hisses at him. Her glasses gleam in a way that distinctly reminds him of Ise-san when her drunk captain has gone missing again.

Ichigo, to his credit, manages not to flush like a chastised schoolboy. Even if he does feel like one. He ducks his head in an apology.

“I'm sorry, sensei. It won't happen again.” He puts genuine regret in his tone, which seems to soothe her ruffled feathers.

She straightens, one hand adjusting her glasses as though surprised by his answer. “Just... don't let it happen again,” his professor says with a sniff and returns to her lesson, anger forgotten.

And to think, Tatsuki has always accused him of having so little charm. If she only knew.

Sighing to himself, Ichigo puts on a face of full attention and shifts in his seat. He slowly draws his coat over his lap to hide his diminishing arousal. He can feel the looks that wander his direction but ignores them. Mind already in full contemplation of something other than the lesson.

The daydream has done little to convince Ichigo that Urahara-san is off limits. In fact, he only desires his master even more now. The images are there, crowding in the back of his brain. And he can't ignore them. Not anymore.

A bit of a smirk pulls at Ichigo's lips as he balances his chin on his palm, staring in the vague direction of the room’s front. He thinks about the way he had cornered Urahara in his little fantasy. Thinks about trapping the mad scientist against his desk, watching those perpetually mysterious eyes darken with lust.

Ichigo's belly tightens, threatening to reawaken the stirrings in his groin.

That's it. Screw propriety.

Ichigo is a fucking adult now, and he can make his own damn decisions. Including the one biting at the forefront of his mind and libido. And Ichigo makes a plan, then and there, to seduce Urahara Kisuke.

His master will never see it coming.

******

a/n: Hee. I’m really starting to like this pairing. And oh yes, I will definitely write a sequel in the future

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!