Humble Shopkeeper

Disclaimer: You don't believe I've somehow bought it since the last chapter, right? Bleach belongs to whomever it belongs to. But the screwed up plot, however, is mine.

Chapter 2: Preposterous Practical Proposition

Ichigo stared down hard at Urahara, who seemed to be as calm as ever, hand slowly waving the fan about. He couldn't believe that the older man had just said that. In fact, a part of his mind was still trying to figure out what else the man could be playing at, spinning in circles and getting nowhere fast. The other part of his mind, growing exponentially larger every second, pointed out that Urahara meant exactly what he said and there was a kiss in the very recent past that proved just that. His lips still tingled slightly, a shadow of his first kiss – damn, his first kiss, now flown out the window – still lingering on them, undeniable, real. He took a breath, then let it out, not knowing exactly how to express his true feelings on the matter. Finally, he opened his mouth and said,

“You're insane. You had too much to drink or something?”

The other man simply shifted further fast, making Ichigo lean back instinctively to get away from him. He leaned back on his elbow, his head thrown back, not entirely certain how to deal with this, how to reject Urahara without actually throwing him against a wall and wondering whether he shouldn't be doing just that before this drugged version of the shopkeeper decided to rape him on the floor. Instinctively, he tried to save normality, to keep backing off slowly in the hopes that the other man wouldn't follow. But the other man did follow, leaning half on top of him, his own hand keeping him balanced above the boy, their bodies not quite touching, the fan on the floor in the man's fist, no longer a barrier between them.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?!” If Urahara leaned forward just one more fraction of an inch, he'd be flying through the wall.

“Do I smell drunk, Kurosaki-san?”

Ichigo had to admit reluctantly that Urahara did not, in fact, smell drunk. But that didn't exclude the possibility of drugs. He pushed the other man off and was slightly surprised to see that he slid back without protest, landing in nearly the same position as his initial one, calm, collected, fan back in place, waved gently by an elegant hand. No throwing through the wall, then. Ichigo had slightly more trouble straightening himself, or at least pretended to have it in an attempt to stall for the time he needed to find something to say that would make Urahara back off.

“I ain't gay.”

“And I am not asking you to fall in love with me.”

The teenager frowned. Drugs? How could you tell drugs? What did they do? There had been this lecture on them at school once, which he couldn't remember too well, since it was mostly about the importance of not taking them, but he was quite certain somebody high would have some sort of tell-tale sign. Urahara's green eyes were unreadable, not that he showed much of his true feelings to begin with and not that there was much you could see with the fan covering so much of his face. He looked normal. Not drugs, then.

“What exactly do you want?” he asked, in the end, without finding anything better to say. He regretted the question as soon as he put it, because he remembered the answer that Urahara had already given and didn't care much to hear it again.

“To have a fantasy satisfied, Kurosaki-san. I will make it pleasant for you, too, you needn't fear.”

“I don't want to satisfy your fantasy.”

“Ah, but you do. Otherwise I will inconveniently not be able to send you to Hueco Mundo. And I am sure you are fonder of Inoue-san than that, aren't you?”

Ichigo's eyes narrowed into shiny daggers. Urahara made no secret of his emotional blackmail, it appeared. Not that he needed to, by now, but really, what was the man's game? After all this time of supposed altruism... This. And, to make it worse, as far as Ichigo could remember, he wasn't the sort of person who had morals or who gave up on his ideas for the sake of others. He realized that the trade was serious, that the shopkeeper would not back down out of it, now that it was in the open. It simply wasn't his style. He was a fox spirit, a trickster with a honeyed tongue. Ichigo should have realized before that there would be a price to pay for all the help he'd gotten. This was it, in the form of a question that wasn't a question, an offer he couldn't refuse. And Urahara was playing it expertly, hiding behind his masks, his damned fan, his voice, his unreadable face, his green eyes that spelled danger. Ichigo was out of his league and the simple fact that he knew what was going on didn't offer him a solution. When Urahara spoke next, his tone was light, almost playful, persuasive. The faked innocence of perversion, setting the two men apart as hunter and prey. It was a spot the younger man didn't like and blackmail was not a game he knew how to play.

“Let's try it, Kurosaki-kun. If you don't want us to go on, we can just stop. Remember! This is about your friend, right? You swore to protect her.”

“Bastard.”

Urahara came closer to Ichigo and trailed his hand along the younger man's jaw, making him flinch. Ichigo tried not to think of the hand as he considered his options. He could, of course, refuse. No gate, no possibility to get to Inoue. Not an option. He couldn't ask anybody else, not really, the Vizard probably didn't know anything, or at least, not enough, about the gate, Chad and Ishida ... Just no. There was always the possibility of informing the others about the predicament and see if they could bully Urahara into opening the gate, but there wasn't much chance of convincing him to do anything. And it would be embarrassing to tell anything about this to anybody. The shinigami wouldn't help. Rukia and Renji were away. One could, of course, try to follow a Hollow back into its world, but he doubted their chances of success by taking that course of action. Could he make a fuss about Urahara not wanting to open a gate that most people didn't want opened anyway? He found it increasingly hard to concentrate, however, as the older man trailed his fingers along his neck and chin. He was not into men, but that didn't mean that as a teenager he wasn't into touching. He felt those fingers better than he'd have expected to, trailing, caressing, swirling. They raised the very hair on the back of his neck and made his stomach flutter. It felt good and he realized that not only had that kiss been his first kiss, but this was the first time somebody was touching him for pure physical pleasure. And it was good. Barely a caress, arousing, not imposing, seducing, not raping. A new thought formed into his mind, a treacherous thought asking why he was fighting so hard against something that felt so good and whether he couldn't just give in for a bit longer. Urahara knew what he was doing.

“Stop that,” he told the older man.

“Would you like me to do it differently? Does it feel bad?”

Ichigo just wanted it to stop before he'd do something that he'd later regret. He didn't want to be touched by Urahara like that. He didn't want some crazy shopkeeper to do weird stuff to him. He didn't want those fingers trailing around on his face, which should have been as fucked up as it sounded, except it wasn't. It was brilliant and he wanted to throw his morals out the window not for Inoue, but for himself and his own raging hormones that reminded him how unsatisfactory masturbation actually was. An index finger tickled him slightly.

“I said stop that.”

Urahara pulled his hand back.

“As you say, Kurosaki-san. It's all up to you, after all. Both doing and not doing remain your options.”

“How about we pretend this never happened and you open the gate and we all mind our own business?”

“No, sorry.”

Ichigo had thought that since the other man had pulled back, he'd gotten the point, but it now appeared that Urahara was merely changing positions, so he could lean forward better and play with Ichigo's hair. It felt good, sinfully good, and the younger of the two could've kicked his teenaged body to no end for being so damned sensitive that the simple feeling of fingers twirling his hair would make him feel like melting and leaning further and opening his lips just a little in an unconscious effort to short-circuit his brain and get more.

“Get off me, pervert.”

“Kurosaki-san, I can tell that this doesn't leave you unaffected. Your breath is hitching. Your muscles are tensing.”

“Because you're a fucked up pervert and this is disturbing.”

“And you can't seem to be able to be able to keep your lips in any way but parted.”

Ichigo snapped them together quickly and glared.

“I can tell pleasure, Kurosaki-san. You are feeling it. I can make it even better.”

“I don't want you to. Get off.”

“Ah, Kurosaki-san, you take the fun out of life.”

Urahara retreated slowly, dragging his fingers slowly across the younger man's skin. Ichigo twitched, a shiver running up his spine, and cursed himself for his body's reaction which said quite clearly that it didn't care whether the person who did the touching was male or female, as long as they continued. He almost ran out the door.

“Goodbye, Urahara.”

“See you soon, Kurosaki-san, ne?”

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All alone in his bathroom, leaning on the sink and staring into the mirror, Urahara Kisuke succeeded in his attempt to look himself in the eyes. Once he achieved that, he picked up a razor. He felt it strange that his reflection was pretty much the same as during all other days when he'd done the same gesture. There was no mark of perversion on his face. There was nothing to prove that he was sinking far, far below any sort of boundaries that he had sworn never to go beyonf.

He'd tell Ichigo half of the truth, yes. How he'd harbored an attraction towards him ever since he'd first seen him, how he'd pictured him naked and writhing beneath him, giving in to the older man, in throes of passion, losing his innocence in a fiery blush as he discovered his first orgasm with another man within him. He'd imagined himself going slowly, conquering the boy step by step, convincing him to surrender his lips, his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his entire body, corrupting him to sweet delights. He'd imagined a seduction, a corruption of the innocence, a gentle hunt that would have the other as a half-willing victim to eventually give in entirely and be his. He'd imagined doing many things with the boy and he'd never imagined he'd actually do any of them.

Yet, here was his opportunity. He had a chance. A fucking miserable chance to convince the boy of ... of what? Good intentions? Blackmail doesn't equal love, rape doesn't equal love, hell, lust doesn't equal love. Unless Ichigo decided for no good reason that he was actually gay and he was in love with Urahara and had been so for quite awhile before this episode, this would all be a fucked up chapter in his life. One more reason why a person Urahara really cared about would be traumatized.

He slipped the razor slowly across his cheek. He could make Ichigo want him. He knew he could. He had a lot of experience and knew when to move forward and when to back off, he could read the signs saying how his victim would----Dammit. Yes, Ichigo was a victim. How his victim was feeling. He could arouse lust, especially in one so young. Just the right touches, just the right amount of casualty, of freedom that actually restricted. Some blackmail. He'd have him. Possibly begging for more until the final act was done. He could corrupt, he could fuck and he could mindfuck.

He wished suddenly that Ichigo wasn't a virgin so he wouldn't feel so guilty about it.

He realized that the boy would be a lot more difficult to corrupt if he had a relationship, if he hadn't deprived himself of physical pleasure from sheer ignorance. As such, he had everything on his side, knowledge, Ichigo's hormones, blackmail, experience, Ichigo's lack of it, a sort of power over the boy from being his teacher, his helper, everything but justice.

Almost done with one cheek, moving towards another. Ichigo was strong. He'd survive. Yes, he'd have to survive even perverted Urahara having his wicked way with him on a futon in the corner of a shop. He'd hate the shopkeeper for the rest of his life and perhaps.... But no, he couldn't even consider the idea of leaving a permanent mark on the boy. That was not an option. He refused to ruin him for this, he refused to taint what was pure more than it needed to be tainted. He'd have to assure him in such a way as to not break him while he was, essentially, breaking him.

Ichigo was strong. He'd move on. And hate Urahara, who had no desire to be hated. He didn't want to hurt the boy, but he would. This was not a simple opportunity in front of him....

He'd have Ichigo once and probably only once, albeit by that time he'd be begging, so he'd have to make the most of it when he could and well, that was that. Once in a lifetime opportunity. No. Not opportunity. It wasn't an opportunity at all. It was something that happened, not something you could catch and bring to fruition. A dream fulfilled only once, too soon, in the wrong way. He wished he didn't have this attraction for this boy. He wished he didn't have feelings for him. It would be easier then. He wished it weren't all so bloody complicated.

Urahara went on shaving carefully, removing all traces of a stubble. It wouldn't do to sting when kissing.

Somehow he hated his life and loved it at the same time for this ... undefinable thing ... that would throw what it wanted at him forcefully. It wasn't his fault – he enjoyed it, in a perverted way. Yes, he did. He wanted Ichigo to be his, he wanted to have him, even against his will, to molest him -even the word “molest” was an aphrodisiac, Urahara realized suddenly, as it sent fire straight to his spine in an electrical impulse that then radiated towards his groin. Molest. Throw down and have. Make him moan and like it and hate it at the same time, melt and be broken and give in to this humble shopkeeper just once, while the shopkeeper had what he profoundly lusted after, kissing, tasting, diving deep inside the boy, conquering, setting both the other and himself into flames. He wanted it and a part of him loved the fate for offering this to him when all he could do was comply with it and do what was necessary. He'd love it, even if there would be hell to pay. But if he'd have hated it, it would have somehow been better. Maybe.

He wondered for a few seconds if he was wicked or horrid, but then let the thought slip. Really, it wouldn't do to have thoughts like that. He'd do it – another twitch of his stomach as his mind informed that he'd be doing him. And that was that.

He had set the trap. The boy would come. He'd sleep with him. It was what he wanted. He would make it good. That was all there was to it.

Damn complications.

His hand faltered for a second in the middle of using the razor for the very last patch of unshaved cheek, nicking him before sliding down his face again.

Damned complications.

He'd sleep with Ichigo. That was all there was to it.

It was somehow alright.

He finished shaving, washed his face once to get the soapy feeling off of it, placed the razor back in its holder, held his gaze steadily in the mirror – much more so than he actually felt he could and applied the aftershave, welcoming the sting.

Alright.

Yeah.

He could almost convince himself of that.

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AN: Read and review! I prefer the good feedback, but constructive criticism is helpful and flaming is fun, so there we go. Also, to everybody here: this story is also posted and updated more often on fanfiction.net, link in my profile. Just so you know.

Next chapter: Isshin gets an inkling that something is very, very wrong.