Genre: AU, Romance, Crime, Tragedy
Pairings: Ash/Paul, others are possible
Disclaimer: I do not own pokemon characters.
Summary: Two young men. Two different evil organization fighting against each other in Sinnoh. Two mutual requests from their fathers -"kill him."
A/N: I love comashipping and I love AUs so no surprise I found myself writing this. I haven't really written crime genre before, or even m-rated fics so we'll see how this turns out. Un-betaed (for now) and I'm not native English speaker so sorry for grammar/language mistakes.

I WILL FOLLOW YOU TO DEATH

Prologue

Two bodies clash in a hurry. They don't have much time, only few minutes, maybe a little more. Lips against lips, teeth biting the soft skin, leaving marks everywhere. But those marks will fade, will fade but not be forgotten. Hands undressing the clothes, tossing them somewhere on the floor, not needed anymore. Eyes long gone dark with immense lust, ears still trying to listen if anyone's coming. But nobody should come, it should be just two persons down here; fighting against each other. And they are fighting, only maybe it's not exactly the battle they are supposed to have. There are no pokemon out of their pokeballs. Only two persons, other being forced against the cold storage wall, making his bare back shiver in cold. But he doesn't mind, he doesn't mind as long he feels this hot. With his left hand, he pulls the person in front of him closer, and holds him tight, so tight.

Lips somewhere on his neck, biting, sucking and he knows it will be probably all over if his father sees the red marks. Or not, he has lied before, something about girls, clubs, shady alleyways, he can do it again and his father won't probably suspect a thing. Rather than that, he would probably be proud of him. But he doesn't want to think about his father now, not when the other person rubs himself against him. Pulling his silky purple hair and hiding his face against other's shoulder he moans softly. He doesn't want to, because it's the sign of an emotion. And the other person hates emotions, hates how weak they can make a person. Hates how they prevent the humans reaching the perfection. And maybe he even hates him too? He is supposed to hate him, they both are supposed to hate each other. And they do, they do hate each other, but it won't stop this.

It won't stop his hands going under those black boxers, squeezing the hardness found there - squeezing it harder maybe hoping for a sound from the other. And there is the sound. It's quiet and he can barely hear it over their heated breaths but he does hear it anyway and feels odd satisfaction. If they had more time, if they didn't hate each other, he would maybe stroke other's length gently but he can't, he won't, do so now. So he strokes it hard, his hand moving up and down as much the boxers' fabric lets him. He feels the other's hand trailing down his bare stomach, touching the hard abs before finding the waistband of his boxers. For a few seconds his fingers play with the rubber band like they have the luxury of time. The sounds from upstairs, faint shouting and thumps, wakes him up and he quickly slips his hand under those boxers, making him feel good also.

For a moment, they battle there - mouths escaping for new aggressive kisses. Maybe moaning against each other lightly, their hands doing the work. Breathing hard against the hot skin belonging to the other person. Hardly seeing anything, hardly hearing anything anymore. Then they have wasted enough time already. Freeing his hand, the silky haired young man, for the last time, holds the other by his waist, thumbs pressing against the darker skin, like trying to make holes. He kisses him hard, so hard, and bites his lips like he always does. When he pulls out he can see a faint sight of blood rushing out of his lips and it makes him smirk. He likes this, likes seeing him be hurt by him. And he indents to hurt him even more, like he always does when they are like this; together, alone, forgotten by everyone. For a few moments anyway.

So he slams the other man against some brown cardboard box that probably contains guns, or explosives or other illegal goodies. But they don't care, they have done it in weirder places, more dangerous, so this is really nothing. Trailing his wet tongue against other's hot neck, he slowly moves from there downwards, leaving marks on the back, slowly reaching for the head prize. The other man, who is supporting himself with his hands on the box, gulps and feels something twitch under his boxers. The bulge is so visible and big that it's starting to hurt a bit, but he doesn't want to touch himself. He doesn't need to touch himself, it's not his job. And besides, soon those boxers are gone, as his hands are now down enough, squeezing his butt cheeks.

He gasps, as his boxers fall down and the cool air of the storage room hits him in his private places. Then suddenly there's cold, sticky liquid and one finger inside of him and he tries his best not to flinch, then there's the second one. After the third, he finds himself squeezing the cardboard harder. It usually hurts, but he doesn't mind too much as he is used to pain, both mental and physical. He can feel something hard poking against his cheeks and braces himself for it. He grits his teeth as the other pushes in, only a little at first, resting there for a moment and letting him to adjust the feeling. The he pushes a little further tugging back his black spiky hair, exposing his neck. He bites it, when finally pushing in all the way and the other can't help it anymore, as he gasps out loud, not hiding the sound well enough. He smirks and thrusts again, harder, a little faster. After all, they only have a few moments left to do this.

And he won't forget the other one either as he closes his hand around his throbbing erection. His hand slides up and down on the hard length and his thumb strokes the head making the sensation feel stronger for the other. At the same time he thrusts again, and again. Not caring if he's hurting the other or not, moving his right hand with the same speed. As he pushes himself inside of the other again, he spares a thought for his father. What would he think if he saw his son right now? Would he be more disappointed at him than at his big brother? Would he kick him out of the organization? Maybe even kill him? And then surely kill the other one too. Or maybe he just wouldn't simply care. Surely caring was an emotion too; he wouldn't want to experience such a thing.

Maybe he does this, just to disappoint his father. This is something he has, only he. It is something his father hasn't demanded him to do, it is something he chose to do willingly. And it feels good. It feels so good, he feels himself growing closer to a release. It's not the first time they are doing this, and it won't be the last. He is still tight, nice and tight. Willing, but not too easy. There are emotions too, but he's good at hiding them from him, like he knows he dislikes them. There's only heat and sweat, as he thrust himself faster again hitting that sweet point he knows he secretly enjoys. He can feel it; that body twitching under him, trying to not to show much he likes this, how much he likes him inside of him. He can feel the cock in his hand throbbing harder; he's close too and they are almost out of time, as the voices from upstairs are fading, one by one. They don't know which side is winning, and they don't care. There will always be another fight. No matter how many times they defeat the other team, or are defeated by them. There are always more grunts, more pokemon to use, more storage rooms to destroy, more people to eliminate.

And there will be other times to do this. Again, and again and again as he thrust the one last time, so deeply the other one almost cries in pain. But only almost, because his hand does the final stroke, sending him to heaven, to peace, for a few seconds. His legs are trying to give up, after he has emptied himself inside of him. White sticky liquid running down against the other's trembling tights. Then he finally pulls himself out, touching the other man one last time with his hand. Black haired man lets himself collapse against the floor for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He stares at his back before going back to get his clothes. He has a good body built, while he's still a bit skinny, there's enough muscles to make him look like a man. He's only a inch or two shorter than him too and he thinks maybe he will outgrow him the following months. Well, if he's still alive. When he sees the other getting up, he turns away, walking back where he had thrown his clothes.

They never do it any other way, they never look each others, because looks are something they can't bear. If they stare at each others, they're always seeing the back not the face. Maybe there's more than just the physical pleasure, the heat of their bodies, or the few seconds when they can escape this world. But even if there is more, they don't say it. They can't say it. Because it is forbidden. They are enemies, they should be killing, not fucking each other. And maybe they do that, the next time. Maybe they have a real pokemon battle once again, like in the beginning, when they truly were enemies. But one look at the other's flushed face tells him it won't be that way. It will be like this, because they can't deny this, this connection. Connection of their bodies and their minds. The physical need of the other's hot muscular body under his, trying to fight back, trying to take control, trying not to scream when he pushes too deep inside.

The feeling that he is not alone, that there are others like him around. They have the same problems, same issues, same expectations. Maybe that's why they both choose to do this, do each other. It feels easy, like a sweet escape from both of their duties. He is perhaps the next successor of his father's dear Team Galactic, but when they are naked, pressed against each others and fighting the fight of their own, it doesn't really matter. What matters is the heated moment, that short forbidden moment. The moment when they both fight against their own dear fathers.

After putting his clothes back on, he turns to properly face him. He can do it now, when they are both again fully dressed. Enemies once again. Rivals.

"I think this was a draw. And then you escaped", Paul proposes while adjusting his white boots.

"We might have beaten your grunts, it would be weird if I escaped after that", Ash snorts and grabs his red tie, which is laying on the ground, the same place where Paul had tossed it earlier.

"Well whatever, let's say I chased you to outside then. I don't really feel like going back upstairs and see the grunts anyway", Paul nods and points the window they both could get out from. Ash sees no other opinion than to agree with the other man. He doesn't want to go upstairs either to count the dead bodies. There will be those, there always are. Burned corpses, electrocuted, sometimes the ones who were just shot to death.

Paul unlocks the window, opens it and crawls outside. Ash is right behind him, gulping, because Paul's pants are tight. They leave little to imagination, but it isn't like Ash needs imagination anymore, he's seen it all, many time. And this isn't the time to get horny either, as he's supposed to see his father, and report him the outcome. Which I don't even know yet, he thinks and grabs his cellphone. Luckily there's always someone else, who knows.

Barely out of the window, standing in the dusky sunset, Ash has no time to react, when Paul pins him against the wall. Again.

"Next time", he begins, pressing his body against Ash too hard, because there could be someone else out here, "next time, we fight", Paul finishes, staring at him and Ash can feel himself growing a little harder again. Which is why he pushes Paul away. There is no time for this anymore.

"Next time you're going to lose", Ash warns him. They always have this same conversation and yet, it's been a really long time they actually last fought.

Paul smirks, "big words from someone so weak". Ash has no time to reply, as they hear faint footsteps getting closer. They both flinch before Ash hears his own name to be called. It was their grunt then. Paul throws one last look at him and then vanishes into the shadows like so many times before. After a few seconds a grunt dressed in black indeed emerges.

"Master Ash! We've been looking for you!"

Ash adjusts his collar, hides those marks from the unwanted attention and turns to face the grunt. It is time to go tell more lies to his father, Giovanni.

The leader of Team Rocket.