#voloxreader

[praazlwurm]

Volo wins; fights God... again... and again...

cw: injuries, blood, swearing, violence

Everything goes precisely to his plan. Almost too well.

With you beaten, he wrests from you the plates and at some silent, heaven-sent prompting, your flute. You watch as he holds the new, strange shape and raises it in a trance, playing an eerie tune.

His hands fall to his sides and he stands atop the dais, facing north, still but for his breathing and even then not unnaturally so.

It's the little twitches in his fingers, knees, and spine that keep you there in the end. They remind you of sun-baked naps in the fieldlands, and watching your pokemon partner writhe in its sleep as though running in place or pouncing in a backstrike attack.

After maybe two minutes, he jolts, gasping raggedly. He stumbles, clutching at the front of his tunic, but just as quickly recovers. He looks around in a daze and spots you.

You haven't moved far, just to the foot of the dais' stairs, arms crossed and leaning on one hip. The wind is cutting, but this uniform has gotten you through worse; his tunic, however, is far flimsier.

"What the hell," he grits out after a beat, "was that thing?"

You blink, scrunching up your face before taking a shot in the dark. "Big white thing, gold ring, surprisingly dainty feet?"

Jaw clenched, he nods. His visible eye, shocked from that state of perfect mania, is shadowed by his glare but – no, that purple smear is actually the beginning of a black eye. How could...

Shaking off the thought, you shrug insolently, exaggerating an expression of disaffect. "That'd be Arceus."

Volo's face twists in a sneer, turning back around and giving the flute another, shakier playing.

He's... under longer this time, and after almost ten minutes of standing, stretching, and huffing annoyance you walk back up the stairs.

He jolts again, stumbling forward this time, and for a split second, you could swear something like steam wafts from his back. When he regains his footing, Volo whirls on you.

"Why," he growls, "am I fighting Arceus?"

Your brows jump. A glance away, then a vague gesture to the rubble and debris around you, "I mean, it kind of tracks."

Volo throws up his hands, turns, and has to draw a long, calming breath before he can steadily play the flute again.

Now, you're curious. And curiosity had seen you fill out pages upon pages of dex notes to be compiled by Professor Laventon later. In comparison, waiting around is no great feat.

Still, you're not about to do it standing.

You fold your legs to sit crisscross on the cold marble and, after another few minutes just watching him twitch and breathe harshly, plant your chin on a fist set against your knee.

Volo rouses again a moment later, not stumbling but panting as he turns. "I can battle it, why can I –"

He stops, looks down to meet your gaze, and, huh, that's a shiner all right.

The sight of your scrutiny has his jaw setting stubbornly again, freehand clenching. You note that his sextet of pokeballs is still at his waist, just above the spot where the metallic jut of gold splits off. The odd accent swings a bit when he once more ignores you.

When he goes under once more, you contemplate reflecting on everything leading up to this, but in all honesty, most of the betrayal and hurt had been worked out of your system in that grueling battle. So, reminded to heal up your team, you instead start puzzling out what's going on here.

The first strange fact is that he needed your flute. Whatever he's doing now, it was meant for you. Was it lucky or unlucky you had been training up a mid-stage evolution on the way up Mt. Coronet? The poor thing hadn't stood a chance against Volo's team, so battling Arceus probably wouldn't have gone great for you, either.

But, as he resurfaces and dives twice in the next half hour, it certainly seemed like something you could... keep trying at. Hell, with Lord Wyrdeer you could have gone to camp, switched out team members and returned in this same span of time twice over.

Volo doesn't seem the type to have many bench picks. Each of his pokemon were either a powerhouse or set-up players, tasked with paralyzing or hypnotizing. It's damn efficient, but you could likely counter it easily now.

He emerges next to immediately bend at the waist, hands on his knees as he struggles to catch his wind.

"Wanna rematch?" you ask, and he barely glances back before snarling wordlessly and diving again. In a mutter, "so-or-ry mister hates-god-so-much he's gotta cosplay about it."

Speaking of, that wack updo seems to be taking some strays, wilting, and now beginning to frazzle at the paler blond tips. That wisp of steam wasn't unique either; the flare of fabric off his left shoulder has been singed something fierce from behind.

Your harried quelling of Lord Arcanine springs to mind; Cyllene had to replace your entire uniform, leaving your first week in the highlands a miserably cold experience. Ol' Ingo had even lent you his tattered jacket.

Your head cocks, and you straighten a little as some pieces fall together. In facing great Palkia, you barely had time to question the sudden appearance of a sack of balms to hurl at it. That first charge was killer. 

Volo returns and it's not pretty. A few scattered drops of blood have you looking up sharply just before he gasps awake, immediately grasping his face and throwing his head back. 

"Don't move!" he barks at the barest shift of your legs against the stone. Around his now limp bangs, you see him pinching the bridge of his nose, and the drip of blood is stemmed. He doesn't dive again immediately.

"Are you huckin' balms?" 

"What?"

"Balms. The li'l sacks of whatever that helped quell the nobles," you say. You pinch the fabric at your ankles to keep from fidgeting further. "I had to use them on Palkia, too, remember?"

Volo's shoulders hunch. In silence, he waits another few minutes before hazarding to relax, and then still stays mum until he dives again.

By now, it's been long enough for the shadows among the rubble to shift and finally peeved enough at his refusal you stand up, dusting yourself off some. You walk over, a little wary now that you know what he's capable of, and walk around to Volo's front.

Definitely a nosebleed. There's still some tacky drying blood on his nostrils, a smear below it where he's cleaned some away. It doesn't look broken, and other than some new singeing and tears in his baffling outfit he looks no worse for wear. You take a step back, just in case, but after a while his face twists in concentration, eyes flicking about behind his lids, and you assume he'll be a while.

Coronet is still frigid, and the sun is starting to tick down toward the horizon. The cloud cover below the peak is thin enough that you make out the edge of the eastern sea carving into the shore in its myriad bites, like a wurmple munching leaf litter. 

After crossing your arms, tapping your foot, and finally huffing a sigh, you find where he had haphazardly thrown his uniform and pack on the far stone lip of the dais. The latter is far heavier than he ever treated it, and you're just beginning to help yourself to its contents when he seizes into waking.

"Fuck," he bites out, follow by a spit and a small splat. "Fuck, fuck, fu– what are you doing?"

You turn to find honest bafflement on his face, which you return when you see the state of him. In the mere moments you were turned away, he looks like he’s been dragged down the face of Mt. Coronet.

His tunic is dirtied, threadbare at the hems, the metal pieces at his hips scuffed and dull, and his strappy sandals in shambles. From what you can see, he’s got something like rug-burn on his forearms, and the blood he spat looks to have come from a split lip.

The pecha berry you’ve pilfered from his supplies falls from your mouth, painting the dais with a different shade of red.

“I was– you–,” you stutter out, dropping the pack to bark, “what the hell is happening to you?!”

He glances down, seemingly taking in the changes for the first time. He remains struck dumb as you cross the dais toward him, looking up sharply when you stop within arms’ length. Lip curling, he says lowly, “Going to stop me?”

“I don’t need to,” you say, jaw setting, “I doubt I’d have to see the ‘other guy’ to know you’re losing.”

“I’m not,” he snaps, and how the hell did you manage to forget the way he looms over you, brow shadowed and gaze sharp as a filleting knife. ”I’m adjusting strategies. The more often I battle it the faster I can wea–”

He stops, scowling.

Your patience runs out. 

“Oh, by all means,” you laugh, throwing your hands up, “keep your secrets, Volo!”

You can see his molars grinding. “Why are you still here?”

As much as you try, you can’t avoid the deafening pause that gives you. Then, with a jut of your chin to his occupied hand, “To take that back.”

The unspoken, when you fail, has him hackling. His hand swipes out at you as if to lift you by the collar, but you’re fresh-faced in comparison and dart out of reach. What stops him, however, is you palming a pokeball.

Above a bruised smear, his grey eye lingers, and you wonder if – assuming everything is transferring between here and there – his team is weakened; if he’s even able to heal them.

And damn, damn, damn you, you feel a pang in your chest. His pokemon don’t deserve this, whatever this is.

Without responding, his gaze shutters, ignoring that you’re right in front of him to play the flute once again. His knuckles are bloody, and one of his fingers might be sprained or even broken going by the shade of burgundy.

He’s under before you can get another word out.

You bellow something wordless and sharp, and feeling your tension lighten (and seeing he doesn’t react) you decide to seize a rare opportunity.

At the peak of Mt. Coronet, in the ruins of a temple that’s outlived her people, you let loose a railing, cursing tirade that falls just short of therapeutic. It leaves you raw and ragged, and your throat roughened too, and even after half an hour the bastard still isn’t back.

The sun is really dropping now, dipping below the cloud-cover and its warmth and rosy-copper glow with it. Early-bird stars begin to peak out of the darkening sky, and just before you throw his bedroll down to colonize it for your own you find yourself sourly throwing his fur-cuffed coat back over his shoulders. The chattering of his teeth diminishes.

Over the course of another hour, you sit, then lounge, recline, and finally lay back on the bedroll, and start tossing your partner’s pokeball up and catching it. You contemplate letting them join you, for all this about-face might beffudle them, and then allow yourself to actually consider his question.

Why would you stay, after all this? He’s used you day in and day out ever since he sicced you on that Vespiquen like some over-zealous houndour, and now he’s gotten what he wanted.

And yet, especially when his actual success has yet to manifest, some childish part of you thinks he might still come back around.

It was – it was fucking nice, alright? Having an actual companion these last few weeks, rather than crisscrossing the region with nothing but your team and a pokedex. Hiking hither and yon, hearing his rambling accounts of old legends over a campfire, waking up to just see him – every little thing helped distract you from the fact you had a direct line to Arceus and still had to wonder if you were ever going to remember your old life, if you were going to die he–

Volo collapses to his knees.

You’re upright in a heartbeat, eyes like saucers as he casts the flute aside to begin slamming the meat of his fists against the marble.

After a chance to find air, pulling it in like something half-drowned, he lets out a cry to rival your own.

In the moment before he finds the control to speak, you realize his tunic is in tatters, blackened at every edge and pocked by burns as though he’s caught stray pyroclastics while ascending Firespit. His metal adornments are bent and broken at his hips, and the cuffs are warped and dented – likely crushing his wrists. His sandals are unsalvageable.

“Why, you beast?!” he roars, coming out grating as it bounces directly off the marble beneath him. He hammers his fist again, and this time leaves a smear of scarlet behind. “The Celestica live in me, so why – why do you strike me down, again and again?”

You roll off the cushion, palms and knees on cold stone as you venture to approach. You feel like a raw nerve, and he a live wire – any word, any touch and you’ll both catch fire.

And you don’t want to fight him, you realize. Not again. Not any longer.

“I devoted myself to you, worshipped you as highest creator, even as your silence stretched year after year,” he snarls, and his knuckles drill into a seam in the marble pushing more and more blood to the surface and finally breaking skin. He shudders, but doesn’t stop, fading to a weaker moan, “After everything I’ve done…”

“H-hey, it’s– it’s gonna be–” you start, and his head jerks upright.

Around the grey iris and pinpoint pupil, a bloom of crimson creeps into the white of his eye, a stain that takes you a moment to realize is blood within the cornea.

His nose bears a small horizontal split and weeps red, spilling over his lips and staining his teeth when he bears them at you in something hair-raising, something feral.

"You," he snarls, his next words flinging red-tinted spittle, "you outsider, cast down to stop me and couldn't even manage that. Wh-why do you have the blessing of Arceus?!"

"Do you call this a blessing?" you ask, shocked by your own cool tone when it feels like a stone has been chained to your chest. You gesture sharply at him, even as you're still cataloging the bruises, the split skin on the right side of his scalp, "Do you think I would fair any better, even if I succeeded?" 

Volo pauses, but sneers still as he reaches beneath the coat to pull that smoky, purple plate from the remains of his gilded belt.

"Rebel beast," he growls, ignoring you once more, "sovereign of Distortion, come – come and aid me in this final stand."

The imperious timbre is lost to the slow dribble of crimson, painting the plate yet inspiring no shaking of the mountain or unearthly arrival.

The twilit sky does not shatter, nor do shadows spill forth; the quiet broken only by the animal keen Volo makes as he slams the plate against the stone. Once, twice, and not a scuff or chip earned. Finally he throws it away as well and buries his tacky-stained hands into his hair, hiding his face.

"Discarded even by the banished, bastard child."

"Hey now," you mutter lightly, "no need to impugn anyone’s honor. Not the time for making new enemies."

Volo rocks back onto his knees, dragging his hands away and tipping his chin. Even as starlight seeks out its silver, his gaze finds the heavens in a grotesque of bitter mourning.

"You… you're a fool," he says, dully. "Of all people, Arceus chose you. It's…"

"Fucking tragic, innit?" 

His eye flicks down to find you and even swaddled in sorrow the look is so deeply droll as to set you snickering. It builds to laughter as you tip backward onto your rump, wiping at your dewy eyelashes once you recover. As you do, you see Volo frowning down at himself, fingering the hem of the coat flung over his shoulders.

In a fit of pique, you catch him off guard with a half-earnest kick at his shoulder, spilling him onto his ass as well.

"That's for tricking me," you snip at his scowling affront. "Be glad we both failed in the whole ending-slash-saving the world, you prick."

Volo's fine-boned features contort further as he bristles into another furor, snapping, "I have not failed yet, you little–"

"And I'll stop you again," you sniff, tossing your arms over your knees in a petulant spread. "Or, y'know, God will. Mysterious ways and all that shit."

In the face of unimpeachable insolence, his face drops into little more than a curled lip. Leaning back on the hands he'd flung out to catch himself, his slackening posture is dramatic, even for him. Once again, even with the coat his airy tunic and loose-fit pants set him shuddering with cold.

After a moment, he mutters, "Do you mean to tell me this world, as foul and cruel as it can be, doesn't need to be remade?"

"Well," you say, sing-songing the word as you swivel to get your knees under you again. You shuffle toward him, and begin to hem-and-haw, "I think, if I'm so bold to speak on multiple behalves, that what's being said is… whether or not it needs to be, whether or not it can…"

You trail off, seeing him hang on the answer enough to surge forward. The moment you tuck your arms under his, he spreads them in shock. You worm into his space, angled so you’re at least not in his lap, and his shivering ceases. He stiffens but doesn't pull away, and as his arms cautiously find your shoulders and back, you can hear the note of wetness in his breathing.

"We're saying it shouldn't be," you finally surmise, hiding a grin in his chest as his massive frame turns to cotton in your arms. "And what things should be changed can be done together."

(this will get posted on Ao3 tomorrow, alongside the NSFW post-fic)

[smallestapplin]

okay, just because reading quite a bit of Voloxreader fics has tickled that part of my brain.

Can I request a hybrid Volo x human reader? Where he slowly goes a bit Yandere as the hero (adult reader) shows him attention and kindness only for a lead up to an 'attempted' yandere kidnapping when he finds you injured out in the highlands and brings you back to his den to patch up and keep, only for the 'kidnapping' go fail because reader admits feelings first and on top of it feels overwhelmed by being the hero of Hisui and *wants* to hide away with Volo for a while to get away from it all.

Add spice as you see fit lol all I ask is reader be a very short with big hybrid partner.

Bitty

I decided to go with alpha Togekiss hybrid, cause I have enough snake Volo for a life time-

🔞18+Only!🔞

CW : yandere, unhealthy relationship, kidnapping, light smut at the end.

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Volo didn’t know what he was expecting when he first met you.

He simply flew over to the village, ready to face whatever Arceus spat out of the sky. Only for you to stare at him in awe, unlike the villagers.

Your breathless words still ring in his ears, as you told him how beautiful he was.

His pretty white feathers, all perfectly preened on his large wings, the blue and red speckles only adding to his beauty.

He didn’t know why your words made him fluff up.

Like he was trying to show you more.

But he swore to himself he’d never! He would never stoop so low to be with you, you’re a simple human, you have nothing to offer him.

But then you kept following him.

Not really, but when he’d show up, you’d tag along with him. Happily listening to him, talking with him, praising him.

He never knew how much he longed for this.

Such a sweet, tiny thing compared to him. Volo towers over you, and you don’t even flinch.

He adores you.

He wants you.

You will be his.

Not that clan leader’s.

Not those wardens.

His.

You belong to him.

You’re his mate!

His sweet little light.

His small mate, he just needs you in his nest.

Volo finds himself following you, cooing softly at you from a distance. You’re so adorable, he has such a good mate.

Watching you camp, guarding over you until the morning comes. That’s what he was going to do when he saw you.

The highlands are not kind, nor are the pokemon, so he had to come by and make sure his beloved was okay!

But seeing you sitting, hiding behind a rock from an angry Bronzong. His heart drops, seeing you tend to your injured leg.

No no! That won’t do! That won’t do at all!

The harpy wastes no time swooping down, gripping your shoulders gently, but firmly, in his talons. He ignores your panicked shriek, as he flies to his nest.

He picked the spot you couldn’t leave from without him, and one that’s safe from everyone!

Safe from that ghost bastard, safe from that show off, and away from that professor, who would no doubt keep you from him.

“Volo!”

He can faintly hear you call for him, his name sounds so good coming from you.

“Hey! What’s going on!”

The wind makes it hard for him to hear you, not that he minds, you’ll be safe enough in your home anyways.

You grab his talons, afraid to fall and needing something to hold onto.

Unaware of the gleeful coo he lets out. You want him! You feel safe with him, you must if you’re holding onto him like that.

You know you’re in the opposite side of the mountain, still in the highlands, but you aren’t sure where.

You’ve never been on this side.

You’re gently placed down on a cliff ledge, in front of cave.

You barely had time to question it before being picked up again, Volo’s arms lift you with ease. You squeak, wrapping your arms around his neck.

This time you can hear his coo.

“H-hey, what’s going on?”

He simply shakes his feathers, and spreading his wings as far as the cave with let him.

“Worry not, you’ll be safe here.”

You’re stunned as he nuzzles against you, more so when he places you in a lavish nest, filled with so many things.

Gems, stones, books, furs, your blankets, your pillows, some of your clothes.

You are brought out of your thoughts with a hiss.

“Sorry dearest.”

You watch Volo take your boot off, tending to your bruised ankle.

“You’re quite lucky nothing is broke. Can’t have my mate getting injured now, can we?”

You glance at his grey eyes, noticing they are on you.

“Mate?”

He preens.

“Of course! You’re my mate, my sweet mate.” He moves closer to you, even on his knees he towers over you.

“You are mine, I love you, you can never leave me. We are bonded! We are meant to be! Arceus gave you to me.”

He leans over you, with a lovesick grin stretching across his face.

“I’ll keep you here, safe and away from the world. You’re for my eyes only.”

You wince slightly, feeling his grip in your ankle tighten, just a little.

“Yours?”

“I will do whatever it takes to keep you at my side.”

You raise your hands, cupping his face. You giggle as how he leans into your touch, bringing his wings around you, encasing you two, blocking you from the rest of the world.

He rests his forehead against yours, staring down at you, waiting for you to say something.

“I’d love to be your mate.”

Volo laughs softly.

“My deity…you’re already my mate. Though I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I love you, and the nest, it’s cozy.”

He fluffs, practically showing off his beauty to you with pride.

“I’m glad you think so, it’s where we will complete the courtship, after all, I must bond you.”

You yelp in surprise as you’re pushed down. Volo pressing his body against you, keeping you pinned.

“I can’t wait to leave my mark on you, to fuck you full of my cum.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, slamming his lips against yours.

His hands sliding up your uniform.

He got is wish.

You were left covered in all of his marks.

[thegumballghost]

VoloXRead

The Outsider, The Merchant and the Bringer of Doom

[praazlwurm]

volo simps come get y’all food (on Ao3)

“All I mean to say,” he hums, lids flicking closed in his mirth, “is that you seem to have a type. Tall, broad, and capable of handing you a rare defeat in battle.”

“You didn’t hand me anything,” you huff, crossing your arms and glaring at the marble column he leaned against while you patched him up. “In fact, you may have noticed I was working to evolve that–”

The implication blindsides you, the blush dancing down to flare across your breastbone.

“Fuck you!” you shout, and Volo flinches from the volume so near his ear, then from the slap landing on his exposed bicep. Then the mental image catches up with you, of bathing in both shadows as they tower over you, all cherry curls and curves, silky spills of gold, and slender hands.

You fold, burying your face in your hands before it has a chance to counteract the blanket of cold atop the mountain. “After everything I’ve done for you…”

“Do you mean to tell me I’m wrong?”

[praazlwurm]

Intricate rituals

commissions | ao3 | Volo discord

Volo (Pokemon) x gender-neutral Reader | ~5k words | CWs: fist fighting, wrestling, violence

"He just... gave you the plate?"

You start to answer Cogita in the same blithe, half-exasperate tone you've been relaying the events of the last few weeks.

Volo lead you up the mountain, waxed poetic about his bloodline, whipped off his uniform at the temple of Sinnoh, and summoned some eldritch, blood-chilling god -- that's four now! -- and sicced it on you. When you beat them both soundly, he had done just as Cogita described.

But it's the tone -- no, really the expression -- she says it with that draws you short.

Her features, as aristocratic and porcelain as her tea set, are twisted in something... constipated.

You finally hazard, "...yes?"

Cogita seems to catch herself, smoothing her expression placid as easily as she does her black satin gown. She takes a delicate draw of tea before asking with full composure, "And what then?"

"Then he just left!"

It's a half-choked shout, as your frustration wars with your refusal to get that worked up over him.

He doesn't deserve it, you've been telling yourself.

"Apparently Laventon thinks Giratina has holed up in the coastlands somewhere and," you sink back into the iron chair with an enormous sigh, feeling more tired than angry, and more disappointed than either, "and I thought I'd swing by here on my way there."

"And I'm glad for your visit," the woman responds, going so far as to set her teacup on its saucer and reach out a delicate, gloved hand to lay over your knuckles. It's warm, in contrast to the chill of the iron garden table, and after everything that's happened you find your throat closing at the matronly touch.

You nod and glance away, trying to accept the affirmation with grace but such things have been few and far between in your some-dozen months in Hisui.

Cogita picks up on the note of discomfort and folds her hands again, seeming to weigh something.

"I aimed to tell you of a certain cadre of pokemon whose study would benefit the people Hisui, dear lost one, and I will. However," she says at length and flicks up a gaze the color of raw jade, "I think there is something far more pressing you should know."

------------------------------

Snow in the coastlands is nearly unheard of, but at this point, you'd take it over the pelting, icy rain.

The thatch of a rice-straw hat and cloak keep your head and shoulders dry, but your legs are slicked with mud to the thigh despite your leather boots. Still, yet another legendary, otherworldly pokemon has found a notch in your belt to occupy.

So it is, of course, as you slide down the sharp pitch around Turnback Cave that Volo strikes.

He has the decency to bark out your name as he approaches, as much as you can hear it over the din, and keep his distance until you turn toward him. Then, across the ravine wrapping the cave's perch and still dressed in that foreign, ephemeral white outfit, Volo stalks toward you.

And for once in your time here, you're ready for it.

You find your footing in an inch of mud at sink into a braced stance, glowering at him beneath the stiff brim.

"Real fucking bold, Wielder," you bite out, and smother a grin when his pace stutters. "Well? Come to finish what you started?"

Now he freezes entirely, also sunk into the mud, his bangs plastered to his cheeks and chin and his tunic nearly see-through. His stormy expression flickers, and though it doesn't crack you know that he knows...

Volo's hand snaps out wrench at your lapel, his arch features wan when he tries to haul you close. Your heels dig in, and he growls, "Cogita told you."

"About this ritual of yours?" you snap and bare your teeth in a grimace and try not to notice your gut thrum when his fist clenches.

It starts, the elder Celestican descendant had told you over steepled fingers, with a token of defeat; something valuable and hard-won. Something befitting of a fellow dragon's hoard.

Complete (18+) fic on Ao3

[praazlwurm]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Scarlet & Violet | Pokemon Scarlet & Violet Versions, Pokemon Legends: Arceus (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Raifort (Pokemon)/Reader/Volo (Pokemon)

Summary:

Raifort appreciates your work seeking the Treasures when no-one else will. She thinks it's time to reward that work.

She's not the only one.