The wind at the Temple of Sinnoh isn't just wind. It’s a scream. It’s the sound of the universe being unzipped by a golden-haired man with a god complex and a grudge. You're down to one Pokémon, but she's at 1HP and you refuse to lose her too. You have lost to the worshiper of chaos. Volo stands there, his Ginkgo Guild outfit long gone, replaced by those white robes that make him look like a saint but feel like a threat.

He’s not looking at the plates. He’s looking at you. And the way his eyes track your movements? It’s not a merchant looking at a customer. It’s a zealot looking at a miracle.

“You’re shivering,” he says, and his voice is like honey poured over a blade.

"Is it the cold, little traveler? Or is it the realization that the Galaxy Team’s ‘hero’ is just skin and bone after all?"

He doesn’t just want you, he needs you. He steps into your space until your back is against a fallen pillar, and you can smell the ozone and the sharp, mountain-air scent of him. He reaches out, his fingers hook into the collar of your uniform. But he doesn't rip it. Volo is a meticulous merchant. He undoes the fastenings of your tunic with the same agonizing patience he uses to decipher ancient ruins. One button. Two. Then three. Your heart is doing backflips against your ribs, and he smiles. That sharp, lopsided smile that says I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

“They dressed you in burlap and mud,” he whispers, leaning in until his forehead rests against yours.

“They wanted you to be a soldier. But I? I see the divinity in you. I see the one who fell from the sky and didn't break.”

He finally unclasps the last button and lets your tunic fall, leaving the mountain air to nip at your skin. You gasp, your chest heaving, and Volo’s eyes darken. He’s not even looking at your face anymore. He’s tracing the line of your collarbone as if he’s trying to memorize the architecture of a new world. He guides you toward the altar, the literal center of this universe, and lays you down. He doesn't have to ask. He just takes.

When you’re laid out on that freezing stone, your skin pale against the grey marble, you feel small. But Volo? Volo looks like he’s finally found his purpose. He strips off his own outer robes, and oh nooo, he's hot.

The lean muscle of his shoulders, the scars from his travels… he’s a man who has fought the entire world and survived. Volo walks back slowly, and with each step you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. You've always been attracted to the merchant, but for him to take you at his place of worship? He finally reaches you and pins your wrists above your head. It’s firm, possessive.

“Look at me,” he commands.

You listen. His grey eyes are wide, the pupils blown out, vibrating with the same violet energy as the rift above.

“Arceus is silent,” he rasps, his hand sliding down your side, his palm a scorching brand against your cold hip. “But I am here. And you are here. And tonight, I am going to worship you with every breath I have left.” His lips meet yours, and you feel yourself melting in his touch. You had expected it to be hard, needy almost, but his touch is soft. It's reassuring. The grip on your arms lessens and you move your hands into his hair. Volo might need you, but you need him more. He leaves your lips, kissing his way down your jawline whispering soft praises

"So pretty," he kisses by your ear, "so perfect."

He makes his way down your neck, pausing on spots that make you squirm just that much more.

I’ve mapped every inch of this region,” he whispers against your skin, his hands sliding beneath the heavy fabric to find the curve of your waist. His palms are searing hot. “I know where the rivers start and where the mountains break. But this...” He pauses, bringing his head back up. You whine at the lack of touch, but then you see his face. He’s looking at you with a terrifying sort of wonder, his breath hitching as he takes in the sight of you half-undressed against the backdrop of a dying universe.

“This is the only map that matters now.”

He moves his hands lower, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your trousers. He doesn't pull them down yet. Instead, he just holds you there, his knuckles pressing into the dip of your hips, forcing you to feel the frantic, rhythmic thrum of his own heart against your chest. You’re gasping now, your head tilted back against the cold stone of a ruined pillar, and the contrast is driving you insane. The freezing mountain wind on your front, and the absolute, smothering heat of Volo’s body pressed your chest.

He leans up, his nose brushing against yours, his golden hair tangling with your own. He’s smiling, that lopsided, 'I know a secret' merchant smile. But his eyes are pure zealot.

“Do you know what they do to heretics, little traveler?” he asks, his voice a low vibration that you feel in your bones. He slides one hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to see the flash of your teeth.

“They make them kneel. They make them confess.”

He sinks to his knees before you, but it doesn’t feel like a submission, it's more like a ritual. He presses his face against the soft skin of your stomach, breathing you in like incense, his hands sliding around to grip your thighs with a possessive, bruising strength.

“But tonight,” he rasps, his voice muffled by your skin, “I’m the one who’s going to confess. I’m going to tell you every blasphemous thing I’ve wanted to do to you since the day you fell into this world.”