Title: Angelic.
Pairing: Yandere!Diavolo/Reader.
Word Count: 3.8k.
Synopsis: You like being an angel. You’re proud of it, of your wings, of your faith, of all you’ve done to earn your place in the Celestial Realm. Diavolo doesn’t mind your current state, of course not, he loves every part of you. He just thinks some modifications may need to be made, before he can love you properly.
TW: Violence, Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment, Non-Consensual Touching, Blood, Possessive Mindsets, Slight Dehumanization, and Mentions of Non-Con.
Michael used to say only the bravest angels earned their wings.
It was part of the reason they were so rare, after the Celestial War, after Lucifer and his brothers took their wings and distorted them into leathery, spiked, perverted evidence of their new, tainted loyalties. You didn’t have to be the toughest angel, but you had to be devoted, you had to be dedicated beyond a shadow of a doubt, and you had to be brave enough to put that dedication on display. You were just a messenger, a servant to much more deserving candidates, but you still had a pair sprouting from your shoulder blades, just heavy enough to give you a reason to straighten your back, whenever you started to lose faith in your divinity. You’d earned them, and you were proud. You’d managed to keep them, and you had no plans to give them up.
Only the bravest angels had wings. That meant you were a brave angel.
It meant you could be brave enough to survive Diavolo, as long as you had your wings.
They were warm, too, forming a soft, white shell around your upper body, helping you to block out that unignorable chill that came hand in hand with the Devildom. It’d been a temporary discomfort in the past, something you could brush aside whenever you were asked to carry a letter to the Demon Lord’s castle or invited as a make-shift ambassador in the absence of a proper representative, but after days trapped in the domain, your shining sun replaced with layers of stone and rock, there was little you could do to escape it, and Diavolo seemed hesitant to offer his aid. His kindness had stopped at a silk gown, black and thin and just teetering on the edge of purposefully sheer, the fabric fine enough to slip through his fingers as he toyed with the hem, perched on the edge of your bed, edging closer despite your obvious attempts to melt into the headboard.
He said you’d have your own space, your own room, that he wanted you to feel comfortable enough to welcome him in willingly, when you were ready. He said he would give you time.
Obviously, he’d been lying, and you weren’t quite why you’d ever bothered to believe him.