18 Months -- Michael Langdon x Reader

Chapter Six

"(Y/N), what is it?" Michael questioned again, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. You continued to stare at him, trying to formulate a response in your head.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you whispered, looking into his blue eyes with a mixture of hurt and confusion. "I would've understood, I would've... I would've..." you fumbled, finally looking away from Michael. You didn't know what you would've done if Michael had told you the truth about him, but it would've been better than finding out through your mom.

"Tell you what?" he asked, resting his arm on top of the couch. Michael knew that you were now aware of who -of what- he was, but he wanted to hear you say it. He wanted the words to come tumbling out of your mouth while you looked at him.

"Antichrist. You're the Antichrist, and you didn't tell me," you clarified, standing up quickly. "Why didn't you-"

"You really believe I could've just told you that I'm the spawn of Satan himself?" Michael scoffed, standing up as well. "And how might've I started off that conversation? 'Hello, I'm Michael, I'm the Antichrist, let's be friends'?"

"I don't see why not!" You threw your arms out in frustration, turning your back on Michael. "I don't like you because of your powers, or because you're -no- were, the Alpha. I don't like you because we have a hot and cold dynamic and some psychic bullshit. I like you because you're you. Whether you're the Antichrist, a warlock, the Alpha, or just a normal guy, doesn't matter to me, Michael. It never has, and it never will. You should've trusted me, the same way I've trusted you." Your voice cracked near the end of your rant, and you could feel your nose begin to burn with hot tears, as a wave of emotion washed over you. You couldn't tell if you were sad, angry, or somewhere in between, but you were definitely hurt.

Michael stepped forward so that his chest was pressed to your back, and placed his hands on your hips. He dropped his head, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder, as he took a shaky breath. "I didn't know how. I've never had someone like you in my life before, and I didn't want to ruin it. Ruin us. Nobody treats me the way you do, (Y/N), they don't have the courage. In the past month we've known each other, I've felt as though I've known you my entire life. Since the dawn of creation. I've never felt this way before, and I couldn't risk it." Michael's voice was quiet against your shoulder, and you had to slow your breathing in order to hear him better. Every so often, a wet drop would hit your shoulder, before slowly sliding down your collarbone. Michael was crying, because of you.

"I told you I wouldn't leave. I promised, that no matter what happened, I'd stay by your side," you whispered, reaching up to run a hand through his tousled hair. Michael sniffled, his grip tightening on your hips. "I need you to trust me, Michael. I'm not one of your followers, I'm not apart of the council, I'm not someone from your past. I'm your friend, and friend's don't lie. I'm not going anywhere, but we have to sort this out." You turned in his arms, grabbing ahold of his face and forcing him to look at you. Michael's eyes were bloodshot, tears continuing to stream down his face in a steady line. "Talk to me. For real, this time."

"B-but, Cordelia... she told you to go home," Michael said, reaching up to hold onto your hands. He looked so vulnerable, that you could hardly believe you were cupping the face of the Antichrist.

"That's not important right now. Mallory is becoming the new Supreme, supposedly, but that's not something I want to celebrate. I'm focused on you, Michael, not her, and not my mom. The coven can wait. Now come on." Grabbing onto his hand, you brought Michael back to the couch, and sat him down beside you. "I'm listening."

Michael stared at you, his eyes wide with shock. You could tell he was processing your loyalty and all you had said, so you sat patiently, still holding onto his hands. "I was born in 2012," Michael began, the suddenness startling you slightly, "in Los Angeles. My mom, my real mom, was Vivien Harmon. The man who raped and impregnated her, creating me, was Tate Langdon, a dead, teenage ghost. Things kind of get messy with that, because even though Tate is my father, he's... not. The house I was born in, where they all lived, was home to evil. That evil was inside Tate, and is my true father. It's not worth the headache trying to explain further on that." You nodded in understanding, running a soothing finger over Michael's knuckles.