Michael x Reader: Royalty
Being a Prophet brought you some unexpected perks.
You could read a lot of dead languages, you were included in an alliance of Hunters and Academics, and you had also gained a full-time bodyguard.
The Viceroy claimed that it was more for his sanity than anything else, though you would later learn that it was more to do with how the last dozen or so Prophets had been extinguished well before their prime.
He wasn't so good at reassuring you after that little confession.
Michael did try, however, making sure to check in on you every day, visiting you at least once a week, and always just a thought away.
You tried to not be disappointed that he only saw your protection as another duty, another command issued by an absent Father.
You were walking home from the local thrift store when your opinion of that matter changed significantly.
One moment, you were contently strolling down the maple lined sidewalk with Bach lightly playing from your headphones, and the next you were in a completely different location, a firm grip on your arm and chipping white paint flicking from a concrete wall in front of you.
It took only a quick glance to immediately recognize the angel that was manhandling you, annoyance and confusion lacing together as you paused your music.
He only did this when he was annoyed with you, when you had were being particularly "defiant." But as far as you had known, a quick trip to browse vintage jackets and old books wasn't particularly rebellious.
He shot you a glare, one that silenced you immediately.
That wasn't anger in his eyes; that was fear.
All irritation fled you instantly, senses attuning to your surroundings.
The air was drier here, lack of engines and petrichor hinting at a location further away than you anticipated. The asphalt beneath you was tinged in tawny dust, but nothing seemed suspicious.
You weren't used to the quiet.
It was as if Nature herself were holding her breath.
Another whoosh of air, perhaps a block or two away from where Michael was shielding you. There were several voices, some indistinguishable growls.
It left you cold, despite the scalding heat coming from the hanging sun.
You strained your ears to listen, desperate for some form of clarity, but you could recognize neither the voices nor the language being spoken as they neared your sanctuary.
You winced in pain, shifting slightly as Michael's blade slid into his left hand, his firm grip on the hilt signalling no mercy for his would-be opponents. His right hand was still holding your own, his fingers just shy of shattering you.
You were on the cusp of panicking.
Michael had always been on the more serious side, rigid regality and obstinate nobility. His mannerisms were sometimes almost alien, observations bizarrely specific. You were used to that, used to his little quirks.
But some part of you had forgotten that there was more to the Prince of Paradise than his majesty and sense of duty.
Michael was, and always would be, a soldier.
There was no denying it now, not when he stood as solid as marble, silently coiled to charge whatever threat he had detected.
There was no denying the righteous fury in his eyes, the way they seemed to spark with internal flame.
There was no denying how utterly microscopic you suddenly felt, a single quark being defended by one of the very first cornerstones of Abrahamic Creation.
Yet, for how small you felt, you couldn't help but want to defend him, absolutely struck dumb by the worry in his eyes, the scarcely concealed terror coated with such a thin shroud of bravado.
Whoever- whatever- the voices were, they were enough to summon dread from the First Light, and it did nothing to inspire your confidence.
You could only hope the small glance your way was an acknowledgement of your prayer, could only hope that he had heard you and that he was willing to listen.
There was something evil drawing nearer, and while you were essentially blind, you could feel how strong they were.
They were ancient, and you knew- as much as the sky was often blue and the grass was typically green- that Michael alone would be no match for whatever these things were.
"It's my duty to protect you."
His voice was scarcely a whisper, but for how close you were to him, for how tense the situation, how silent your surroundings-
The words echoed, his underlying courage leaving no doubt in your mind that he would fight for you, until the very last drop of Grace was spilt, until his glorious wings were nothing more than ash.
So long as that flame burned bright inside him, he would fight for you.
You hadn't really considered the weight of that honour before, hadn't truly acknowledged just how special your position made you.
But you'd be damned if the first spark of Creation was going to die on your account.
"And you really think you can do that from the Empty? There is no shame in running."
A sore subject, you knew. And by the frustration creasing his features as he turned to address your comment, you could tell he remembered distinctly telling you of his irritations with younger kin.
You softened your expression, unashamed to plead with him.
"We'll retreat, regroup, research. Live to die another day."
His eyes narrowed, tracing over your features with consideration.
"They will never stop hunting us."
Good thing you knew some folks who had experience in that area.
"So long as I know you're safe, I don't care how where or how far we have to go."
"I don't need you to pro-"
"Shut up, Michael. Those things-"
"-whatever they are, are beyond you alone. And as virtuous your intent, you're no good to me dead."
The quip earned the ghost of his smile, still near as bright as the noonday sun despite its dimness. You pressed on, earnest sincerity and growing dread as the creatu- the Daeva- drew nearer.
It was time to put all the cards on the table, and accept whatever consequences may follow.
I can't do this without you.
