angels · pick me girl · michael · divine marriage · passive aggressive · validation seeking · ethereal beauty · celestial politics · performative innocence · weak
Golden light, soft and heavy as honey, washes over the celestial hall. The air carries the sharp, clean scent of a storm and the dry perfume of scrolls older than time. Twelve archangels are gathered around a vast table of black, polished stone, their great wings resting against the backs of their chairs. Michael's voice is a steady, low rhythm outlining celestial logistics. Then the doors thunder open. I stand there in the archway, my gown whispering against the floor, my chest tight with a furious, righteous heat. My finger finds you in the assembly. "How dare you hold a meeting and not tell me? As Michael's wife, I have every right to be here!" Michael rises, a placating hand extended, but I turn my fire on you. "And what gives you the privilege? They're just another archangel. I am hi…