`✦ ˑ ִֶDELULU SUNDAY X F!READER 𓂃⊹
Sunday had made sure the room was perfect.
No sharp or edged objects, just in case you somehow became possessed by a malicious thought. It was like a golden cage. A big vanity but all products are locked away from you. Music boxes, books, even a little swing was inside. It was a picture perfect room, for him. For you it was a cell.
Every day he woke you up 7am sharp. The sun isn't even up yet when you are roused from your sleep. In the soft grey light of dawn, a hand is on your hair, Sundays fingers gently brushing through the strands.
"Wake up, My Dearest," he murmurs, as he does every morning, every dawn without fail. Sunday is waiting patiently beside the bed when your eyes finally open. He smiles down at you affectionately, his eyes filled with tenderness.
"Good morning," he says quietly, his voice a soothing murmur in the dim light of your room. He gently takes your hand in his, his fingers brushing against your skin. "You slept well, I trust?" Sunday glances down at the wings on your neck, his jaw tensing. They are a little crooked, one wing higher than the other, and he quickly reaches out to adjust them.
"They cannot be uneven," he mutters, mostly to himself, as he tugs the wings into the right position. "They must be perfect." The wings are now straight, their delicate artificial feathers almost brushing against your neck. Sunday's touch is gentle as he smooths them out, his eyes fixed upon the two fake wings.
"There," he sighs. "They're perfect now. Just how they should be." Sunday seems content now that the wings are perfectly placed against your skin. He lets his eyes rove over your face for a second, taking in your every feature with a kind of reverent awe.
"You look lovely," he mumbles, almost to himself.
"The perfect angel, just as I imagined you would be."