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It—the sun— seems almost a figment of imagination when he touches her.

Daylight is a torment. Daylight is merely a mask, a kind filter for filth. She closes her eyes at the feel of his breath against her neck, even as her stomach turns.

Unholy promises leak into her ear, and his very fingertips seem to cancel any promise of light. She fixates on the moon as he touches her, eyes locked on that bright swell in a black sky.

I’m sorry, she thinks, as darkness floods her. I’m so sorry,

She tells the demon all of their secrets.