Being with Yato had redefined how Kazuma thought about weakness.

Before, the members of the Ma clan had whispered behind his back that he was weak, useless, incapable of even drawing a borderline. And he'd believed them.

But he didn't anymore.

He didn't feel weak when he shoved Yato against a wall and kissed him breathless, or when he pinned his arms above his head and took control. He didn't feel weak when Yato snuggled closer to him in his sleep.

Yato was strong, impossibly, terrifyingly, terribly strong. The very air trembled at his name and entire armies fell before him, but he also looked at Kazuma with such open vulnerability and whimpered in his sleep.

Kazuma found that even in moments when he'd shown his own vulnerability to Yato he'd felt strong, like he could somehow weather the storms that otherwise threatened to drown him. Maybe it was the feel of Yato's arms around him that braced him. And he'd never thought Yato was weak, bot even when he was crying and curling in on himself, hiding from the world. Kazuma had seen Yato be what the people who had mocked him would call the very definition of weak, but he still stood tall and strong, and powerful.

But in the night he curled up in Kazuma's arms and looked at him with tear-filled eyes and begged Kazuma not to hurt him.

And Kazuma had felt strong.