Yato never stops thinking about how young Yukine is. Fourteen, and he imagines how Hiyori would react if she knew the way that Yato ran his hands over those pale thighs last night.
He thinks of a hundred different scenarios, a hundred different ways her eyes would fly open, a hundred different noises she might make —
— and finds he doesn't care. How could he? He, who has lived so long and has seen so much and is a god? Why should it matter that Yukine is pure and untouched, and was human before he was a shinki? Why should it matter as long as Yukine is his?
"You really are horrible sometimes," Yukine whispers into the dark, the dark that he fears so much.
"You're lovely," Yato says back, and thinks about the bruises he left on that snow skin. He thinks about what kind of picture Yukine will make in the morning, with blue fingerprints on his hips and red bites on his neck and his name on his collarbone. "You're so lovely."