[ Typically, Kizuna would find cruelty in denial. To withhold something from someone in need of it is an act of power that few would ignore if they were to come by it, let alone make it their lifeblood, their quintessence. But for Matoba, it warps into something different, something crafted by a more skilled hand. It comes as the act of giving; it comes as the act of offering something that reflects differently than what Kizuna wants or expects. He observes how it feels with the sensitive animal of his logic.

It is a constant wax and wane, a bargain with the shadow in the mirror that isn't his own. Kizuna smiles, the hand at her back tightening, inversive. It begs a deeper curve of her spine, not entirely as a means of enmeshing their heat, but as a bid. As one beckons the threat of a knife deeper against the hollow of a willing throat. A dare.

His heel slides backwards, a path that leads towards the end of the dancefloor. ]

Is that a gluttony matched, I wonder? [ In rewarding hunger with hunger, rewrought as it is. Kizuna then calls attention to something he rarely does: the beating point of contention that's real between them: ] There's no need to worry. You won't find another heart to satisfy you like mine will.

[ He mirrors it: there is cruelty in giving, also. ]