Super short, Konan/Tobi. Sex and drama, characters are Kishimoto's.

we are all

"You are," she said softly, voice sinister and subversive as weeds in freshly cut grass, "Not as strong as him."

Her hair has come down and the intensity of the blue looks black in the darkness. He snatches at the fluid strands, looping and twisting them around his wrist so that she cannot escape. She can turn into paper, burst forth from under his fingers, crinkle into shape on the other side of the room, but he knows that she won't. Because Konan loves conflict, confrontation-she thrives on it, paints her lips red with blood. He is not the same as her.

He is generous-artful bruises on the thin skin of her neck, crimson fingerprints around her wrist-she is his work and he is proud. She does not feel the same way, for he has teeth marks on his shoulder and her words, cold and bitter (I hate you,) in his ear.

"Do you love him?" He is still stronger, and he shackles her wrists with his own chakra and feasts on her pale, supine body, spread white and naked on a bed hard as stone. She flinches from the heat of his body, the pressure of his splayed fingers against her stomach, the pain of his teeth on her breast. She speaks in flutters, and he knows she is paper thin, with not even a veneer to protect her. He could break her, crumple her, and throw her away. But he won't, and she knows her power over him is strong, though fragmented.

"Do you?" She murmurs back, lips flush against his cheek. You are my toy, he reminds her before she affects him too much and he bites her hipbone so hard that she rolls her hips upward, arching her back. Every movement is calculated and tense. She will never say his name and he says hers too often. They never say yes.

He thinks he is using her and she knows it. She can see it every time he lowers his mouth to her body, leaving marks that are stark against the white of her skin. He smirks as he pulls her to him, holds down her arms as he thrusts into her, teeth insistent as they bang against her shoulder, her collarbone, again and again.

But it is she who smiles as he comes, heart thudding painfully against her bruised ribs. Her whose fruitless laugh echoes off the dark walls as he slumps over her, his breath hot in her ear. He cannot see the bond that connects him, the bonds she has placed around him, looping around his throat, his chest, and the tender flesh of his abdomen. The bonds that tighten around his ankles, force their way through his lips and down his throat, the bonds that cover his eyes, blinding him to everything but her and his need for her. He is blind to everything but his desire-he sees her face, beautiful and fragile and he wants to make it bleed, sees her spirit, impassive and crushed, cold as stone, hidden in her slender, changeable body and he wants to break it.

It roars in his ears, and with a flick of an invisible whip, a yank on those bonds she has taken so long to perfect he will be on her, like flies to a corpse, bees to a rose. He will meet her unreadable eyes with his hidden ones and his hand will close hard over her wrist and Pein will nod imperceptibly at her and he (she does not know what to call him anymore, for he is not Tobi and he is not her leader) will take her away and bind her with his visible, ineffective bonds. Her bonds are concealed, unseen. The flimsy loops of his chakra tear and unbind as he jerks against her, his heart pounding at her breast as if it were her own. Her bonds only grow.

She smiles, because she knows they will never break. They hold him like any steel, biting and choking and painful. Only he does not know. He cannot see her control, he cannot see it just as much as she can see his frail mechanisms of mastery. He will fall, and Konan knows.

end