Merit
Anko's hand was fire inside Orochimaru's. Two pale, misshapen stars curled around eachother, but Orochimaru's hand was larger and it devoured her own.
Her body was spread flat over the grass in a patent sort of pose; pearl-like skin on top of emeralds piled high, and all she could think about was power.
Power was a word that rolled off of Orochimaru's tongue with ease, like silk, a word that lingered in the back of Anko's mind. In her mouth it tasted like vinegar, bitter and salty. (And tempting.)
He jerked her by the arm and her body snapped upward in a painful arch. She grinned but said nothing, daring to follow him as he strode away.
Anko trailed behind him, and the sun, fierce like a weathered shinobi, trailed behind them both.
…Life was good.
Fin.