Credit for this fic goes to Suils Saifir for her inspiration with a wonderful Escaflowne ficlet/drabble.
Also, this story is rated M for a reason. Proceed at your own risk.
She is draped in shimmering silk and polished gems when she is presented to him. Golden leaves encrusted with rubies are pinned to the tight curls of her pink hair. The gauze that covers her arms and shoulders, like the silk, is dyed in the vibrant crimson, ebony, and ivory colors of his family. Her people are known for the whiteness of their skin, but hers has a shallow cast to it. It makes her seem smaller, and he has the faint impression that it is only her pride that stops her from flinching away when he takes her hand. He ignores the noises from the ceremony as he pulls her to his side. He entwines his callused fingers into the soft twists of her bound curls, his thumb caressing a ruby-encrusted leaf. She seems to withdraw from him even though she remains at his side.
His father, he notes, seems to approve of the possessive way that he holds his new wife, at the way that there is no softness in the way he clutches her.
Her scent, he notes, is sweet, alluring, and enticing. Tonight will be the test to see if the offering of this small country is genuine. It occurs to him that he will not relish the thought of destroying such beauty. Her skin is soft he notices when his thumb brushes against the lobe of her ear, but he makes no further move to pull her closer.
They do not withdraw to his rooms until her family is finally outside of the city gates. Out of the corner of his eye he notices how she discreetly wipes away a tear. If she knows that the oaths she declared during the marriage were pure of intent, then she will need to learn that such a display of emotion is not welcomed by his clan. He waits until his mother gives him a slight nod before taking his bride up to his rooms. Her test will be soon, how she reacts will seal her fate.
Although her profile is stiff and proud, he can feel the faintest trembles as they approach his threshold and he knows that she is afraid.
It irritates him, although he supposes that it is not unwarranted. His people have been slaughtering hers for generations, and he supposes that she feels almost like a sacrifice, akin to a maid being offered to a dragon.
He does not lock the door to his bedchamber. She is, after all, his wife, and quite free to wander where she so chooses. In the solitude of the darkened room, lit only by a single, flickering candle he sees her flinch when he eases the gauze off her shoulders and arms. She trembles when he undoes the clasp molding the silk to her skin.
Sakura. Her name is fitting, he thinks, as the silk pools at her feet. She seems impossibly delicate and fragile, and like a cherry blossom petal pulled from a bough and onto the wind current she shakes. The jewels adorning her scantily designed robes hit his hardwood floor with a dull thud and he pushes her onto the soft velvet cushions that decorate his bed.
Her tears fall freely as he kisses her skin. Something about her vulnerability coaxes him to be gentle. He sees to her needs first before entering her. He is throbbing, hot and heavy, and it is a desire like nothing he has ever felt before. He teases her body, using all of his skill and experience to make her ready. He doesn't want their love making to ever be painful, save for what her innocence will bring.
"Sakura." He says her name like a prayer, something that he has never done before. He thinks that he is glad that she was the daughter that her parents gave up because she is quickly becoming an addiction. Something in him aches at the possibility of her trying to kill him.
When her core is slick with her readiness he thrusts into her to the hilt. Her hands twist in the sheets as she screams as he claims her, and it is not a sound of pleasure. He finds himself apologizing—something he has never done before in his life—as he kisses her. Control is a very difficult thing to find with his member sheathed in her heat, but he is able to stop himself from rocking against her by pressing kisses against the tear tracks staining her cheeks. He kisses her mouth, nipping and sucking at her lower lip.
It is when a throaty gasp escapes her as his teeth trail down her pale skin, and when she wraps her arms around his waist that he knows she is ready.
"Uchiha-sama!" His surname is almost broken when he rocks against her.
"Sasuke. Call me Sasuke." He orders her softly as he continues to thrust into her.
She clings to him, crying, and when her muscles tighten around him and he spills into her, his name leaves her lips. It is a strangled sound—strangled and perfect.
Reluctantly he pulls out of her. He gathers her into his arms, and takes her to the bathing room to remove the traces of her virgin's blood.
Sakura sighs when he runs the soft cloth over her body, cleaning off the sweat and blood. It is only then that he takes into consideration how far she had to travel to get to him, for she quickly falls asleep in his arms, her damp hair tickling his bare chest as she rests against him.
It is only later, when he is holding her in a bed with fresh linens, a warm coverlet pulled over their bare shoulders and she whispers his name in her sleep that he thinks it is only a matter of time before she can come to love him.
She does not hide from him when word reaches them of her people's betrayal. She is wise, and does not stray from his side, as his father's aides report on how mercilessly her people were crushed for their rebellion. She is worried, he can see that much at least, but she does not hide from his touch. Sasuke nearly smirks when he notices that she tries to touch him in the most innocent and unnecessary of ways.
He takes a private supper with her—he does not think she can able to handle the barbed comments of his kinsmen—before showing her that she has nothing to fear. She has no need to worry. She is a part of his clan now, and as his wife she has no more attachment to the people of that treacherous, sun-kissed land.
Tears fall in silence down her cheeks when he cups her jaw and kisses her gently. She murmurs something against his lips when he eases her robe off of her shoulders. It sounds like an apology, which is something he doesn't understand. His calloused fingers graze over her nipples as he eases her down onto his bed.
"You are mine." He whispers harshly against her skin as he places hot kisses down her stomach, his hands trailing over her hips. She cries out, arching into him when he touches her core, his name a breathless whisper. "Know this Sakura—" He moves up the length of her body to watch her expression when his hardness presses against her. "No one can kill you—" The tears that had threatened to fall are dry, "no one can touch you." her eyes flutter shut as she cries out when he enters her and her soft hands grip his biceps. He leans down and nips and kisses the sensitive skin at the juncture of her throat. He groans when she convulses around him, and so he wraps his limbs around her lithe form.
When he speaks again his voice is hoarse, his skin burning wherever it touches her. He is quite sure that he can think of no greater haven. "I decide your fate. Do you understand that?"
Her only response is to cry his name, arching into his touch, as the pleasure takes her.