Sanctuary 1
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as blood, violence, possible noncon or dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: In an attempt to break free from a tyrant, four women finds themselves faced with a group of mysterious men with questionable intent. (werewolf + medieval AU)
Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Thor, Loki
Reader characters: Jasmine, Poppy, Primrose, Verbena (each character's POV will be written as a reader character.
Note: I was riding my bike and looking at the moon this morning and this is what happened.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
Jasmine
“You must come,” your mother bids as you heave a bucket of milk from the goat’s pen. “Now.”
“Mother?” You still the bucket, fighting not to slosh the contents.
“Put that down. Come.” She charges at you. She takes the bucket, spilling over the edge, and plants it in the dirt.
“Yes, mother, I only–”
“Hush. You’ll do best to be quiet.” She hisses.
You’re disconcerted by her demeanour. She’s never so brusque. Never unkind. You can feel in her grip as she takes your wrist that she is not herself.
You stumble to keep up with her as she drags you around the front of the cottage. Your sisters are there too; your eldest sister’s husband and your brother. Your father scratches his bald head as his two hirelings pick at their callouses.
Your mother brings you next to your sisters and tugs your arm until you’re still. There’s a carriage with an emblem painted on the door and silk curtains peeking through the windows. The horses lazily chew strands of grass as the driver yawns. A soldier stands near the wheels, a hand on his hilt.
Behind them all is a wooden cart covered in canvas pulled by two broad donkeys. You can’t fathom who these men are or why they’ve come. They look far too rich for the dairyman and his brood.
“That is all?” A tall man dressed in deep red looks down his long bent nose.
“Yes, my lord.” Your father answers. “That is all.”
“Mm. I come in the name of the archduke and am met with sloth,” the man retorts. “Pray this trek has not been at the archduke’s expense.”
The man sniffs and steps up to your father. You lean forward to see him. It’s then you notice the bruise on his cheek and swelling beneath.
The stranger struts down the crooked row of you all. He narrows his eyes at your brother and the hirelings, lifting his chin at your sister’s husband. He stops in front of your sister as she rubs her growing stomach. He tuts.
“Be away with her,” he points between your sister and her husband.
Canton, your brother-by-law, takes Lilian’s hand and backs away cautiously. The man in the red jacket huffs and continues to your next sister, Mercia. He grabs her chin and turns her head gruffly back and forth. She whimpers.
He grumbles and continues on. He jabs your mother’s shoulder so hard she grunts and stumbles back. “You, away.”
She looks between you and Mercia. “My lord–” she begins.
“Do not squawk at me. Away before I have you dragged.” The man snarls.
Your mother lets out a weak breath but obeys. She turns and follows your sister and her husband to the house. The man steps up in front of you. He grabs your jaw as he did Mercia. His lip curls and he grips your shoulders instead. He spins you around.
“This one,” he lets you go. “She’ll do better than the skinny one.”
You turn but before you can understand what’s happening, the soldier seizes you. He hauls you forward, nearly taking you out of your clogs, and herds you toward the cart. A loud slap cracks in the air and your father grunts. You look back as he cradles his face.
“The archduke will be content in his levy. By his grace, you may continue your noble work as his vassal.” The man remonstrates. “On his land, as it were.”
Your father looks at you grimly and backs up. He drops his hand. “Daughter…”
“Not another word or I’ll have you lash her yourself.” The man barks. “Get her in the cart and let us carry on.”
“Father, what is happening?” You call out as you dig your heels in. “Father?!”
“Quiet,” the man in the red coat comes to swat your head. “The archduke owns these lands as he does you. Bite your tongue and obey.”
You whine as the soldier shoves you toward the cart. Your stomach hits the wooden edge. He pushes until you climb up under the canvas. You shake as you crawl across the wood and fall against the wall.
A sniffle draws your head up and you push yourself straight, ducking just under the canvas. Another sits in the corner of the cart, her head down against her bent arms. You feel a brew of tears bubbling in your own chest as she sobs.
“Are you… um….”
“Hush!” The cart is hit from without. “Now, let us be gone from these filthy peasants.”
·༻𐫱༺·
Poppy
Dust plumes over the fields as a distant rattling draws you from your basket of beans. You squint to see over the expanse. Verbena knocks into your elbow as she rushes past you.
“Ho, where are you going?” You holler after her.
“Don’t you see?” She points as she runs ahead. “Who d’ya think that is?”
“Ver,” you grunt at the weight of the basket as it swings on your arm. “Don’t–”
“Come on!” She ignores you.
You sigh and follow her, not running, but briskly lifting your feet. You pass several other labourers as they snaps beans off the stalks. They are tolerant of Verbena but not entirely amused.
“Silly girls,” Brant mutters as you pass. He isn’t incorrect.
“Verbena!” You call after her. “Please, slow do—”
The sudden blast overrides your pleas as heads pop up from the fields to look toward the source. The horn that calls workers in from the fields is blown three times. It is much too early for that but that makes everyone all the more attentive to it.
Your basket is jostled again as others move to follow in Verbena’s stead. You come out ahead of the rest and catch up to your errant friend. She wiggles as you latch onto her wrist.
“Ver, what–”
“That is the archduke’s sigil,” she points. “What d’ya suppose he’s doin’ here?”
You swallow and set down your basket. You’ve not filled it halfway and you need to do so three times over to meet the day’s stipend. You frown.
“Nothing good,” you whisper. “Verbena, please, we should–”
“Aye, you all, get to the stable.” One of the earl’s men orders as he waves his club. “No more chirping, little birds.”
You look at Verbena as her eyes sparkle in the direction of the carriage. Your own linger on the cart behind it. Covered and drawn by snorting donkeys. You squeeze her and follow the train of labourers toward the stable.
“I’ve a bad feeling,” you say.
“Do I have dirt on my face?” Verbena asks.
“Does it matter?” You say as a man you don’t know stops you and points you away from the three men that pass you. He’s a soldier in the archduke’s livery.
“Oh, how exciting. Do you think this is about the feast?”
“Feast?” You echo.
“Yes. I heard Drake speaking of the feast for the Duke’s name day. Would he invite us?”
“Hm, I wouldn’t think.” You utter. You look over your shoulder as more women follow in your stead, the men flowing to the other side of the stable. Your chest tightens. “Ver, what d’ya hear of the archduke?”
“Well, he’s got lotsa gold,” she chimes.
You exhale and shake your head. You’ve heard things about the archduke. Things that make your flesh burn and your inside storm.
“Try not to bring notice,” you chide her. “I don’t think this is an invitation.”
A man in a red jacket paces back and forth as the soldier directs the earl’s men, who in turn point and push the younger women into a row. You and Verbana nearly tumble over as you’re put into line.
The horn blows again. You quiet. You peer around. Where are the men?
“No speaking.” The man in the red jacket commands. “I come on behalf of the Archduke, Lord Stark, and you will take my will as his own.”
You squeeze Verbena’s wrist as she squirms. Her head swivels back and forth. She’s not listening.
The man in red approaches the end of the line. He tuts and takes a step, then he snorts. He spits on Marly’s skirt and continues onward. He puffs with agitation as he gets closer and closer. He stops to tug on a woman’s arm, raising it over her head, then grumbles in disappointment.
He has Alice step out and turn. Then he shoves her into the dirt and steps over her without a care. Verbena lunges out and you stop her.
The man in red looks in your direction. You shield Verbena and blanch. He marches past the few bodies left between you and him. He pulls you away from the others and you lose your grasp.
He grabs your chin and moves your head as if it’s not attached to your neck. He hums and hauls you away from the other women and girls.
“Take her. She’ll do–”
“Not her! Please. Poppy!” Verbena cries out.
You look back as she’s caught by the soldier in his black and gold livery. “Ver, please, don’t–”
“Quiet!” The man in the red jacket strikes your cheek. “I bid you to keep your mouth shut.” He turns and points to Verbena. “Take both.”
You’re ushered onward by two of the earl’s men as your thin soles slip over the dirt. Verbena whines behind you as the soldier drags her. Rocks scatter and you peek back as she falls to her knees in her struggles.
“Where are we going? To the feast?” She asks, confused and panicked.
You close your eyes. She is so naive.
“Up,” the soldier forces her to her feet. “The archduke does not like his goods bruised.”
You wilt and keep your feet moving. The canvas on the cart is thrown back and you’re tossed inside like a sack of beans. Verbena follows, crashing into you hard enough to knock the breath from you. There’s a gasp as your head hits something on your other end.
The canvas is dropped and you’re plunged into shadow. A hand touches your hair. “I’m sorry.” A small voice whispers.
You sit up and blink dumbly. You grab Verbana and pull her with you as you huddle against the side of the cart opposite the other woman. She is sitting crouched under the canvas.
“It’s… I’m….” you try to speak but your voice catches.
“It is best to be quiet,” she says.
You nod as Verbana whimpers. “Are we in trouble?”
You hush her. She nudges you, then leans against you. She points past you, the outline of her arm just visible. There’s another figure in the corner, all balled up, not making a noise.
Even if there’s four of you, you feel awfully alone.
·༻𐫱༺·
Primrose
You rock in the corner of the cart. Your neck hurts from where the man grabbed you. Your heart aches from what he did to your father too. You can still smell the iron of blood.
You bring your arm over your head and slump down further. There’s scuffling around you. The canvas ripples as a head brushes against it. You haven’t looked up since they shoved you in the cart.
“I’m scared…” one of the others says.
You snort without meaning to. Silence roils around you hotly. Another voice rasps over the clop of hooves and creaking of wheels.
“We’re all scared,” another says.
You stay just as you are. You want to disappear. You want to be nothing. That’s what you have left.
“Do you think… we’ll go to the feast?” One of the women asks.
The other hushes her.
You gulp and shudder out a breath. “We’re the feast.” You sneer.
“Pardon?” Another says.
You sniff deeply and cough around the lump in your throat. You turn your head sideways so they can hear. “Don’t you know what the archduke does… with his poppets?”
“Poppets?” One hisses. “He plays with those?”
“Us.” You snap. “Don’t be silly. It won’t save you.”
One of them whines and another shushes her, cooing at her.
“You’re not helping her neither.” You warn.
“And you don’t help,” another rebuffs. “What do you know of the archduke?”
“Enough,” you turn your head and lift your chin to rest on your arms.
“I’ve heard…” the one sitting closely to another woman begins. “He is…”
“Bad. Evil. Horrid.” You finish for her. “He’ll have what he wants and throw us in the dirt.”
“Are we….” the other of the pair babbles without end.
“Why would he do this? We did nothing wrong? My father is a cheesemaker?” The lone one argues.
“We are planters’ daughters. We work in the fields. We only pick beans…” The other, less squirmy one says.
“All the better. No one will miss any of us.” You scoff.
They’re quiet. They hang their heads and join in your grim acceptance. The one on her own picks at the wood.
“What about you?” She asks.
You sigh again. “My father was a merchant. He owed the duke a debt.” You slowly sit up. “I am that debt.”
They look at you. Even through the shade of the canvas, you sense their gazes. You close your eyes and lean back. Your shoulders ache from hunches. Your eyes are raw from crying and your ears clogged.
“He is not a benevolent man so do not pray for it. Pray for yourselves,” you mutter.
The air shifts as the road evens out. You sense the change in scenery as it looms over you. The loud groan of metal fills the void and opens up to a menagerie of noises. Metal clanking, voices clustering, more hooves tramping all around. You must be at the castle.
The other women feel it too. They might not know what comes next but they are sensible enough to be afraid. You close your eyes and resign yourself to it.
The cart rumbles to a halt. You sit and wait. Footfalls clamour around. The man in the red jacket snipes at the soldier and the driver. A door closes heavily.
The canvas is peeled back. You’re in some sort of barn or stable. It hardly matters.
“Out.” The soldier commands.
No one moves. He growls and hits the floor of the cart. You move first.
You get up and cross the cart. He grabs you and drags you out. You exclaim and wriggle free of his grasp.
“Eric, if you need, get your dagger.” The man in the red coat growls.
You stop and stand still. The soldier shoves you aside. You stare. He repeats his order, “out.”
The others scramble to the edge. They are put next to you. The soldier grabs a linen bag. He puts it over one of their heads. The woman squeaks. Then he does the next, and the next. Then you.
After all that, your wrists are seized. You know you can’t stop what’s coming but it doesn’t make you any less terrified. They bind your arms in coarse rope and push you blindly through the dark. Large hands on your shoulders push you down to the ground. You sit in a pile of hay as the others nestle close around you.
“Go. Have them ready the chamber.” The man in the red coat sneers. “Perhaps boil some water at that. They stink.”
·༻𐫱༺·
Verbena
You quiver between Poppy and another girl. The one who sat across from you. You’re all quiet and quaking. Blinded to the fate ahead of you.
Your eyes singe with the threat of tears but you can’t let them fall. You don’t understand why the archduke would treat you like this. Why would he take you from your home and treat you like cattle? What could he want of you?
You always wanted to see the castle but still don’t think you will. Not with a bag on your head. You’re being treated as a criminal. You are only a loyal subject to your lord. You always have been.
You shift as your wrists chafe. As you wriggle, Poppy elbows you.
“Ver?” She says.
“I’m sitting on my foot,” you whisper back.
She doesn’t respond. You wait for reprimand. You only hear the donkeys. You can smell them too.
As you writhe and untangle your leg from beneath you, you feel something sharp poke you. You grunt and feel it again as you try to get comfortable. You flick at the straw with your throbbing fingers, the rope too tight on your arms.
“Stop that,” the other woman bids. The one who says you’re doomed.
“Something’s poking me,” you argue.
“Probably just straw,” Poppy says.
You harrumph but still yourself. You can still feel it. You lean slowly and slip your hand down. You angle yourself back and slide two fingers around the sharp item. You pull free the bent nail and hold your breath.
You grip it as your heart thumps. You squeeze before you get your wits about you. You shouldn’t but your mind won’t stop yelling at you.
You turn the nail and aim the point at the braided rope. You poke into it and tilt the end. You use it to pick through the strands, one by one.
“What are you doing?” The gloomy one hisses.
You don’t answer and let her answer hang. She sighs. The others sniffle. You keep going, bit by bit.
The rope slackens. You nearly jump up, managing to only twitch instead. You tug on your wrists until the binds fall free. You tear the bag from over your head.
You turn to Poppy as she sits in the pen next to you. You touch her arm and hush her. She flinches but doesn’t move.
You pull her bag up and look into her eyes. Her lip quivers. You raise yourself on your knees and peek over the slats that pen you in. It’s just the cart. You turn back and signal with a dip of your chin.
Her throat tightens visibly and she gets up to her knees. She turns and you untie her. You set a foot down and she stops you. She points to the others. You can’t leave them, can you?
“Don’t make a noise.” Poppy says as she gets closer to the other. She takes the bag off her head.
You approach the other and mimic her warning. You take the bag off. The woman looks at you with tortured eyes. Her cheeks dimple hopelessly.
“We won’t get far,” she says.
“We have to try,” Poppy insists as she unties the other.
You tug at the knot and get the rope loose. Poppy helps the other up but your own hand is ignored. You stand and the other woman keeps low as she does the same.
“I’m Verbena. This is Poppy,” you introduce.
“Jasmine,” the one next to Poppy says.
The one with no light in her eyes shakes her head. “Primrose. Doesn’t matter. We need to go.” She looks around. “And we can’t just go out the front door.”
“There might be… a door. For the waste.” Jasmine intones. “We keep goats.”
You look at her then at Poppy. You both shrug. “Worth a try,” you say.
“You mean for shit?” Primrose sniffs.
“Well, you have another suggestion?” Poppy challenges.











