#fff103

[polizwrites]

PoliZ's Flash Fics - Stucky Edition

Continuing the celebration of  completing my 100th @flashfictionfridayofficial  fic by promoting  some of the ficlets I’ve written based on these amazing prompts.  Most of these are also on Ao3 under Politzania, usually edited, and sometimes expanded/rolled into larger fics.

Here’s ficlets  I wrote for another of my favorite MCU/Marvel pairings - (and my first slashfic pairing!):   Stucky (aka Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers ) - I’m including the platonic pairings as well.   

If you like any of these - please let me know and consider reblogging!

[#FFF94 Riveting Revival]: Making Strides [Bucky & Steve, General, 314 words]

[#FFF100: A Hidden Path]: A Scent and a Sound (I’m Lost and I’m Found) [Steve/Bucky, General, 915 words]

[#FFF103 Burn it Down]: Emotion is a Distraction [Steve & WS!Bucky, Teen, 429 words]

[#FFF107 Never Forgotten]: Found Family [Bucky/Steve, General, 618 words]

[#FFF111 Clandestine Closet]: Here to Save the American Way [Bucky & Steve, General, 614 words]

[#FFF116 Deceiving Fragrance]: Restoring the Shield - Chapter 3 Excerpt [Bucky & Steve, Teen, 450 words]

[#FFF117 Stars And Shadows]: Stars and Shadows [Steve/Bucky, General, 419 words]

[#FFF118 Yonder Hills]: Bittersweet [Bucky & Steve, General, 386 words]

[#FFF 120 A Greater Horror]: Something Very Wrong With Me [Bucky/Steve, General, 365 words]

[#FFF135 A Touch Of Faith] : A Sacrifice of Praise and Thanksgiving [Steve/Bucky, Mature, 200 words]

[#FFF139 It Doesn’t Hurt ]: It Doesn't Hurt [Bucky & Steve, General, 100 words]

[#FFF140 Setting Heaven On Fire: Setting Heaven On Fire/ A Stolen Moment [[none - Bucky/Steve], Mature, 424 words]

[#FFF154 Far From Perfect: Past Imperfect [Steve/Bucky, Mature, 518 words]

[#FFF211 An Old Friend]: In the Dead of the Night [Bucky & Steve, General, 317 words]

[#FFF241 Hour of Denial]: The Hour of Denial [Bucky/Steve, General, 357 words]

[#FFF252 Spill the tea]: Baring His Soul [Bucky/Steve, Teen, 634 words]

[#FFF257 Count The Days ]: Short-Timing It [Bucky & Steve, General, 313 words]

[enchanted-lightning-aes]

Invisible Constrained Rage

A/N: I have no idea what’s up with this story except it’s in a futuristic-ish kingdom with awful authorities. A stand-alone story I won’t expand because IDK how I would anyway, lmao.

Either way, here’s contained feral rage!

Word Count: 508

TW: implied oppression

***

Flames crackle in the heat of a fireplace, swaying against a surface of bundled wood. An advisor drops down onto an armchair, baring her teeth at those heinous events occurring at a recent meeting.

For years, she believed that if she joined the higher diplomatic ranks, she can impose a challenge. On the views of those, who caused errors to let their subjects suffer from their decisions. From poor farmers, who can't search for resources, the safety of citizens crumbling under constant attacks from foreign nations, and trouble running rampant in the kingdom. . . she fumes at their audacity to pretend they have plans to do something about it.

Instead, they only sit there in their office with their remorse low and blood count high.

Those diplomats and their insistence to stick by their ideals of the past lead their kingdom to astray. How long is she supposed to tolerate this? How can she represent a kingdom, which she despises being associated with? How can she fight against a destruction they failed to stop?

And in all of this, she's never been more useless  than now. No matter how much she tries to speak up, they always silenced her for causing an outrage. For them, personally.

Blood sizzles through her veins as she hangs her head low.

The diplomats preferred to protect people like themselves and ignore pain of those who aren't. There are a few, who she thought weren't like the others, and she respected them for that. However, when they revealed their true personalities as they supported the general's orders, it stopped and transformed into disgust. How deceitful they were towards her. And to think, she can find trustworthy allies in her line of work.

No, they carried biases against people like her. Impoverished, rebellious, defiant against the crimes of those diplomats, who believed everything's going well in their supervision.

If she knew she'd sign up for a trap, she won't be in this predicament. She'd leave if she can figure out how.

The advisor snorts, aching for a taste of whiskey. Or anything to handle this. She can't snap at anyone or else, someone will have problems. She didn't have time for that bullshit.

Even the heirs for this kingdom are ignorant in this type of issues. They behave like how she used to be as a novice advisor, who had expectations in changing the system. To turn it better for people, who deserved more than this. If the ruler would listen to her, she might have started progress.

For a long time, she had plans for how to operate the kingdom. To protect more people than those fortunate to be privileged. To provide safety and stability, which are usually given to people with higher statuses. To actually improve things.

If the advisor would get an opportunity, she'd burn this place down as if it's nothing long ago.

Everyone will see, she thinks, staring at the fireplace. Once they'll burn it all down, they'll witness the extent of her ire. Only then, they can't stop her.

***

[starry-voidss]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

AN: okay so why do I keep writing angsty stories-

Word count: 203

~~~

“Burn it to the ground.”

“Did you not hear me, Al? I said burn it to the ground.” I looked up at my angry friend.

“B-but Mol, people live here. It’s their home. We can’t just...”

“Do you want me to do it?” Molly demanded furiously. I saw the glint of madness in her eyes. This wasn’t the Molly I knew. This was an angry, miserable girl who wanted revenge from a whole town for something that only one person had done. “I will do it. I just wanted to trust you with something. You set it ablaze, while I go find him. He can’t get away with this.”

“Molly...” I began.

“Do it!”

I turned to the town. This town had hurt many of our kind. I knew that. Going on rampages, killing other Crakels, but surely no one could deserve this.

Old Molly was sweet. Old Molly was smart. Old Molly was generous.

This Molly? She was murderous.

Her brother’s death had sent her over the edge.

“Fine.” She snatched the match from my hands.

“Molly, please—”

Then she was gone.

Her mind, tarnished with only the thought of revenge.

Her body, devoured by the flames she craved.

She was gone.

[starculler]

Based this on the cool ROTS concept art where Padmé goes to Mustafar intending to kill Anakin and some good old Padmé Lives AU goodness. @flashfictionfridayofficial

Padmé’s hands clenched around the smooth, stone banister �� cold and rough under her palms — and stared at the still, star-studded stretch of lake Varykino’s terrace overlooked. Her eyes burned as she soaked in the beauty this small part of her home planet had to offer, but there were no more tears left to shed. There was only the hollow ache left behind her ribs, a staggering pain to rival the vivid, throbbing, blue-black bruises around her throat. The last gift her husband had left her.

She sighed, breathed in, and tried to imagine the taste of Naboo’s sweet, summer air instead of the thick coat of ash that had laid on her tongue since Mustafar. Her fingers curled around the bannister’s stone edge, already ruined nails grating on the texture even as she felt them wrapped around the hilt of the knife she’d held to her husband’s throat. The moment was clear as a holo, imprinted on the backs of her eyelids for her to see every time she’d closed her eyes since waking those few, too-long days ago.

Her arms around Anakin’s neck, pulling him down into a hug she’d shared with him a thousand times before. The sleeves of her red robe bunched around her elbows, its hood tugging at her loose hair as it fell back enough that she could see his face clearly. His thinned lips and a too-familiar pinch in his brow, sweaty and pale with too-dark rings under his eyes. He’d pulled her close, his hands finding the curve of her waist even through the voluminous fabric, and she’d curled her fingers into his curls with one hand as the other slipped the knife free. Anakin’s eyes had always been such a beautiful, bright blue, even shadowed and haunted and lit with the glow of Mustafar’s churning flows of bubbling lava.

“My lady.” Padmé blinked, dragged out of the memory by Sabé’s quiet voice, and turned to find her last handmaiden standing in the shadow of an elegantly carved column. “The preparations are complete.”

“They’re—” Padmé started only to choke on the words, but Sabé nodded regardless.

“They’re safe,” Sabé said, so softly that Padmé had to step closer to hear her better. “There’s been no reason to suspect they’ve been found or followed,” she added and Padmé could have collapsed from relief.

“Good. That’s good.”

It burned to be separated from her children no matter how much she’d agreed with Obi-Wan and Bail that keeping them together — keeping them with her — was dangerous. She breathed in, ignoring the slight hitch in an otherwise smooth breath, and curled her hands into tight fists on the exhale. When her eyes met Sabé’s again, there hadn’t been any need for her to so much as open her mouth to ask her next question.

“Your funeral went as well as a televised, closed-casket event could. You’ve been laid to rest in Theed with a simple, but elegant memorial to mark your tomb, and your former handmaidens have, respectfully, secluded themselves to mourn you.”

“How are they taking it?” Padmé asked, unable to resist, and felt the guilt rise like bile in her aching throat when Sabé winced.

“They—” she started, stopped, and Padmé watched Sabé clasp her hands together in front of her to keep her hands from shaking. Silence settled thick between them, heavy and uncomfortable, until Sabé settled on a shaky “They’ll understand. Less so, however,” she added, forcefully lightening her tone, “if you’re caught here.”

Padmé swallowed, stomach churning, and nodded. She let her eyes slide closed once more — watched herself hesitate on Mustafar, the knife’s edge pressing on her husband’s throat, knowing as she’d looked in his eyes that she didn’t have the strength to kill him — and breathed in, long and slow. When she opened them, there was only Naboo, Sabé, and the faint impression of the many small moments she’d stolen there with the people she loved.

“Give Captain Typho my thanks,” she said as she strode forward, Sabé falling neatly into step just behind and to her left. “He didn’t have to do this. Any of it.” She turned her head enough to meet Sabé’s eyes, shoving every ounce of gratitude she could muster at her. “Neither of you did.”

Sabé’s lips curled up in the small, familiar smile she always wore to express her fond exasperation, though it was marred now by the worried furrow in her brow and the uncharacteristic shadows under her eyes. She didn’t dignify Padmé’s sentiment with a response beyond a nod and a roll of her eyes that made Padmé wish she’d had the energy left in her to laugh. To pretend, for one moment, that this was just one of many a stroll the pair had taken through the villa.

The time for such silly sentiments, however, was long passed, and the pair wasted no time hurrying through the dark, unlit halls to the hangar with only Sabé’s lamp to light the way. The hangar, when they arrived, was lit with only a few stray lights and empty save for a pair of spare speeders and the single, old ship meant to smuggle Padmé and its pilot off-planet.

Sabé walked her to its ramp, both hesitating to take the final step that would, possibly permanently, separate them. There was so much still that Padmé wanted to say, but every word died on her lips — none of them enough. She managed only a watery “Be safe” when Sabé sprang forward to wrap her in a tight, clinging hug.

“I should be telling you that,” Sabé said, laughing even as a few stray tears wet Padmé’s shoulder.

“Sabé, I—” Padmé stopped, frowned, and pulled away just far enough to meet her former handmaiden’s eyes. “I have one more favor to ask.”

“Anything.”

Padmé closed her eyes, saw her husband and the burning landscape and the footage of the Temple no-one knew she’d managed to get her hands on after everything was done and her children were gone and all she’d had between then and now was time. When she opened her eyes, when she made her request, it was every inch Amidala — Queen and Senator — who spoke.

“Burn it,” she said, voice even and smooth even as the shift in tone startled Sabé. “When” — not if, because monster or not, she knew her husband almost better than she knew herself — “he comes, burn this place to the ground.”

[polizwrites]

Emotion is a Distraction

This is vaguely inspired by today’s @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: [ # FFF 103 Burn it Down ] and is also a fill for my @stuckybingo June Flash square: Anger.

Fandom: Marvel/MCU — Pairing: Steve Rogers & The Winter Soldier — Rating: General/Teen (canon-typical violence)

Emotion is a distraction during a fight. The Soldier knows this. The man he is fighting does not. The woman was different - she was focused, every move calculated. She was also armed, while this man has nothing but his own body and a shield - a shield that is somehow familiar.

The Soldier deflects or absorbs the man’s furious, desperate blows; he is abnormally strong and fast and a skilled fighter even if he is letting his anger get the better of him. Pierce had said this man is a level six target and needs to be eliminated; now that they are at each others’ throats, the Soldier can see why. He doesn’t give an inch, his sense of self-preservation overridden by his determination. This stubbornness is also familiar, stirring a vague memory, but the Soldier can’t afford to dwell on it.

The man’s anger is replaced by shock when he sees the Soldier’s face. “Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

—-

They face off again on the helicarrier. This time the target is dressed in a patriotic uniform and begs him to stand aside. “People are going to die, Buck.” The Soldier knows that people are always going to die. Order only comes through pain.

“Don’t make me do this.” The Soldier waits for his target to make the first move. The fight is even more brutal: neither bullets nor knives preventing this attempt to sabotage the helicarriers. The Soldier does everything he can to stop him, despite the Captain dislocating his shoulder and choking him into temporary unconsiousness.

The Soldier shoots him again, finally aiming at center mass. It still doesn’t stop him. He slots the enemy’s card in, causing the helicarriers to aim at one another instead of their rightful targets. The two of them are caught in the crossfire, and the Soldier is trapped under a beam.

The Captain gives up his chance to escape, and frees the Soldier. He keeps insisting that they know one another, calling him a name that he doesn’t know, doesn’t remember and it sparks a sudden rage; all the emotions he’d kept bottled up pouring out at once.

“You’re my friend.” The Captain insists, as if his life depended on that truth.

“You’re my mission!” The Soldier shouts, no longer certain of anything.

“Then finish it, because I’m with you til the end of the line.”

The phrase is familiar, reverberating deeply within him — more deeply than Hydra had ever delved. But before he can even start to piece together what it might mean, the decking collapses and the Captain falls.

[renee-writer]

She couldn't Burn, she knew this. They tried to burn her grandma, her mom, her sisters. Females in her family burn, aren't burned. They aren't supposed to be different, you see. To stay in their lane, be polite, well behaved. But like her granny used to say, 'well behaved women have never changed the world.'

It is a motto she lives by. She wants to change the world. To make it better. To not be content with the status quo. A lesson she learned from all the women in her life. From the men too but in a different way. They tried to break her, to burn her. Tame her.

But she won't be tamed. No, she is a wild child. The granddaughter of the witches they couldn't Burn.