Summary: Something happened. Azula can no longer look out the window at night.
Thereās a storm.Ā
It hasnāt quite reached Ember Island yet.Ā
But Azula can see it stewing in the distance over the waters. Sparsely and sporadically the undersides of thickened clouds flash. First in patches to the left and then to the right. They are too far off yet for her to hear a growl of thunder.
She supposes that maybe she should get inside.
All along the beach the palm trees sense the stormās approach and rustle their fronds accordingly.Ā
This, Azula has come to observe, is the most quintessential hallmark of an approaching storm. From that first burst of wind, she has maybe fifteen minutes to seek shelter. Thirty at most and ten at the least.
She has been lingering for at least ten already. She isnāt in any particular hurry.
The sun is low in the horizon, Azula wagers that the storm will be here by nightfall.
She waits for one last peel of thunder and that dull tickling feeling in her stomach to turn away from the beach and its endless stretch of black sand. She shudders slightly as a particularly large wave slams into the shore. The wind picks up some and she hastens her pace just a little, lest she start hearing a voice on it. That soft, sweet, familiar voiceā¦
She closes the bungalow's door just as the rain breaks. A gust of wind rushes through the open window, snapping the curtains and rattling the shells and windchimes that hang from the ceiling, the ones that she hasnāt yet found the heart to take down. She as swiftly as the wind entered, Azula rushes to the window and forces it shut.Ā
She pauses and takes a moment to breathe.Ā
An abrupt flutter in her tummy reminds her that a moment is too long to linger by the window.
At least on a night like this.Ā
She takes a step back, draws the curtains closed, and shudders.Ā
To think that this cottage had once been so warm and cozy. A quaint and charming little seaside retreat, turned into a permeate residence.Ā
To think that she and Seicho used to sit on the porch and watch the storms roll in and then sit longer even after the rain had them thoroughly soaked.Ā
It is still so early in the night, even still Azula finds herself crawling into be, onto a cold mattress that could and should fit two. She rests her hands on her torso and closes her eyes. Sometimes she ponders. Sometimes she dwells. Sometimes she thinks about when they were both seventeen and taking regular evening hikes.
They would always arrive home after dark under clouds of fireflies, smelling of moss and mud. And then they would go down to the ocean to wash the jungle off. And then into the house to wash the sand from their feet.Ā
Sometimes she thinks about when they were eighteen and Seicho teaching her how to weave baskets from palm fronds and make seashell bracelets. On the dresser there is a handmade basket full of seashell jewelry and foraged pearls.
Sometimes she thinks about foot prints in the sand and how easily they wash awayā¦
Lightning flashes behind the curtains and she imagines that the ocean is churning quite violently nowāslapping itself against rocks that have long learned to live with the abuse. She imagines the palm trees bent near sideways with their fronds flailing. Azula doesnāt look out the window on these nights. Not anymore. Rain pounds upon the thatched roof. A relentless onslaught that makes her stomach squirm. It pounds and pounds but not quite enough to mask the wrapping that she swears that she can hear on her door. She holds her breath, strains her ears. But the sound is always gone by then leaving her with only a dull sense of wrongness, a subtle sense that something is amiss. She rolls onto her side and tries to force herself to sleep. She remembers when she was nineteen and a good thunderstorm always did the trick, coupled with Seicho rubbing her back. Back then the room had been lit by sandalwood scented candles. Tonight her room is dark. Tonight and almost every night since their trip to Sulfur Sand Cliffs seems vast and openā¦expansive.
To think that she used to complain that the space was cramped and overcrowded with useless clutter from their excursions.
The pounding comes again, through the battering of the rain. It comes from the outside and then, after minutes of focusing, from within. Her head throbs with a morbid curiosity, a desire that she has been resisting for months now, since her first glimpse a week or so after the Sulfur Sand Cliffs.
Azula bunches in on herself and squeezes her head.
And then she can bear it no more.
She is out of bed and padding across the hardwood, crossing carpets until she is standing at the window pane, fingers on the cloth above the glass. Her breathing slightly rugged. The pounding at the door comes to an abrupt halt.
Her breathing comes to an abrupt halt.Ā
Her hand grips the curtains, slightly shaking.
She closes her eyes. Releases her breath.
She yanks the curtain aside.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
But of course not.
She laughs.
Sometimes she gets these foolish thoughts.
Folktales, she reminds herself, are for the rural folk, the locals who still believe that there are pearls that grant wishes, coconuts with water that grant youth, and a golden palm frond to be found somewhere in the jungle. She has more sense than that.
Had more sense than that.Ā
She was raised on urban truths and sound city logic.
But the hairs on the back of her neck are still standing.
Between lightning strikes, Azula scans the length of the storm battered beach.
Empty.
Vacant.
Forlorn.
Why wouldnāt it be?
What else would it be?
Who would go to the beach on a night like this?
Who had she expected to see?
She, belly fluttering, shifts her gaze slightly to the left. Towards the Sulfur Sand Cliffs. They tower jaggedly over the raging water with malice of their own. Imposing in the daylight, they instill a most potent, palpable dread when backlit occasionally by lightning.Ā
Sometimes she thinks about when she was twenty years old and Seicho had asked her if she wanted to try something new. Something truly exciting and daring. She and Seicho had never been strangers to bold feats. Theyāve scaled temple ruins and repealed down the backsides of waterfalls. She canāt imagine that thereās anything more exciting and daring that descending a waterfall. Perhaps the woman had finally gotten an itch to explore the lava tubes of a not exactly dormant volcano.Ā
Sometimes Azula thinks about when she was twenty years old and said yes.
Sometimes Azula thinks about when she was twenty years old, when sheād arranged a picnic at the top of the cliff to replenish their energy after a particularly grueling ascent. The view had been extraordinary. Rewarding. It had been just a little after sunrise.
Sometimes Azula thinks about when she was twenty years old glancing at Seichoās cocky, beautiful smile.Ā
Sometimes Azula still hears the crunch of bones against rock.
She hadnāt looked over the cliffās edge, didnāt want to see.
She wishes that Seicho had.
Maybe then she would have seen the ledgeā¦
The rain slams against the windowpane and a fog begins to crawl out of the ocean and creep over the sand. Azula shiversāinvoulentarily, from her head to her toes, Azula shivers. She lets the curtains fall back into place and rushes back into bed.Ā
For the first time since she was a child, Azula pulls the covers over her head.
Zuko has always been the type of person who would do anything for family. So when Katara lacks the funds for an opportunity of a lifetime and Zhao of all people offers a solution by sleeping together, he figures heās got nothing to lose.
ā¦ He just didnāt expect Zhao to be more interested in the āsleepingā part.
For @atlararepairmonth week 5: Worldās Worst Souvenir.
Featuring Zhao/Zuko in which Zhao is the worldās worst souvenir.
For @atlararepairmonth Week 1 Prompt: Flirting with danger
Notes: Saw someone else make a fic for this pair and decided to give it a go.
Summary: When Azula say āgoā, Jiang asks āhow far?ā Ā When Jiang says ājumpā,Ā Azula asks āfrom what height?āĀ
She stands upon the cliffās edge, looking out over the churning water. Off to the leftā¦a thundering waterfall with birds to circle it. She takes a breath, one deep one that gets caught in her throat as she looks down at the waterhole below. And the birdsā flight becomes dizzying. Vines and ivy droop down from the cliff, reaching for the pool, unconcerned with the going ons above them.Ā
āGo on. Prove that you love me.ā
It has become their mantra.
A defining part of whatever relationship they have.
Jiang says it again. āGo on. Prove that you love me.ā
Azula exhales and so does the land, a gust of wind rustles her clothes and whips her hair. It isnāt such a long way downā¦or so she tries to tell herself. She doesnāt know how this will prove that she loves Jiang.Granted, she doesnāt know how walking over hot coals was supposed to prove that Jiang loves her. But they both do it. Over and over again. When Azula say āgoā, Jiang asks āhow far?ā
Ā When Jiang says ājumpā,Ā Azula asks āfrom what height?āĀ
About 12 meters, she comes to find is the answer.
She exhales again and has a look over her shoulder, back at Jiang who stands with her arms crossed and a perfectly devious smile on her face. āGo ahead. Youāre not scared, are you, princess?ā
Azula crinkles her nose and Jiang laughs. She faces the other woman as she takes a step back. Sheāll take the plunge but that doesnāt mean that she has to face her fate, although it would be the more respectable, honorable approach. She supposes that old habits and long standing traditions have a respectable pull because she finds herself looking towards the drop. Better, she decides, to actually see what she is doing.
āYou better hope I donāt survive this.ā Azula comments dryly as her toes reach the cliffās edge. āBecause you will have a lot to prove to me if I do.ā They are as good as parting words as any. And with them she throws her arms back and then forward. Her feet leave the cliff and her body sails. Her heart leaps and her stomach drops faster than the rest of her. She isnāt a dreadful swimmer, she can do it if she must, but she is by no means a strong swimmer. What if she doesnāt resurface? What if she lands too close to the waterfall? What if she lands on a craggy boulder? Will Jiang regret having made her do this or will she just be another dead lover? How many lovers of hers have died proving their loveāshe had mentioned three lost lovers but never spoke of the manner of death.Ā
These are the things that occur to Azula as she plummets.Ā
Just a little too late she thinks to add a little fire to break her fall.Ā
And then there is cold.Ā
She hadnāt held her position as straight and stiff as she ought to have to complete a graceful arcāa controlled slice through the surface. So when her body strikes the water, it strikes her back. A solid slap to the face, chest, belly, and legs. She thinks of her Katara, of how it had felt to be slapped away by the water.Ā
This is worse.Ā
Oh, Agni, itās worse.Ā
The water closes in around her and she sinks deeper. The roar of the waterfall fills her ears and steals away some of her precious rational thinking skills. Summounting panic threatens to take the rest of it.Ā
She had gone down head first, she reminds herself. And then she had flattened, midfall. She had landed on her stomach; she just needs toā¦
She lets her legs dip down and her head tilt up. She thinks that she is vertical now. Her stomach flutters at the possibility of actually having put herself facing the bottom of the waterhole instead of towards the surface. She is so terribly disoriented but she kicks her legs anyways. As hard as she can. Until she can feel her muscles burn as viciously as her lungs.
And just when she doesn't think that she will resurface before she runs out of airā¦
Arms.
They hook under her shoulders and she is drifting upwards much faster.
And then she is on the surface, on the bank of the river with pebbles and mud on her thighs and bloodied knees and hair plastered to her cheeks and forehead, breathing heavily and staring up at the waterfall and the shifting canopy as the wind rattles it. She exhales with the breeze and closes her eyes. The sunlight falls upon her face, warms it. The adrenaline leaves her and the fatigue settles in.
āI told you that you could trust me.ā Jiang says. She cracks an eye open and gazes upon that trademark smug, mischievous smirk. āIāll save you from anything.ā
āDid youā¦? Did you jump too?ā She has the energy for only something just above a whisper.Ā
āI jumped too, princess.ā She replies. āAnd Iād do it again! Cliffdiving is a hobby.āĀ
āItās a dreadful one.ā Azula murmurs, rolling onto her side. Sand and mud kiss her downturned cheek. Jiang kisses her upturned cheek. Azula ought to shove her away, shove her right back into the waterhole.
āDo you trust me now?ā
Truth be told she doesnāt know how to answer that.Ā
Truth be told, she trusts the woman more and less all at once.
āI guess.ā She says.
Maybe now they can stop with their mantra.Ā
Maybe now sheāll never have to hear or say, āgo on, prove that you love meā ever again.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Jet/Suki for @atlararepairmonth week 5: Free Space (taken literally ^-^)
T | oneshot | 3.5k
When the Gaang are forced to evacuate the Air Temple and relocate to Ember Island, the prospect of a weeks-long beach vacation in the middle of a warzone is strange and unappealing to Suki and Jet. Neither one of them feels very relaxed; but it might be just what they need.
Ocean Blue
Rating: General Audiences
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender (Cartoon), Avatar: Legend of Korra
Categories: F/F
Relationship: Izumi/Kya II
Izumi's beach vacation at Ember Island is ruined and nothing will ever fix it. Except maybe the attention of the beautiful waterbender she has a crush on.
ATLA Mayday Rarepair Month Week 4 - Royal Pains
@atlararepairmonth
Jet hunches over a study desk in the back corner, hoodie up, scribbling angry marginalia in a battered copy of *The Earth Kingdom Economic Myth*. He despises this place. Despises the marble floors paid for by corporate donors, despises the way the endowment was bigger than some small towns' GDPs, and despises that heās here on a needābased scholarship, not out of ambition but to prove that the system can be gamed from the inside.
He especially despises Azula.
She slides into the room like she always doesāwithout warning, like smoke slipping under a door. A designer coat drapes over one arm, hair pulled into that impossibly sleek topknot, her lips in the exact shade of arterial red that makes Jet's jaw clench on reflex. With deliberate force, she hurls her leather satchel onto the table across from him.
"You're in my spot," she says, voice sharp enough to cut.
"This isn't assigned seating, princess." Jet replies in disdain as he looks up at her. "Go buy another floor if you want privacy."
Azula slides into the chair anyway, crossing her legs like she owned the entire wing. "I don't buy things I can easily take."
He snorts. "Classic nepo logic." šš½
They've been circling each other for monthsādebate club ambushes, stolen library cubicles, hissing arguments in seminar hallways about privilege and praxis and whether the Dai Li endowment was blood money (it was). She calls him a bleeding heart hypocrite. He calls her a trust-fund tyrant. Neither backs down.
But this time itās different.
It started with an argument about land reform a few days ago. But somewhere between Jet snarling about expropriation and Azula countering with razor-sharp statistics on agricultural output, their voices drop. Heads bent closer over the shared table. Her perfumeāsomething expensive and smokyāslid into his space. When they were forced to collaborate on a project, his knee accidentally brushed hers under the table. She didnāt budge, their discussion faded into a reluctant, wordless partnership.
Now, the silence stretches.
"You talk a lot about tearing it all down," Azula murmurs, eyes flicking to his mouth, "but here you are using a laptop granted to you by the same corporation you loathe, sipping your oatmilk latte from the coffee conglomerate instead of buying one from the school cafeteria. Tell me, how does your hypocrisy taste?ā
He smirks at her and looks her up and down. āWhy are you here? Seriously. Why the need to slum it out with me at this very moment instead of, I dont know, yachting with daddy's board members kids? You told me more than once you donāt need this pathetic school, remember? Or maybe itās easier for you to just pay your way through graduation?āJet's voice comes out rougher than he meant.
She leans in until their faces were inches apart. "Maybe I just likeā¦ watching you squirm."
Maybe he likes it too.
"If you hate me that much why are you still here?ā He adds with a knowing smile.
They donāt know who moved firstāprobably both, too proud to concede. Her hands tighten around the strings of his hoodie. His fingers slip around the nape of her neck. Mouths crashing together like a fuse finally catching fire.
The moment feels chaotic. Hungry. All teeth and swallowed arguments. Azula tastes like black coffee and spite; Jet kisses like heās trying to prove a point. Her nails scrape lightly down his chest through cotton. He groans low in his throat, dragging her closer until she half-straddles his lap in the narrow library chair.
The table creaks. A book topples off the edge with a soft *thud*. Neither cared.
Jet's fingers slip under the hem of her silk blouse, finds warm skin, traces the dip of her spine. Azula arches into the touch, biting his lower lip hard enough to sting. "Careful, freedom fighter," she breathes against his mouth. "You might start liking the enemy."
"Shut up," he growls smirking, "and maybe I will." And he kissed her harder.
Her hand slides down, palming him through his jeans. Jet jerks, she laughsāsoft and dangerousāthen rocks forward, grinding slow and every deliberate inch of friction until his head tips back with a choked curse, his grip on her hips turns bruising.
āStill think youāre winning?ā she breathes against his jaw, voice smug.
Jetās laughs, dark and breathless. āIām not the one shaking.ā
Azulaās hand tightens in his hair, yanks his head back to crash her mouth on his neck. All tongue and teeth and breath now, desperate, tasting like the edge of something neither of them could name.
Jet breaks it first, holding her face against his, just enough to rasp against her lips, āSay it.ā
Her gold eyes locks on his, pupils blown, lips swollen and red. āYouāre mine to break,ā she hisses at him smiling, then kissed him again like she means to prove it.
Theyāre losing it. Right there. Between dusty stacks and fluorescent lights. Jet doesnāt care. He wants moreāwants to flip her onto the table, wants to hear her say his name like a curse, wantsā
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured. The unmistakable squeak of sensible orthopedic shoes against marble.
Azula freezes first, head snapping toward the sound even as Jet keeps kissing the side of her neckārelentless, oblivious, lips dragging hot and open over her pulse.
Madam librarianāMs. Ping, terror of the third floor, enforcer of the two-book-limit and nemesis of anyone under twenty-fiveārounds the end of the aisle, nose already already buried in her inventory tablet.
Azula yanks back so fast she nearly topples the chair. Jetās hands shoot up like heās been electrocuted, palms out in universal surrender. His hoodie rucks halfway up his stomach. Azulaās lipstick smears across his mouth, his chin, his neck. They look exactly like what they are: two idiots about to be banned for life.
Ms. Ping pauses ten feet away. Doesnāt look up yet.
Azula smoothes her blouse with calm fingers that betray nothing. Jet drags his fingers across his hair, and pulls his sweats down, heart slamming so loud heās sure the librarian could hear it.
The older woman finally lifts her gaze. Eyes narrow behind thick glasses.
āSnack break is over,ā she says flatly. Her eyes linger on Jetās face, sees red lipstick streaks on his face and knows whatās up, then slides to Azula, then back again. A long, weary sigh escapes her. āAnd if I see one more crumpled energy bar wrapperāor any otherā¦ evidenceāon my tables, youāre both writing apologies to the preservation committee. In triplicate!ā
Neither Jet nor Azula move for a full ten seconds.
Miss Ping shakes her head once, muttering under her breath, āIrresponsible youth these daysā¦ā before turning sharply and walking away.
Then Azula exhales, slow and shaky. She looks at him and something flickers in her gold eyes that isnāt just heat. Confusion, maybe. Want. The same thing twisting hard in Jet's chest.
He licks his lower lip, tasting the last trace of her lipstick, voice a wreck. "We should... probably not do that again."
Azula arches one perfect brow. "Agreed." But her eyes twinkle, dark and suggestive.
She fixes her hair, gathers her expensive coat and satchel without breaking eye contact, composure snapping back into place like armor.
Jetās head tips back against the wall, breathing hard, still tasting herācoffee, spite, and something dangerously sweet on his tongue. Wondering how the hell hating someone could start to feel so much like falling.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sees the smear of red lipstick across his knuckles, smilesāand leaves it there on purpose.
They stare at each other for a beat, then she turns and walks away, as if nothing happened at all.
āSoā¦ā His voice comes out rough, smug. āSee you on the next snack break?ā
Azula pauses mid-stride, halfway to the aisle. She turns just enough to look at him. Eyes dragging from his mussed hair down to the rumpled hoodie, then back to the blatant lipstick stains painting his mouth and chin like war paint he refuses to clean off.
She arches one perfect brow.
āYou wishā¦ā
āIāll be at theāuhā¦ā He clears his throat, voice dropping low. āThe old periodicals section.ā He nods vaguely toward the shadowed aisles. āNobody goes there. Dusty as hell. Maybe convince me more about how trickle-down economy actually works?ā
Azulaās golden eyes narrowing just a fractionāsmirks, then turns without a word and continues walking, fancy boots clicking sharp against the marble until the heavy door clicks shut behind her.
@atlararepairmonth
***End Notes
Obviously for this prompt, Jet and Azula are each otherās āsnacksā. š¤āš½
For some reason Jet, even in canon reminds me of Han Solo. So I kinda channeled his persona to this modern atla jetzula oneshot (And the jetzula fic Iām currently working on, The Long Way Back)
I just realizedā¦ Han Solo did fall for a āprincessā Leia!!! ā„ļø
After a rather eventful diplomatic trip, Amabssador Mai is finally home at the Southern Water Tribe.
Istaqa: You're back! I missed you so much.
Mai: Istaqa, beloved. I missed you as well.
Most times she comes home it's like this, with tired eyes and few words left. He knows exactly what to do to help her feel at ease.
Mai: This batch is delicious, I am loving the spicy flavor.
Istaqa: I'm glad you like it, care for some five flavor soup? I got the Kyoshi Island corn you like with it.
She smiles and nods, finding her hand softly held. He presses a kiss to her forehead before getting her soup.
Mai: I don't wanna get too into it. I just wish they stopped sending mercenaries after me.
It's been a recurring thing for the past year, getting attacked by some extremist groups, as if she were solely responsible for the fire nation's shift towards non warmongering politics.
Istaqa: I'm here for you. If you wanna talk about it later.
He once again holds her hand, making sure to rub little circles on it.
Istaqa: my sweet raven...
He trails off as they both make their way to the couch. She knows what he means to say but doesn't have to. He knows when she needs silence.
Mai: Thank you.
Istaqa: Always.
The cuddles and the feeling of being held are familiar to her by now, but no less comforting. Here in this embrace she finds the space to relax, and be loved.
He presses a kiss to her temple. And a soft one to her lips. There is no rush. No pesky schedule. They can simply be.
Rating: General Audiences
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender (Cartoon)
Categories: F/F
Relationship: Azula/Jiang
While running from her brother's guards, Azula hides away in the hold of a ship, only to get stuck with a crew of Earth Kingdom pirates with an annoyingly charming captain.
ATLA Mayday Rarepair Month Week 3 -Ā Unwanted Travel Companions
@atlararepairmonth
post-canon jetzuki for @atlararepairmonth week 4: royal pains ft. Bodyguards!Jet & Suki teaming up to keep their girlfriend from doing something stupid
Jet's finally got his in into the Forbidden City, but the more he learns about the leader of the Kyoshi Warriors the less adds up. He's looked into the mirror often enough to recognize a liar. Moreover, this "Suki" reminds Jet of someone else...
Gaining the ear of the Earth King, or rather: the true power behind the throne, is slow-going. In the meantime, Azula's got her on a rebel from the Lower Ring. Resistance Leaders are quite pesky she knows going over occupation reports. Azula could have gotten rid of him a long time ago, but chances are a new head would simply replace his. Why not keep this much more handsome one, turn him into her inside man and destroy future resistance from the inside?
Seducing the other to gain leverage or intel. Everyone knows that love is for fools.
Whoever first came up with Jetzula deserves the nobel prize for literature. Truth be to told i find it hard not to imagine Azula running circles around Jet, but maybe she found some convoluted reason to keep him alive, or maybe they meet post-finale with Jet a little more experienced and Azula a little more off her step.
The Jasmine Dragon smells of fresh boba pearls and steaming oolong, the same comforting blend that once hid Zuko's identity behind the name "Lee." Now the scent feels like coming full circle.
Zuko arrives a day early with Iroh to prepare the shop for closing. Later in the afternoon, the shop will shut its doors to the public. Only Team Avatar (plus Ty Lee, an honorary member) is welcomed for one last, private afternoon of tea and goodbyes before everyone scatters to rebuild their nations. It might be months, even years, before they all gather again.
Security is tight. Guards vet every customer with efficiency. Only those with special couponsāhandwritten by Iroh himselfāare allowed inside. Zuko slips back into the old routine easily. Apron tied, sleeves rolled, moving trays. No one stares at the scar anymore. They bow instead. "Your Majesty," they murmur as he pours. Itās strange. Nice, in a way. Exhausting, in another.
Before the arrival of their guests, the crowd is already thinning. Only a handful of tables remain occupied when the bell above the door chimes again.
Zuko turns, tray balanced on one palmāand nearly drops it.
Jin stands at the doorway. šš½
She looks almost exactly the same: Dark hair swept into a loose braid, simple green tunic, that same soft, curious smile. The coupon in her hand is creased; it was the one he gave her that night. The guards vetted and cleared her.
She looks around the huge tea shop, and her eyes find him immediately.
"Hello, Lee," she says quietly. Then, after a beat, "Or should I sayā¦ Your Majesty?"
The tray trembles. Zuko sets it down on the nearest table with more force than intended. The porcelain clinks.
"Jin."
She tilts her head, studying him. "You lookā¦ different. But also the same."
He swallows. "IāI'm sorry. Forā¦ everything. Back then."
Jin gives a small shrug, the motion almost gentle. "You disappeared. I thought maybe I imagined the whole thing."
Zuko, speechless at the sight of her.
Here she isāThe girl who once accepted him stripped of his titles, who looked past the scar that still makes most people flinch or stare, who laughed at his awkward attempts at normal conversation and kissed him like the war, the Fire Nation, and the Avatar were things that happened to other people.
She saw something in āLeeā worth liking: the quiet boy who poured tea with careful hands, who lit lanterns with secret fire just to make her smile, who listened when she talked about her family and her dreams without once interrupting to prove how important he was. In those stolen hours she chose himānot the prince, not the exile, not the weapon his father tried to forge. Just him. And that acceptance feels like the first real breath he has taken since coming to Ba Sing Se with his uncle.
But it was all a lie.
It was part of him, yet never truly him.
The gentleness she remembers, the shy smiles, the way he let himself be vulnerable for one fragile eveningāthose things were real in the moment, yes, but they were built on sand. Every word he spoke to her was filtered through a false name and a fabricated past. Every glance he gave her carried the weight of secrets he could never share. He let her fall for a version of himself that could never survive the daylight of truth. The scar she hadnāt minded back then? Itās the brand of his failure, his shame, his fatherās rageāand it marks the exact line where āLeeā ended and Prince Zuko began.
The boy who kissed her goodnight under lantern light vanished the second he remembered who he really was. A fugitive with blood on his conscience, a young man hunted by his own nation, a soul still burning with questions he cannot answer. What she loved, what she almost believed in, was a ghost he wears like a borrowed coat. Warm for a night, but never his to keep.
He stands there, teapot forgotten in his hand, and feels the old familiar ache rise behind his ribs. The knowledge that the person she wants never truly existed, and the person he becomes might never be worthy of anyone looking at him the way she once did.
Her gaze flicks past him, toward the back of the shop where Iroh laughs with a departing patron.
"Your uncle's tea really is the best in the city. I keep coming back, hoping to see you here again. Then the war ends, and the rumors start. The Fire Prince was the tea server all along." She laughs under her breath. "I thought people were making it up. Looking at you nowā¦"
A beat of silence stretches between them.
Then the door at the back opensālouder this time. Aang bounds in first, glider staff over his shoulder, followed by Sokka complaining about the walk, Toph stomping dramatically, Suki keeping pace with her, Katara carrying a small satchel, and Ty Lee twirling in last.
They freeze when they see Zuko standing stock-still, staring at the girl in green.
Aangās eyes dart between them. A slow, knowing smile curves. "Doā¦ you two know each other?"
They both answer at the same time;
Zuko "Yes."
Jin "No."
Jin recovers first. She glances at the group of heroes, clearly in awe of them but keeps her composure. Something flickers in her expression: resignation, maybe a little sadness perhaps, but mostly quiet acceptance.
"He used to be a guy who served me tea," she says softly. "Best server in Ba Sing Se." She meets Zuko's eyes one last time.
"Goodbye, Lee."
She turns and walks out, the bell chiming softly behind her.
Katara watches her go, "She called you Lee. Maybe mistook you for someone else?"
Zuko doesnāt answer right away.
She shrugs, giving him the space he needs, turns to a nearby table and begins gathering empty cups. Suki tugs her aside with a conspiratorial grin. The two slip away toward the far corner of the room, where Katara gently reminds Toph not to prop her bare feet up on the table againāespecially not while people are still eating.
Sokka slides up, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. "Soā¦ Who was that?"
Zuko exhales. "She asked me out once. Uncle basically forced me to go. Butā¦ I had a good time."
Zuko rubs the back of his neck. "It didnāt work out." He says instead. "I wasnāt ready. And she didnāt know who I really amāwhat she was getting intoā¦"
Sokka studies him for a second, then claps on Zuko's shoulder. Solid. Understanding. "I'm telling you, manāit's that scar of yours. Total heartbreaker material."
Zuko rolls his eyes, gives Sokka an exasperated sigh.
But as he turns back to the counter to pour fresh tea for his friends, the words linger.
What could have been.
He thinks of Jin walking away down the streetāalone again, carrying the same unanswered questions she had the night he ran. He thinks of the fountain lights he lit with forbidden fire, the way she smiled like the world was simple and kind.
He thinks of how much has changed since then. How much heās changed.
Maybe itās better this way. Clean. No lies between them anymore.
Still.
Zuko sets the teapot down a little harder than necessary.
Iroh appears at his side, two fresh cups in hand. "Some paths cross only once, nephew," he says quietly.
"Othersā¦ circle back when you're ready."
Zuko glances toward the door. "I wasnāt ready then."
"And now?"
Zuko says nothing. Instead, he looks across the table at his friends. His eyes locking on that one person he wants to be ready for.
He steadies the kettle, letting the tea spill out in a thin, swirling plume that rises like a promise of second chances.
With the tray balanced in his hands, he walks to the table where his friends sit, eyes bright with anticipation, ready to savor whatever moments remain before lifeās growing duties pull them away.
Notice I wrote, that one person he wants to be ready for. I kept it open for those who want to ship Zuko with whoever š
@atlararepairmonth Week 3: Good Cop, Bad Cop & Unwanted Travel Companions
Also inspired by @chiefbeifongcanrailme, who challenged me to try writing Lin/Baatar Sr. (I'm running with the idea that he falls head over heels for whichever Bae-fong sister he sees first)
To say that Baatar Guo had anticipated some unpleasantness while assisting his father and brother on an out-of-town job was at minimum an understatement. A few late nights revising blueprints by lamplight while Altan explored the city's nightlife or a handful of apologies and bonus wages to the building crews kept late until his father was satisfied with the day's work were well within his wheelhouse. But being grilled for facts by a muse in metal armor whose jadite stare alone was enough petrify him like a clay pot in a kiln was far beyond what he had bargained for.
"What was stolen?" Detective Beifong repeated, sounding far more impatient this time than the last. "Quickly."
"M-my father's designs and blueprints were all missing when we got back from dinner."
The detective exhaled a puff of air through her nostrils, as though trying to collect herself. "That's it?" she asked. "Blueprints? No contraband or bejeweled dragon eggs?"
"Just blueprints," Baatar replied, scratching the back of his head.
"Unbelievable." Lin sighed again. "To think the chief would pull me off a serial murder case over some drawings? What were these blueprints even for?"
"The new bridge downtown. My father was thinking of naming it after Avatar Yangchen. You know, to match the Kyoshi Bridge in Harmony Point?" Baatar chuckled weakly under the weight of her steely scowl. "Although Councilman Sokka put a clause in the contract that says he gets final say over the name."
At this, Lin cracked a whisper of a smile despite herself. "He would say that, wouldn't he?" she replied, then glanced up, seeming to resign herself to the matter. "I assume you're Altan Guo the younger, then. You should have led with that. Where's your father? He might have some clues about potential suspects."
Baatar adjusted his glasses. "He's at Republic General, actually. The shock of everything made his blood pressure spike and he just...collapsed.""
To Baatar's extreme surprise, Detective Beifong rested a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Know that he's receiving the best care our city has to offer. You should be with him. Our department will get to the bottom of this."
Baatar shook his head. "No, he would throw his shoe at me if I just sat by his bedside while someone makes off with his greatest work. Besides, my brother's with him. Or supposed to be, anyway. He might have gone back to that Oasis club after all."
"Doesn't sound like the easiest family," she said in a subdued tone.
Baatar shrugged. "It's the one I have."
"I know the type." Detective Beifong smiled ruefully and then removed her hand from his shoulder. "Take a seat, Altan," she said, gesturing to the couch before them. "I want you to walk me through everything that happened from the moment you set foot in Republic City."
"Yes, of course. Whatever you need," Baatar said as he sat beside her in the hotel lobby. "But I should tell you first--"
She tilted her head to the side, her features just as stunning in profile. Baatar's fingers twitched with the desire to sketch her. "Yes?"
"M-my name is actually Baatar. Altan and Altan are my father and older brother."
At this, Detective Beifong chuckled. "It took you entirely too long to say so."
"People usually don't ask."
"Well, I'm Lin by the way. Detective Lin Beifong, RCPD. And I am going to find your father's blueprints and catch my serial killer."
Baatar didn't doubt it. Even a nonbender like him could tell she was a force of nature. And man had always been weak to the elements.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender (Cartoon 2005)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Bato/Jee (Avatar)
Characters: Bato (Avatar), Jee (Avatar), Southern Water Tribe Characters (Avatar)
Additional Tags: ATLA Rare Pair Month 2026, Unwanted Travel Companions, Enemies to Lovers, Drunken Kissing, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Post-Season/Series Finale, Post-100 Year War (Avatar: The Last Airbender)
Summary:
Written for ATLA Rare Pair Month 2026
Unwanted Travel Companions
Bato is released from prison along with his fellow men, they are invited to the Fire Nation.
He gets on a small ship headed into enemy territory in the hope of reuniting with Katara and Sokka, there he meets a Fire-bender without hostility for the first time.
Hunter or Prey
Rating: General Audiences
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender (Cartoon)
Categories: F/F
Relationship: Azula/Suki
A woman is hunted through the woods. But who is the hunter and who is the prey? And what happens when she is caught?
ATLA Mayday Rarepair Month Week 2 - The Hunted
@atlararepairmonth
germansingergirl
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
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