The problem with Azula ships is that they're never codependent enough, Azula should be the most codependent person ever she should be allergic to getting into healthy relationships
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 lowest floor of Ba Sing Se University Library feels more like a crypt in the late afternoon. Shelves stretch up like silent monoliths, their spines exhaling the faint scent of aging paper and dust. Every now and then a lone chair sighs under its own weight, a protest that no one has ever bothered to silence. Most students have already slipped out to the bustling campus cafés or retreated to their dorm rooms for a break, leaving only the truly desperate, or perhaps the masochistic—still hunched over their textbooks
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 he’s here on a need‑based 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 does—without 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." 👇🏽
They've been circling each other for months—debate 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 it’s 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 perfume—something expensive and smoky—slid into his space. When they were forced to collaborate on a project, his knee accidentally brushed hers under the table. She didn’t 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?”
He smirks at her and looks her up and down. “Why 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 don’t need this pathetic school, remember? Or maybe it’s easier for you to just pay your way through graduation?”Jet's voice comes out rougher than he meant.
She leans in until their faces were inches apart. "Maybe I just like… watching you squirm."
Maybe he likes it too.
"If you hate me that much why are you still here?” He adds with a knowing smile.
They don’t know who moved first—probably 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 he’s 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 laughs—soft and dangerous—then 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.
“Still think you’re winning?” she breathes against his jaw, voice smug.
Jet’s laughs, dark and breathless. “I’m not the one shaking.”
Azula’s 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, “Say it.”
Her golden eyes lock onto his, pupils blown, lips swollen and red. “You’re mine to break,” she hisses at him smiling, then kissed him again like she means to prove it.
They’re losing it. Right there. Between dusty stacks and fluorescent lights. Jet doesn’t care. He wants more—wants to flip her onto the table, wants to hear her say his name like a curse, wants—
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 neck—relentless, oblivious, lips dragging hot and open over her pulse.
Madam librarian—Ms. Ping, terror of the third floor, enforcer of the two-book-limit and nemesis of anyone under twenty-five—rounds the end of the aisle, nose already already buried in her inventory tablet.
Azula yanks back so fast she nearly topples the chair. Jet’s hands shoot up like he’s been electrocuted, palms out in universal surrender. His hoodie rucks halfway up his stomach. Azula’s 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. Doesn’t 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 he’s sure the librarian could hear it.
The older woman finally lifts her gaze. Eyes narrow behind thick glasses.
“Snack break is over,” she says flatly. Her eyes linger on Jet’s face, sees red lipstick streaks on his face and knows what’s up, then slides to Azula, then back again. A long, weary sigh escapes her. “And if I see one more crumpled energy bar wrapper—or any other… evidence—on my tables, you’re both writing apologies to the preservation committee. In triplicate!”
Neither Jet nor Azula move for a full ten seconds.
Miss Ping shakes her head once, muttering under her breath, “Irresponsible youth these days…” before turning sharply and walking away.
Then Azula exhales, slow and shaky. She looks at him and something flickers in her gold eyes that isn’t 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.
Jet’s head tips back against the wall, breathing hard, still tasting her—coffee, 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, smiles—and 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.
“So…” His voice comes out rough, smug. “See you on the next snack break?”
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.
“You wish…”
“I’ll be at the—uh…” He clears his throat, voice dropping low. “The old periodicals section.” He nods vaguely toward the shadowed aisles. “Nobody goes there. Dusty as hell. Maybe convince me more about how trickle-down economy actually works?”
Azula’s golden eyes narrowing just a fraction—smirks, 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 other’s ‘snacks’. 🤭✌🏽
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 I’m currently working on, The Long Way Back)
I just realized… Han Solo did fall for a ‘princess’ Leia!!! ♥️
