#atla ff

[chaichai-draws]

Sometimes a family is a put out Earth Kingdom Captain and his three teenaged bullies

Go Team Steam! I’m running out of chapters in @lovelyelbowleech ‘s fic War Crimes…

[iamfina5]

Hidden Amongst the Dragons

Summary:

Love and loyalty are often at odds in a world at war. For Sokka, there was never a choice to be made.

Sokka meets his soulmate just as he throws himself into the fray of the Hundred Year War at the side of his sister and Avatar Aang. Devastated to find his other half on the side of the Fire Nation, he stands steadfast in opposition to their tyrannical rule, even when he finds himself behind enemy lines.

Book Three: Love Amongst the Dragons

First Prev

Sokka spends his sixteenth birthday imprisoned in one of the many lavish rooms in the earth king’s besieged palace. He is pretty sure that the room in which he has been living for the past few days used to belong to a woman considering all of the dresses that line the closet. All of the occupants of the palace had been forcibly evicted when Ba Sing Se had fallen to Zuko and Azula. The Dai Li had torn down long stretches of the city’s outer wall, allowing Fire Nation troops to pour into the city. From what Sokka has learned by listening to the idle gossip of the remaining palace servants, there has been pushback from the citizens, but only in the Lower Ring. The Middle Ring had surrendered quietly, and there are plenty of recreant aristocrats in the Upper Ring already cozying up to Azula and other high-ranking Fire Nation officials.

The whole situation makes his blood boil. He cannot believe a city as great and well-armored as Ba Sing Se fell to three teenagers who had decided to infiltrate it on a whim. What’s worse is that they had impersonated the Kyoshi Warriors to do it, which means that Suki and her comrades are probably locked up in some spirits-forsaken prison in the Fire Nation.

Sokka’s other friends are surely suffering, as well. While Toph had managed to rescue the earth king and his pet bear from Ty Lee and Mai, he cannot imagine they are experiencing any sort of good luck given what had happened in the catacombs.

Aang had died, and the reincarnation cycle along with him.

Lying slumped on his borrowed bed with tears blurring his vision, Sokka wonders where his sister had chosen to bury the last avatar. Had she returned to Chameleon Bay and done a sea burial? Did she prepare an Air Nomad funeral? What was an Air Nomad funeral even like, he ponders. Aang had promised to tell them when they were old and gray and the information would have actually been appropriate to know.

He is pulled away from his thoughts when the rap of someone’s knuckles sounds at the door. Rolling his eyes, he stays put.

Every morning and night for the last three days, Zuko has come by in an attempt to coax Sokka out of his room. For whatever reason, Zuko keeps inviting him to breakfast and dinner with his sister and her friends, but Sokka has rebuffed him every single time. Zuko always sounds like a kicked seal-puppy whenever Sokka tells him to go away through the door, though why he thinks that Sokka would like to share a meal with his captors and someone who murdered his friend is beyond him.

This morning, he doesn’t even bother to respond, hoping that Zuko will take the hint without them having to engage in conversation. Unluckily for him, Zuko also tries something new this morning: he comes into Sokka’s room without permission.

Immediately, Sokka jumps up from the bed, taking up a defensive stance. Logically, he knows that Zuko is not going to attack him, but he reasons that he feels assaulted by Zuko’s mere presence. Glaring at Zuko, he takes in his current state of dress, so different from what it had been a few days ago. When before he had donned a somewhat grungy, brown and yellow smock, now he wears the finery of a prince. The clothing is superior even to that which he had worn in exile, which had mostly consisted of worn battle armor. Now, his robes are made of silk, colored in burgundy and mahogany. The ensemble is lined with various gold designs in the shapes of flames. To top it off, his boots are particularly baroque. The toes are pointed upwards, and gold runs all the way from his ankles to his knees.

“Look,” Zuko starts before Sokka can think of anything to say. His head is half-bowed as he speaks, as though he knows he is not in Sokka’s good graces.  “I know you’re mad at me and you don’t want to talk right now—”

“No shit,” Sokka barks, cutting him off. “Why wouldn’t I be mad at someone who betrayed me so they could help their insane sister kill my friend, who was the last hope for the world!”

Taking the bait, Zuko responds to Sokka rather than proceeding with whatever he had come into the room to say. “I didn’t know Azula was going to do that, okay?”

Crossing his arms, Sokka yells, incredulous, “You didn’t know?”

Clenching his fists in typical-Zuko fashion, Zuko grits his teeth and mutters, “No. I only ever wanted to capture the avatar—”

“Well, what the fuck did you think was going to happen after that,” Sokka exclaims, reaching his boiling point. “Did you really think your dad was just going to indefinitely imprison the avatar?” Brow raised, he pretends to wait for Zuko’s answer to his rhetorical question. When no such answer comes, Zuko’s gaze pinned to the floor, he proceeds, “No! He was always going to kill him.”

Blowing out a rough breath, he concedes, “Alright, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, but—”

“But what,” Sokka shouts, ferociously cutting Zuko off. He is panting—having been exerted by their argument—and glaring at him hard, as though daring him to say something more about Aang.

“Look,” Zuko says again, starting over from when he had come through the door. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but I only came in here because I wanted to tell you that we’re leaving today.”

“Great,” Sokka replies, feeling genuinely pleased, though he maintains the fury in his tone. “Bye, see you never.”

Frustration rippling across his face, Zuko amends, “No, I mean, we’re leaving today.”

Like a bucket of ice, the meaning of Zuko’s words crashes over him, and Sokka starts waving his arms to convey his objection. “No, no way. I am not going to the Fire Nation.”

Zuko takes a step closer to him. “Sokka, come on. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Keep Reading

[bernard-the-rabbit]

i like those ff where zuko gets paid minimum wage

[comradekatara]

suki suki suki suki suki

[sun-snatcher]

YOUR MEDIC!READER X JET HAS BREATHED LIFE INTO ME. MAKE THEM HOLD HANDS. I BEG. THE PINING IS INSANE. The atla jet fandom is DRY so you're doing god's work out here 😭 😭 (Or anything tbh! I'm absolutely in love with your writing 😭❤️)

🌾 ・ HAND IN LOVING HAND

summ. Jet comes into a dawning realisation. It starts with a mission gone wrong. pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader w.count. 0.7k ( just a blurb! ) a/n. Ask and you shall receive! I’m so glad you love medic!reader as much as I do!

He figures, later, that it might have started with Operation: Creeping Cricket. 

Courtesy to Smellerbee for the unique mission name, ofcourse. 

That had involved, to date: A handful of Freedom Fighters itching for a fight, an imprisoned pair of orphan twins they’d planned to break out, a couple of dumb Fire Nation spies, and the leaky walls they called the borders of Omashu. 

Except, ofcourse, it wouldn’t be a mission without a series of unfortunate events, of which occurred: a storm that changed Sneers’ accurately-predicted course of said Fire Nation spies, which meant their little hostages that they’d come to rescue would be headed down a different path, which also meant their traps lining on the trail towards the borders of Omashu— that The Duke had spent a frustratingly long amount of time setting up— would be rendered useless.

They settled on a brute force ambush instead, much to your disdain; you were, after all, a better healer than you were a fighter.

“This was a terrible—!” You pause to dodge a burst of white hot flames from a Fire Nation soldier. The rain is quick to dampen their efforts, luckily for you. “This was a terrible plan, Jet!”

He strains to hear you underneath the torrent. “Don’t blame me, Pipsqueak started it! Duck!”

You duck. Another spy crumples behind you, thanks to the swing of Jet’s tiger blades, and as the soldier lands on the ground— that’s when you notice it; the quaking rumble of earth, the jumping of stones.

Earth Kingdom Guards have caught wind.

In the distance, Longshot produces a birdcall from high above— shrill and piercing, one that’s rarely ever been used amongst the rebellion— a warning. Retreat. The Freedom Fighters are outnumbered. Scatter. 

The ground erupts beneath you, and you scream. You practically sweep Jet off his feet as you snatch his hand and take off to higher ground to avoid the rising tempest. Hot on your heels, both of you can feel the snap and crackle of roots tearing deep underneath as the kingdom guards begin their manhunt. 

“Quick!” you urge, as he trips over his footing. You glance at him over your shoulder, giving him a squeeze in your intertwined fingers as you check, “Hey, you hurt?”

“I— uh, no,” he stumbles, for some reason. Nothing but superficial cuts and bruises, anyway. He’ll live. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

It could’ve been minutes or an hour of just running, he isn’t quite sure— he’s too busy noting how your hands fit awfully perfect against his, and how despite the rain and muck, you still managed to look... collected. (Collected, he thinks, because he refused to admit anything unforgivably romantic.) Jet lets himself be led across the maze of woodland and grass, and catches himself wondering whether the hand holding had been a conscious move at all.

At the time, he’d decided it didn’t matter. 

It shouldn’t, Jet had reasoned to himself, as you tugged him underneath an overhang and into a hidden crevice. Beyond the roguish charm and borderline flirtatious jokes he liked to play at— both of you were, at the end of the day, amidst an unending war. You were the Rebellions’ resident medic, and he was their token leader. There was no time to entertain fairytales and pipedreams.

“I think we lost them,” you pant, peeking over. “Do you think the others are okay?”

Jet looks at you, fights back the urge to tuck the rain-wet strands of your hair behind your ear so he can see your face better; how the light hits your profile and sets your eyes alight, down to the tip of your nose, and to your mud-stained cheeks. Collected. Capable, he reminds himself. Not pretty. Not pretty. Not—

“What’s wrong?” you ask, when you’d caught his gaze. “Jet?”

“Ah. Uh, nothing,” he blinks away— too fast; too quick to hide the obvious lie. “The others can handle themselves. Let’s, let’s wait for the storm to pass.”

This is simply camaraderie, he’d convinced himself, and stifled down the barb of disappointment that crept in him when you were the first to finally let go.

Right?

[azural83]

The recent wave of movies/shows that go on a "tell don't show" route because people behind them think consumers are too stupid to understand a thing on their own makes me appreciate arcane more than I did before

[rennelelorren]

Why do people hating on zutara that much even after all this years I'll never understand.

Also I'll never understand how people act as if zutara is the worst ship in this fandom. And the most problematic (tho no-one bat an eye when it's zukka) by the way how people literally despise it and throwing all those little tantrums.

And to me it seems like people know nothing about all the ugly, dirty and horrible ships that exist in this saint (at first glance) fandom.

How about Ozai/Zuko, Ozai/Azula, Azula/Zuko, Ozai/Hakoda, Ozai/Kya, Ozai/Hakoda/Kya, Jee/Zuko, Zhao/Zuko, Zhao/Azula?

So, is zutara still the worst ship?

Like REALLY

[madeby-meru]

"all that netflix is doing is baiting they arent gonna make zutara canon dont get your hopes up!!" YES AND ???? AND ???? I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK !!! I KNOW AND I DONT CARE !!! I LIVE FOR THE BAIT I LIVE FOR EVERY INTERACTION I BE GOBBLING THAT SHIT UP I BE EATING THE CRUMBS FROM THE FLOOR ÑOM ÑOM ÑOM

[1v31182m5]

WIP

[eternal-moss]

When people continually whitewash my favourite characters.

[ID: A black and white, rough digital drawing of someone sitting at a desk and clutching their head in their hands. End ID.]

^thank you @describe-things

[butterfish03]

MY BABES this is the first of many atla posts I will be making so stay tuned. I have become a Zukka lover its the only thing that makes sense (curse good fanfics). Also 6 year old me was in love with katara in fire nation uniform. I'm open to suggestions on what to draw next btw!!

[aghw18]

Some memes

[bloomballad]

mutuals por favor

idk if people still do these posts LOL but howdy, I'm Bloom & I'm back on this hellsite after a long time away to primarily post my art & writing, but also to just generally have a good time!

please give this a like/reblog if you post:

Critical Role (I'm constantly Mighty Neinposting if that's any help)

Dragon Age

Fire Emblem

Ace Attorney

Final Fantasy

Octopath Traveler

Avatar (both ATLA & LoK)

Pokémon (the games)

Comics (DC & Image)

Animanga (Mainly romance & slice-of-life but also like... Chainsaw Man)

Your art! I'd love to follow & support fellow artists & writers!

thank you!!

[mswyrr]

View on Twitter

[sun-snatcher]

🌾 ・ OF CLARION CALLS

summ. The rebellion runs into trouble, & Jet takes the brunt of it. In the aftermath, you fight to keep him alive. pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader w.count. 1.5k a/n. So little Jet fics/imagines around so i had to take matters into my own hands. Enjoy!

The moonlight casts a halo above your head, and for a brief moment, Jet thinks you’re a divine spirit, perhaps a goddess— or whatever it is his mother used to read to him before bed.

( In some ways, you are. )

…Jet, he hears, distant. He can’t pinpoint exactly where— every sound is either muffled or echoing, and the world keeps tipping in and out of a blur. All he can sense through the haze is the belt of dull pain creeping up his chest, and the cotton-numbness engulfing his head. Right. He’d been shot clean through his armor plate by a wayward arrow after he’d jumped infront of Sneers to protect him. He remembers now, vaguely. It had been an ambush on their way home.

...et, stay with me. 

Jet. 

“Jet!”

The world focuses. He inhales, sharp, and the pain blinds him white as he gasps.

“Easy there, handsome,” you joke (not really), holding his twitching body down and trying to meet his dazed look. The blood is thick enough to taste, and one look is enough to tell he’s walking a tightrope between life or death. He's growing colder, and losing colour by the minute. You make quick work to staunch the gaping wound in his chest, hope he can’t detect the shakiness in your hands, or the tears gathering in your eyes. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Will he?” comes a voice behind the two medics crowding him. It’s Smellerbee, standing at the step of the medical tent; her voice sounds uncharacteristically frightened, and it sends a pang through your heart. I’m fine, Jet instinctively wants to insist, but you answer for him instead. “Yes. He will." ( And, well, surely such a small deception would not count against you, not when it was meant to give the others some measure of peace. )

Jet blinks, finally orienting himself enough to look at you and not through you— and blinks again. You’re lying. He could feel it. He could always tell, whenever it comes to you. 

…Stay, he thinks, suddenly and senselessly, and clasps his bloodied hand around your wrist. He calls your name, voice straining in pain. But he must’ve said it aloud instead, because you’d smiled at him as gently as you could— even when it looked as if the effort of doing so would wound you— and said, calmly, convincingly: I promise, I’m not going anywhere.

“With me?” he asks, again, even when he knows he must’ve sounded like a madman. Perhaps it’s the bloodloss. Likely, it was. It wouldn’t be such a bad end, though, so long as you stood by his side. He wants to tell you this— been wanting to for a long time, now— but the strength has left him, leaving him floating somewhere between the world of waking and dreaming.

“With you,” comes your reply. 

You catch the ghost of his trademark smile just before he slips away.

Jet survives.

That’s the first surprise. 

The second is that; you’re here. Just as you’d promised.

He must have been out for longer than he thinks, because the atmosphere in the medical tent seemed to have ebbed to something much more conducive than last he remembers. The tinctures of alcohol and sedatives surrounding him and his bloody bandages that night are now replaced with dry ingredients; yarrow half-crushed in a mortar and pestle, mixed herbs and colourful liquids corked in tiny bottles and tins he couldn’t begin to name. His armour had been stripped from him, lying above a chest by the corner.

Ever the leader; “Sneers,” is the first word out his mouth, once he’d stirred awake on his cot and recognition returned slowly to him. It’s early sometime in the morning, judging by the colour of the sky outside the tattered tent flaps and the still quietness in the air. Beside him, an incense of sandalwood burns. “Sneers—”

“Is alive, thanks to you,” you override. The faint bitterness in your voice is not lost on him.

Somehow, someway, seeing him conscious now seemed to make you bristle. You think— no, you know— that it’s unfair of you; that it’s simply the pent-up frustrations and stress overflowing from the night he’d been hauled back to camp with one foot in the grave. But Longshot’s harrowing clarion call for a medic from the trees still rings clear as a bell in your head, just as much as the cold shock that had seized you the moment you realised the birdcall was for Jet.

“Good.”

“Not good,” you correct, “Not when you of all people pay the price.”

( Jet doesn’t delude himself into thinking that there could possibly be another meaning to what you said. It would be impossible. ) “You would’ve done the same,” he bites back, and takes your silence as quiet agreement.

“You’re upset,” Jet points out, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

A sigh. “You just woke up,” you dismiss, if only to get him off your scent. “We can talk another day.”

“We’re already here, so let’s settle it now. The mission went well, and as far as I can see, I’m the only one in here, which means nobody else got hurt on the way back but me. Atleast, not as badly.”

It’s a debrief, you recognise. A coping mechanism for him— to spur himself into action and settle himself. Given the stress and trauma his body has been enduring the past days, you let it pass.

It’s only when you shift out from your seat by his cot, standing to begin putting away the bowls of medicine prepared, that Jet realises your fingers had been holding his wrist before. You must have stayed up for, what he can only imagine to be long nights, to keep track on whether his pulse was still beating. ( Something inside his chest burns. He can’t tell if it’s your doing or the injury being fussy. )

“I’m sorry,” he huffs, sighing out. “If that’s what you wanna hear.”

“For what?” You set the mortar down on your table with more force than necessary, and looked at him sharply from over your shoulder. Jet, damn him, still looks at you straight in the eyes, confident as ever. You want to kiss him. You want to break his nose. “For being a hero?”

“No.”

“Playing martyr?”

“No.”

“For saving Sneers? Everyone?”

“No—”

“Then what?”

“For scaring you,” he says, simply.

Your heart starts. 

A frisson runs through you, and you feel the back of your eyes begin to burn.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he emphasises, and doesn’t say, I’m sorry I made you cry, because your prideful self would have denied it instantly, even if he remembers it clear as day. “I’m sorry I put you through that.” 

He yanks at a loose thread on the blanket you’d laid on him a night ago. It must have been terrifying to see him be dragged to the table, half-dead with a broken arrow in his chest, and leave a mess of blood and horror in his wake. It must have been terrifying, indeed, to be the one responsible for him against Death itself— to carry the weight of his life on your shoulders, while the rest of the Freedom Fighters watched on. 

“It’s, it’s my job,” you turn away to close a drawer of medical instruments, because you’re not quite sure you can stand meeting his gaze. Not when it only reminds you of just how much he lived, breathed and bleeds chaos and revolution; not when you know this accident definitely won’t be the last.

You can’t handle him. Or maybe it’s yourself you can’t handle, when it comes to him. “Just, be careful.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he salutes mockingly, albeit with a wince. The flinch is what kicks you back into action.

“You’re staying in bed until you’re better,” you order, curt, ignoring his groan. His wrapped shoulder still seems painfully defiant despite all the numbing you’d given him; it would be a couple of weeks longer before he’d be fully healed, but knowing Jet— he’ll be up performing duties within a week. “That means no strain at all. No scouting or recon or hunting, got it?”

He lulls his head, but there’s a dash of humour on his face. “Since I’m bedridden, does that mean you’re at my every beck and call, then?”

Your face twists. He lets out a laugh when you answer, "In your dreams, Jet."

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

You roll your eyes, though without heat, and place a bowl of fresh water by his side. There is, at the very least, a smile on your face, and Jet’s sure he can sleep well tonight knowing you both are, at the end of the day, okay. 

“Hey,” he calls your name, once you've begun making your way out the tent. You try to ignore how much more sweeter it sounds coming from him. “I really am sorry. I’m serious.”

He had caught your sleeve when he spoke, so your fingers now brush against his. You try not to focus on the touch too much. “So am I.”

“We can’t lose you, Jet,” you continue, unsteady; because saying I can’t lose you would have been unthinkable.

[muffinlance]

i unfortunately don't know the fic you're looking for, BUT i love sleuthing stuff like this out, so i was wondering if you remember anything else about the website the fic was on. like, do you remember if there were other fics on it? I know you said it might have been a small hosting sight or a blog, but if you remember any recognizable features i'd love to look for you!

Please do!

The more I think about it, the more I think it was a small hosting site rather than a personal blog. I remember it having other fics and an index for the series page. Layout was fairly simple, no graphics I can remember (maybe a site logo? Nothing that stands out in my memory), dark background at the time. I remember thinking how many more likes they could have gotten if they were posted on a site with more traffic, because the site felt small to me.

EDIT: STORY FOUND!