Wanted to do some flash panel edits before the finale~ I might do Mako/Bolin/Asami, but for now here’s Korra in the Avatar State!

I needed to get this out of my system so it’s really rough. I just really like drawing god tier Korra you guys. I mean look even the avatar state has white eyes like hope…





What scares him the most is her eyes. 

“…the hell is going on?” Mako’s muttering from beside him. His expression is complete incredulity and a tossing of dear spirits save us, like maybe he’s imagining the fact that their teammate’s just gone ballistic and luminescent.

There’s wind whipping around her in a wide sphere, and they’re kind of safe on the interior but heonly wishes he could see her eyes through the pale blue glow, see that this is Korra, the same Korra who matches him punch for punch and has a laugh like she can take on the world with two hands tied behind her back. 

Little droplets of water, like mist against his skin, are battered around inside the still-expanding sphere along with feathery shreds of rock that tear at his cheeks when they whip past and enough heat to make his skin flush painfully. He has a creeping, sinking feeling that maybe she can’t control it - whatever it is - because there’s a ring of fire forming around her and he can’t really breathe, and he thinks the ground is shaking but can’t really be sure because he can’t ever remember feeling so unstable while standing on solid, hard earth.

Korra’s head is dropped back, her mouth slightly open, hair in complete and utter disarray around her face. She looks vulnerable like this, her shoulders dropped back limply to bare her chest, and he know her heart is still beating in there but still he prays prays prays to any god or spirit or whatever who cares to listen.  

He tries to take a step forward towards her, but his knees sort of buckle under the force of the wind - it’s coming from all sides even though he knows that’s not really possible, bearing down on him like a physical weight - and he sort of stumbles feebly to the side.  His brother catches him by the bicep and pulls him back into his original spot, giving Bolin a look that clearly and chidingly says what the hell are you doing, you idiot? 

“It’s Korra,” says Bolin, and his voice is snatched away by the rippling wind - he can no longer tell if it’s air or water or what - but he’s pretty sure Mako gets his point.  ”Korra.”

He staggers forward again, inching cautiously over the quivering ground, at one point trying to bend the rock underfoot into some sort of support-boots and failing. He realizes in the back of his head that Mako must be following after him, because there’s a presence at his back that can only be his lanky, looming brother, but then he’s up close enough to the ring of fire that his eyebrows are singed and the moisture in his mouth is stamped out by the intense heat. 

Ducking under the rapidly-spinning fire whip is probably not the best idea that Bolin’s ever had, but he goes for it anyways, holding his breath and folding low before he has time to think it through; because he trusts her, even when she’s like this and she might not really be her. 

In the next moment he’s right up under her, his face level with her stomach, and this must be like some sort of eye-of-the-storm for whatever this freaky Avatar thing that’s going on is, because he’s never been in so still an environment in his life. He waits for a heartbeat to watch her take a breath, then reaches out and takes one of her wrists in both of his hands, his arms angled upwards so that all the blood drains out but really he doesn’t notice even when his fingertips tingle. 

“Come on, Korra,” he says, earnest and desperate and more than a little panicked beyond all semblance of control. “Come on back, now.”

She doesn’t acknowledge him, doesn’t so much as move or flinch or anything. Bolin looks back, and Mako’s still a safe distance from the ring of fire, his face hidden behind the wind - because it’s more full of water and rocks now, and churning so fast it could create some sort of cyclone. 

Bolin’s clothes whip around him, air filling his shirt and mussing his hair so violently that he can’t see worth half a cup of tea as he abandons Korra’s wrist and instead wraps his arms as far around her waist as they’ll go, crushing her to him so that her legs hang awkwardly against his chest and his face is pressed into her ribcage.

He murmurs, his mouth moving against the wooly fabric of her shirt, and he wishes he knew what he was saying, but for the life of him he can’t think straight, and it’s not even logical to try and hear anymore. He keeps talking, his voice low and soothing and shaky and feeble, until the wind starts to slow and he can breathe properly and Korra goes boneless in his arms and slides down so quickly he barely has time to catch her.

For a moment everything is silent, and his ears ring, and his eyes are still squeezed shut like he has to keep them closed against the flying debris and the dear spirits no, not Korra too. 

Then Korra stirs, and he feels her heartbeat, strong and steady against his chest, and she opens her eyes and there’s that sparkle, that I dare you to try and stop me that he loves so damn much it hurts. He smiles a little, and she still looks like she’s just been thrown out a seventh-story window and into a herd of stampeding ostrich-horses, but she asks, her voice sort of slurred, ”Did we get ‘em?” 

And he has to answer, “Yeah. Yeah, you got ‘em.”

Bolin, I will never not love you.