I thought of a name for my NaNo novel: Blue Blood. It’s obviously a reference to Fasinis’s aristocratic background, but it’s also a play on Bluebeard, the story it’s based on.
This morning at breakfast, one of my fellow crew team members was discussing how she’s questioning her sexuality. And another, clearly intending to cheer her up, said “Lesbians are awesome. Like, I wish I was one.”
And I know she meant well, but it just hit me like a ton of bricks.
No, you don’t want that.
If your blog is pro-Crystal too, please reblog.
I need more positive SMC blogs on my dash.
You love Sailor Moon Crystal, quirks and all.
You know there are flaws but you love it anyway.
You post positive things about the anime.
Harry Potter text posts
if you aren’t following marniethedog please do yourself a favor and do that right now
This is honestly the best poster I have found in a while supporting breast cancer awareness. I am honestly so sick of seeing, “set the tatas free” and “save the boobies”. There is no reason in hell a life threatening, life ruining disease should be sexualized. “Don’t wear a bra day,” go fuck yourselves. You’re not saving a pair of tits, you’re saving the entire package: mind, body, and soul included. Women are not just a pair of breasts.
Warnings: Ozai/Azula (non-con), self-harm mention
Azula reads headlines proclaiming gore and death with a cynical smile twisting her lips. One red-painted fingernail draws itself along bold words that scream out about a bombing somewhere and casualties in the double-digits; Azula’s smile grows and she flips the paper aside.
“You’re horrible, Azula,” Ty Lee says reproachfully, folding the newspaper up as it should be, her eyes scanning the headline that has just been denounced. She doesn’t admit that it scares her, the way gore and blood and death seem to titillate Azula. Whenever the news is on, Azula watches with a rapt attention, a faint smile on her lips as she hears endless stories of everything going to shit.
“Do you know how many women get raped, Ty Lee?” Azula asks, like it’s the natural thing to ask, like this is normal conversation and she’s just making small talk. The way she asks it sends a shiver down Ty’s spine.
“One in five,” Azula finishes for her, leaning back in her chair and letting out a sigh. Ty Lee lets her gaze linger on those bright red lips. She’s never seen Azula actually reapply makeup. It’s almost as if her mouth has been stained, as if reading about blood has colored her bloody. “One in five.”
Azula’s smile grows, past the realm of unsettling and into downright disturbing, the kind of smile that makes all of her teachers look away, that makes her peers turn away and glance back, not knowing whether to laugh or scream.
“Don’t be a statistic,” Azula says, her voice sing-song as she reaches for a textbook in lieu of the newspaper.
Every time he sees her now, Zuko can’t stand being around his sister. It feels like there’s something in the air around her, some kind of poison that ebbs from her skin and infects everything around her. It only takes a few seconds in her presence for his stomach to turn and his skin to crawl. He can’t stand the way she smiles, the way she laughs. It feels like she’s laughing at him.
“How’s college?” He’ll never know how she manages to lay so many barbs in such a simple question. Her voice mocks him.
“I’m so excited for the holidays. Father’s throwing a party for all of the higher-ups in the company. I’ll have to get dressed up and smile and act like I care what all of them have to say. But at least the food should be good. I’m sure you’re excited too, right?”
How does Azula manage to look so innocent, like she’s actually sincere? Zuko hates the eagerness in her bright golden eyes. He doesn’t bother with a response.
“—Oh, my bad. I forgot. You aren’t invited.” Her laugh is at once derisive and gleeful. “Maybe you can spend them with Mother.”
He wants to slap her for mentioning the absentee parent they share, but he just turns his back and storms away, and later in his dorm the words come back to him and circle through his mind, and he hates his sister so much he can’t stand it.
He thinks of it, just her and their father together in that gigantic house. She might as well be a princess, lording it over a tiny kingdom.
No matter how loud he turns his music up, until the beat feels as if he’s actually being stabbed in the eardrum, it won’t drown out his thoughts.
Mai notices the little things, probably because they’re the things she and Azula share, though the latter would never admit it, not even to herself. She notices the things that other people think nothing of, because they don’t want to accept the implications.
Azula never blows on her soup or her coffee or her tea, no matter how hot it is. She swallows it and smiles like it’s the perfect temperature.
Azula holds her hands together and squeezes. It looks innocuous, but Mai knows the feeling, like trying to break them in half.
Azula puts a hand on her throat and pretends to play with the chain of her necklace. Mai watches her fingers dig in to her windpipe.
In gym, when they’re changing clothes, Azula has no shred of modesty; she rips her shirt off and replaces it with a t-shirt like she has no care in the world, like she’s flaunting herself. But as she stretches and the hem of her bra rises up, Mai sees white lines and red lines, some scars, some scabs.
She doesn’t comment on these things. Azula’s strength isn’t only an illusion, even if Mai sees every last visible crack. Talking about it wouldn’t end in support. Azula would just withdraw, push Mai away, cover herself with pins to pretend that she doesn’t have needles pointing inward.
So Mai just watches to make sure it doesn’t go far enough.
He tries to find an all-girl school, but much to his chagrin, the most highly-ranked private school within an hour’s drive is coed. He’s willing to make a lot of sacrifices, but ultimately he chooses her schooling over his own jealousy.
He goes in for parent-teacher conferences and they all repeat the same words about his daughter. “Gifted. Talented. Ambitious. Driven. Brilliant.” It’s not what he wants to hear; he knows all that. When he asks the question he cares about, he watches them smile and offer a chuckle. He doesn’t laugh along. “Of course you’re concerned about that! Every father’s fear, isn’t it? But she doesn’t seem to be interested in that. Too focused on her schoolwork.”
Ozai doesn’t believe them for reasons that he himself can’t express. Probably it’s just paranoia. But every twinge in his gut makes him push her harder, make her promise that there is only him, only him.
(It’s a mistake that he doesn’t look at the girls who always flank her, pink and grey.)
One morning he’s standing by the window, just about to leave, when he notices her walking down toward the car. He watches her skirt, short on her thighs, and the tights that leave nothing of the shape of her legs to the imagination, and his hand tightens on the handle of his coffee cup.
He comes home early to wait for her and enjoys the surprise on her face when she enters the living room to see him seated there. She barely has time to drop her bag before he pushes her against a wall, his fingers pulling on the hem of her skirt.
“Why are you wearing this?” He doesn’t give her a chance to answer. “Do you want men to look at you? Are you wearing this for someone else?”
Her denials are a flood that sounds rehearsed to his biased ears. He wishes she would cry, but she never cries, not anymore. He supposes he’s done too much for her to cry at something like this. A pity.
He says the word with detached coldness and hits her across the face, relishing the gasp of pain that slips from her lips. His other hand rips open her tights and pulls down her panties, pushing her skirt up against her hips.
She wears jeans the next day, and the day after, and the day after, though he doesn’t know whether it’s fear of his anger or just to hide the bruises he’s left on her thighs.
It won’t be a concern in a million years, but Azula thinks about the hot water bill whenever she showers. She spends hours in the bathroom, watching herself in the mirror, playing with water hot enough to scald, hot enough to burn.
She shaves without care, watching the razor nick her skin again and again, watching tiny points of blood erupt along her skin. She watches the water going down the drain turn briefly reddish before running clear again. It’s pretty.
She towels her hair and admires her complexion. Chalk it up to having access to the best skin-care products (and everything else, really) that money can buy, but she hasn’t had a pimple in three weeks.
Azula lies in bed and stares up at a picture on the wall, the moonlight reflecting off the glass. It’s her and her father, almost three years ago, smiling out at the photographer. No room for Zuko and no room for Ursa.
In the dark, Azula smiles.
avatar: the last airbender was a very beautiful show
today’s hilarious typo:
instead of “ozai shifted”
i just wrote “ozai shited”