She's crazy, like actually insane, needs a straightjacket and padded walls kind of crazy. Ty Lee knows this. She does.
Ty Lee tells herself she likes the times when Azula's not crazy, when they just lie together comfortably and Azula's almost—kind.
She ignores the heat that flashes through her when Azula summons lighting, proof of her instability, and the way something coils in her belly when Azula narrows her eyes, with that completely certifiable twist at the corners of her smile. She tells herself she prefers it when Azula touches her gently, like her claws are sheathed.
She definitely doesn't like it when Azula shows up in the middle of the night and fucks her without preamble, nails leaving thin scorchmarks along her sides, getting off on the way Ty Lee screams in pain (and pleasure).
Circus freak or no, Ty Lee is a good girl. She doesn't even like other girls. She likes boys, with their eagerness to please and gifts and flat, muscled chests. On the nights Azula doesn't appear, she most definitely does not think about the ways Azula can be cruel and crazy, her wicked tongue, the way her body is soft and hard, taut like a mandolin string so that the softness of her curves is startling. Her voice can be cold and hot, crisp and too melodramatic to be sane and safe, and certainly doesn't make Ty Lee's toes curl.
Sometimes when she closes her eyes, she can see the maniac light in Azula's smirk.