past sexual assault

“You’d have better luck with the tipsy blonde by the door,” she jutted her chin that way. A petite blonde that had obviously had one drink too many swayed softly by the door – flashing pouty lips in Theo’s direction. “Maybe,” Theo crooned, mixing a long island. “But I want you. Come on, beautiful, stop fighting it. I see the way your body responds to me. But I’m a patient man – I can wait,” he added, seeing the retort on her tongue. “It can be fun, no strings attached. Or bring the bloody strings, Hermione. I think you’ll find I’m the open for anything sort.” “You make it really hard to tell you no, Theo,” she laughed, thinking about the reason why she always told him no. “Is that a yes, then?” he asked, a faint twinkle in his eye. “No.”

Like Icarus, plummeting into the sea with stones of regret in her pockets. SI-fem!Snape, Time-Travel.

Oh. Oh God. I am in Twilight. Not only am I in Twilight, I am Bella Swan. Not just a random outsider, like maybe a grocery bagger who knows a little too much about the family who shops every week but doesn’t eat. Not some unassuming teacher who knows all the good gossip because people don’t pay enough attention to her when she’s in the same room. Not anyone who wouldn’t immediately catch the attention of the family of literal vampires who live in this tiny town. But Bella Swan. No way. There was absolutely no fucking way. Or How different Twilight would be if it weren't written by a repressed Mormon woman.