Typical Twilight imprint story with a twist. Rated M because young people have filthy mouths and habits. No happy endings here, please escort yourself off the premises if you want one.

Something like a ghost, she passes by unnoticed and undetected by everyone, except for him. He cannot take his eyes off of her, and by God, why would he ever want to? Every movement of her body is fluid, like something choreographed by a hardened Russian ballerina or by some ancient ancestor of mankind who danced beneath the stars for rain and the harvest. There is something old about the way she continually strokes her thumb against the lighter in her hands, and something rough about the way her cigarettes clumsily fall to the ground by her bare feet, whose dirty soles provided a fascinating contrast with her pink skin. As the aforementioned cigarettes fall to the ground, she curses softly and retrieves another one from her coat pocket with her long and slender fingers-pianist fingers, as she would later tell him, though she has never played in her life.

He is in Port Angeles, and for the life of him, he doesn't remember why. All that matters is her. Here. Before him. It's as if she was waiting for him here, all his life. Or hers, she looks young with that round face.

And that's when he realises that he needs to talk to her, somehow, get her attention, cry out, something for fuck's sake!

But she slips away before he can call out to her-pretend to be a lost tourist and then offer to light her cigarette for her.

He leaves whatever he is doing, and whoever he is here for and weaves in among the crowd, attempting to keep her wispy, golden red hair in sight, less he lose her forever. He follows her spectre through mobs of people and dark shortcuts through alleyways until he reaches a run down building with street art plastered on the white brick walls...Where is he? Who cares, all he knows is that she is inside, and that is where he must follow-

There are looks of bewilderment thrown at him, a tall, dark, muscular man in contrast with sick, love obsessed artists who appear to be starving themselves for the sake of irony; all at once, he is afraid that this was the typical crowd she hung out with, and he hoped to whatever God was listening that she was merely here to pick up someone...her brother, maybe, he could handle that.

Before he knows what is happening, he finds himself walking through a door that was much too white for a dirty place like this, and he sees her, disrobing herself in front of a circle of sketchers and he grows angry that they dare place their gaze upon his imprint. He feels his jealously rising dangerously, but he is soon distracted by the sight of her calmly, unmodestly strutting towards the center as if it were her birthright to be there; she strikes a pose reminiscent of a Greek goddess, and sits perfectly still as the sketchers around her begin to rapidly draw out her form. This unfamiliar scene seemed alien to him, almost like a foreign ritual. But then he makes eye contact with her and all is right. He has seen into his future, and it is beautiful.

-

"You're in love with me, aren't you?" she tells him this bluntly, without a moment's hesitation, through a thick French accent; there's something ugly and bitter about the way she says 'in love', but he ignores it. In fact, he finds himself quite speechless, despite having so many things to say to her. Despite having so many things he wants to do with and to her. Embrace her. Kiss her. Have her. Grow old with her.

He has stayed for the entire drawing session, watching with fascination at the talented artists draw out her naked form, and at the same time feeling repulsed that she let other men gaze upon her, and at the same time frustrated that none of them could get her essence down right. What is this? He is not a man of art or poetry or anything related to the subjects. He is physical. Raw. Rough. Like mountains and the sea. He never thought he would see the day in which he would criticise the work of artists.

"Don't answer that, I can see it in your eyes," she smokes a cigarette as she's talking to him, still naked in the room. He could see goosebumps rising on her skin from the chill of the broken A/C in the corner, "Wild boys, you all have the same look about you-" She's so close, he can smell the wine on her breath, and maybe that is where she is getting the confidence to be so vulnerable in a room filled with what he can only assume are strangers.

"What look?" he finally speaks, and while he cursed himself over his choice of first words to her, his tone is amused: he does not take her seriously.

"The look of a boy who thinks he is a man."

That surprised him-because he looked nothing like a boy, not since his first signs of changing, and because he was expecting another answer, "You have a look of lust", "You look like you could eat me", "All you care about is one thing."; these phrases, now this is what he was ready for; he had retaliations to all of these statements, and when he said them, she would be impressed, and he would take her out for coffee, or tea, or beer, or whatever the hell she liked, and then they would fall in love, just like in those trashy novels written by women; except this, this was real.

"But you're not one of them," she turns her hollow gaze to the artists cleaning up, "so maybe..."

Either she never finishes her sentence, or he has blocked out her words after 'maybe', but at the sound of that, his heart swells with hope.

i've wanted to try my hand at a dumb imprint love story for ages, and i've had many ideas over that time. some stories involved witches, others magical creatures, and one an odd and loyal trio of friends. this one seemed right and short, and will bring across my feelings for these stories; which is to say: most, if not all of them, are terrible and terribly written with drab characters and even worse plots.