IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You

by Anna Todd

  “Oh my God, you’re here!” one exclaims.

  “It’s so good that you decided to come.” Another pats your back consolingly, frowning like you’ve suffered a loss and she needs to help you in your grieving. “We were so worried when you didn’t show up to dinner.”

  You can’t help but laugh, which confuses them. As deprecated as their pitying makes you feel, you’re thankful that they care enough to pity you at all in the first place.

  “I’m really sorry about missing dinner,” you say. “I didn’t mean to, but I . . . I sort of got a little distracted.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Michael steps up beside you. “What did I miss?”

  Your friends’ expressions are absolutely priceless.

  “Um, this is Michael,” you tell them, as if they actually need an introduction. “He’s in a band. Michael, these are my friends.”

  Michael waves and smiles big. “Nice to meet you guys!”

  He holds his hand out, but no one budges, still a little in shock. Even after a few seconds of complete speechlessness, they can barely manage audible greetings. You watch one friend glance at her own date with a sudden sense of disappointment. Nothing like a rock star to remind you how average your prom date is.

  Michael hands you a cup of lemonade. “Sort of tastes like water, but it’s okay. Also, the pretzels are stale. Wouldn’t recommend.”

  “Not pizza, huh?”

  “Definitely not pizza!”

  When a good song finally switches on, you and your friends take to the dance floor. This was a moment you’d been dreading all day, fearing having to embarrassingly stand around your friends as they dance with their dates. But right now, you feel none of that dread. You’re not alone anymore.

  You have somebody to dance with.

  If people weren’t already staring at you because you’re with Michael Clifford, they’re certainly staring while you dance. Instead of the regular jumping and fist-bumping in place that everyone else has taken to, Michael insists on making this a “real, old-school prom.” This involves everything from swing dancing to headbanging to even some eighties disco moves. Half of it doesn’t feel too “old-school” to you, but with Michael laughing by your side, everything feels eclectic.

  You’re in the middle of a tango when a slow song comes on. Michael quickly stops you in the middle of your spin, putting his hands on your waist.

  “Awkward couples’ dance, now!” he proclaims. “Wouldn’t be prom without one.”

  The song’s lyrics are a little lame, but sweet. The look on his face is even sweeter. You stumble a bit on each other’s feet. Your pulse is racing a hundred miles a minute.

  You couldn’t imagine anything better.

  Techno beats start booming before the slow song has a chance to get to its final chorus. You glance over at the DJ with a hint of disdain as he pumps his fist and decrees that everybody needs to “GO CRAZY!”

  “Well, that was a premature ending,” Michael marvels. “What do you say, another tango?”

  Your tango lasts another three gung-ho party tracks before the DJ cuts the music off and the prom court is called to the center of the gym. You and Michael snack on pretzels at the refreshments table and shout “Of the new broken scene!” any time the words king or queen are mentioned. The music that comes on next doesn’t call for elaborate waltzing, but you waltz anyway. After all these prom regalities, you both agree it’s only proper.

  Somewhere in the middle of your waltzing, your friends start approaching one by one with their dates to say good-bye (and to stare at Michael). Not until the music starts getting fainter do you realize you’re some of the only ones left in the gym.

  You blink, confused at the lack of people. You actually stayed at prom until the very end. A few hours ago, you didn’t even want to show up.

  The two of you go outside, and as you approach the car waiting at the curb, Michael turns to you. “Thank you for letting me take you to your prom. It’s been so long since I’ve done something that normal. I really liked it.”

  “Thank you for taking me,” you tell him. “I think I would’ve been absolutely miserable if you weren’t there.”

  He grabs ahold of both your hands. “Glad I could make it better.”

  You smile wide at him. “Better? You made it perfect.”

  Once Ian a Blue Moon

  Jordan Lynde

  Imagine . . .

  You grin as you stare at the signed photo of your first and biggest celebrity crush.

  Ian Somerhalder What a handsome devil.

  There’s a little heart squiggled next to his autograph, and every time you see it, your own heart clenches with joy. You bought the photo earlier in the day at Comic-Con and haven’t let it go since. Meet and greets and actual signings cost a fortune, and you hadn’t been able to afford one, so a pre-signed photo was decidedly the next best thing. At least you now own something Ian Somerhalder has touched. Maybe if you set your wrist down on it, as if you were also signing it, you would even match perfectly to where his sultry skin touched the gloss. . . .

  Letting out a giddy giggle, you hold the photo tight to your chest and enter the hotel where you’re staying tonight. The lobby is crowded with eventgoers, some of them dressed up in costumes from various shows and comics. Being right next to the convention center, the hotel’s the most popular place to stay. Laughter and loud chattering echo throughout the high ceilings, and you can feel the exhilaration in the air.

  Yes indeed, conventions are the best place to be.

  You kind of wish you had come with friends, but none of them had managed to get time off from work. Still, the day’s been a success. You even managed to make some friends who might’ve come close to loving Ian Somerhalder as much as you. Might have. Your love is on a very high level, after all.

  The front-desk receptionist gives you a disdainful look as you approach. In return, you offer her a half smile, making sure your dark wig is fitted properly. It seems she doesn’t hold the same respect for Ian Somerhalder as you do—otherwise she would be ecstatic to see someone cosplaying as Damon Salvatore. Your cosplay was flawless too. You’d been complimented on it all day, making the two hours of putting on makeup that morning totally worth it. Surely the receptionist can appreciate that? Maybe she’s fonder of Ian in his role in Lost?

  Or maybe she’s just tired of all the Con noise. That seems more likely.

  “Checking in?” she asks. You smile when you see her name reads ELENA.

  “Yep.” You give her your name so she can look up the reservation. As she tells you about your room—a suite on the thirtieth floor!—and the hotel amenities, not even her scripted, robotic voice can diminish your excitement.

  “Thanks,” you respond, and pocket the key. The view from way up there will be amazing. Since you’d booked your hotel as soon as the venue was announced for the Con, you’d managed to snag a great deal on your suite. It’s still a bit pricey, but, hey, Jacuzzi! Treat yourself, you think as you hit the button to the thirtieth floor.

  Mirrored panels form the back of the elevator, and you check your reflection in them, seeing how well your costume has held up after the long day. There’s not much to it: a black V-neck with a dark leather jacket over it, a pair of dark-rinse jeans, and combat boots. You even blotted on some five-o’clock shadow as the day wore on. Damon Salvatore’s tastes don’t vary much.

  Doing your best “bad boy” smirk, you carefully watch your reflection. Yep. There could be no better Damon Salvatore cosplayer than you.

  The elevator chimes for the thirtieth floor and you step out, double-checking your room number on the key slip. The hall is quiet, lacking the peppy atmosphere from the lobby. You hum a little as you pass the first two rooms, coming to a stop at the third. You can only imagine the view waiting for you in your room.

  You slide your card through the lock, and after a second it clicks and flashes green. Once inside, you look around in awe. As promised, the farthest wall is comple
tely glass. Thousands of lights from the city twinkle brightly across the landscape, reminding you of the stars. You are so distracted that only now do you realize how odd it is that the lights were already on when you entered. That is, until you hear the sound of another door opening from inside the room.

  Ghost! is your immediate, and definitely reasonable, thought. Ready to scream any kind of exorcism you can remember, you twirl around. You’ll have to thank Supernatural later for saving your life.

  “Omnis immundus spiritus,” you start, the words dying in your throat. For what comes out of the bathroom is no ghost, but a well-built man wearing only a bath towel wrapped around his slender waist. Your eyes zero in on the V-shape of his lower abs and then travel up his happy trail all the way to the square shape of his familiar jawline.

  Wait. Familiar jawline?

  Swallowing hard, you finally meet the piercing gaze of the man before you. His steely-blue eyes squint in mistrust, creating his well-known smolder.

  “Smolderholder,” you whisper.

  “Excuse me? Who are you? How did you get into this room?”

  No matter how you try to deny it, the five-foot-nine-inch god in front of you is definitely Ian Somerhalder.

  The one and only Ian Somerhalder.

  The one and only Ian Somerhalder you just shouted an exorcism at.

  Ice runs through your veins as the horror of reality sets in. Your first meeting with Ian Somerhalder shouldn’t have gone like this! You’ve spent way too much time reading Cosmo’s “Top Ten Tips for Meeting Your Celebrity Crush” and planning exactly how it would go for it to be like this!

  You run your hands down your face, wishing to be crushed like the insect you are.

  “I’m going to call security,” Ian says, pulling you from your freak-out.

  “Wait!” you cry, putting your hands up defensively. “Wait. Don’t do that. I must have the wrong room.” You drop your gaze, focusing on his feet.

  Ah! Those toes. He could write love letters with those toes! Maybe he would sign your photo with his toes too! You shake your head vigorously. No, you can’t get distracted. This is a vital moment.

  “How did you get in? Was the door unlocked?” Ian’s voice is smooth and swoon-worthy.

  You try to calm the frantic beating of your heart. “U-um, no, I used the room key.”

  When he folds his arms over his bare chest, his biceps flex.

  Your fingers itch to touch them. Just for a second.

  “You used a room key? Why do you have one to my room? Did you sneak in here to meet me?”

  Somehow his accusatory tone irks you. Yes, he might’ve been Ian Somerhalder, but who was he to think you looked crazy enough to break into his hotel room? “Is this room thirty oh three?” you ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Then this is the room I reserved.” You grow a little more confident. “It says so on my keycard slip.”

  “Well, I also have a keycard slip with this room number on it.” He adjusts his towel. He needs to put some clothing on. It’s hard to focus when he stands there in all his bare-chested glory. “Perhaps they gave you a room key thinking you were actually me?” He quirks an eyebrow.

  At first you don’t understand what he means. Then your eyes widen as you realize just exactly what he’s getting at: you’re still dressed up as him—how mortifying. Not only have you barged into his hotel room, but you’ve also barged in while still in your Damon Salvatore cosplay. Your humiliation is, however, reduced slightly by the pride-filled realization that your tousled wig is on par with his real hair.

  “It’s not bad,” he comments slyly.

  Not bad? You smirk a little. “Heh. It would’ve been better if I’d put more than five hours into it. The wig was really what I had trouble with because your hair just looks so luscious. . . . Wait a second—that’s not the point here. Put some clothes on and stop distracting me!”

  Ian glances down, as if just realizing he’s still in only a towel. You expect him to become embarrassed, but all he does is shrug. Self-confidence is such a turn-on.

  He does a little half turn to show himself off. “Is it really that distracting?”

  “Yes, it is,” you huff.

  “Give me a second then.” He walks over to the king-size bed, where a suitcase lies. “No peeking, got it?”

  You clasp your hands over your eyes and shut them tight . . . before slowly inching your fingers apart just for a teeny, tiny peek at those buns.

  “Hey!” he snaps. “I said no peeking. I know it’s tempting.”

  Pursing your lips, you turn your back to him. Fine. You can always google it later.

  When Ian is properly dressed, you find it a little easier to talk to him and introduce yourself properly. “And sorry for walking in on you.”

  “Don’t worry. Since you have a room key, I can assume you’re not a crazy fan and the hotel just made a mistake . . . right?”

  “Yeah, I’m not a crazy fan. I mean, I am a fan. Huge fan. Just not crazy.” You inwardly cringe.

  He laughs a little. “Okay, I’ll trust you.”

  An awkward silence falls after that. You don’t know what to say. You’ve read people’s horror stories of awkward run-ins with celebrities and don’t want to become a statistic; maybe it would be best to escape before you embarrass yourself any further.

  “Well, unfortunately I can’t leave the room, so it’ll be up to you to settle this,” Ian says, leaning up against the glass wall.

  “Yeah, you’d be swarmed instantly. I know if I saw you in the hall, I’d be all over you in a heartbeat.” You pause, registering what you just said. “Uh, in a noncreepy way, that is.”

  “So you’re having pretty good self-control right now?”

  “I think I’m just in shock. Tomorrow I’ll think about it and pass out. It’s hard to believe you’re real. Your jawline is perfect.” You pause. “Yeah, I have no idea why I said that. Sorry. I’m being weird.”

  He smiles at you understandingly. “We’re all weird, aren’t we?”

  “Not as weird as a fan barging into your hotel room,” you say.

  “It was a mistake,” he says offhandedly. “Don’t think too hard about it. We’ll get this figured out.”

  “What if they don’t have another room with a Jacuzzi tub?”

  “Is that what you’re most worried about?”

  “Yes.”

  He chuckles. “You’re funny.”

  A moment to go down in history—Ian Somerhalder thinks you’re funny!

  “I would offer to share the room with you, but there’s only one bed, which means you would have to sleep on the floor,” he jokes.

  You would sleep on the floor for a month straight if it meant sharing a room with him. Fortunately, you remind yourself in time that he doesn’t need to know that.

  “All right, then,” you say. “I’ll go down to talk to the receptionist.” As much as you want to stay, he probably had a long day at the Con and wants to relax.

  “Have them call me if there’re any problems. And thanks.” He points at the photo in your hands. “For being a fan and supporting me. I think of my fans like family, so I’m glad we ran into each other like this. Even if it was a bit awkward.”

  You smile sheepishly. “Um, it’s no problem. I bet you get this a lot, but I really admire you. Not only your acting skills, but also how you’re trying to help the environment and all that. I almost cried reading those success stories from all the animals you rescued. You’re a great role model and deserve your success.”

  Ian goes quiet for a moment before his smile grows wider. “Thank you very much. You’re going to make me blush if you keep sweet-talking me. . . . But you can continue if you like.”

  He winks and you purse your lips to keep from smiling. “I’m wondering if I should feed your ego.”

  “Probably not. But before you go, bring that over here.”

  You hold up the photo. “This?” Is he actually going to sign it with his toes?


  He gestures you nearer. “Yeah. I hate how those things can’t be personalized since I sign them beforehand. It feels too impersonal. Do you have a marker? What’s your name?”

  You tell him your name and whip out a marker from your bag, holding it up eagerly. “Of course. Here.”

  He pulls off the cap of the marker with his teeth, takes the photo from your hands, and scribbles your name across the top of it.

  “Do you think we could take a picture together too?” you ask hopefully. Might as well go all out.

  He grimaces a little and hands your photo back. At the bottom it reads, Sorry for stealing your hotel room. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take a picture today. Seeing as we’re alone in a hotel room, people might get the wrong idea.”

  You weren’t expecting to be shot down so fast, but he did have a point. Looking at your feet, you try not to let your disappointment show. “Oh, makes sense.”

  “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “Huh?”

  He gives you a playful look. “I think I’m free for breakfast if you’re up for it. We can take a picture then.”

  Your eyes widen. “Huh?”

  “First I take your hotel room, then I reject a photo? It’s the least I can do. I have some downtime before my first interview, anyway.”

  “All right!” you agree ridiculously quickly. “Okay. Breakfast? Okay. Yes. Let’s do it.”

  His lips curve up into a lopsided smile. “Let me know what room you get switched to and I’ll come fetch you tomorrow morning.”

  You nod dumbly. “Okay,” you say, unable to think straight because Ian Somerhalder has asked you out to breakfast. You are definitely going to post about this on Tumblr.

  He leads you to the door of the hotel room and pauses, eyes roaming over you. “And maybe come dressed as yourself tomorrow?”

  All you can do is blush and scratch your wig as you leave.

  RPF

  A. Evansley

  Imagine . . .

  You had a story idea that you wanted people to read, and you knew that posting it online and tying a celebrity name to it would give people plenty of incentive.