Imagines: Not Only in Your Dreams

He smiles, more to himself than anything else, and you realize that you’d give anything to read what’s running through his mind. “Well, it’s nice to know. I’m flattered. Just . . . you know, don’t set up a webcam through the wall and live-stream my bathroom routine, or something.”

Your laugh rings out across the room, and you find the confidence to shoot him a wink. “Can’t make any promises there, I’m afraid.”

He goes to say something, but a vibration from his pocket interrupts you both, and he pulls out his phone to read the message on-screen. “Crap, is that the time?” His glance at the clock makes you realize how long you’ve spent together. “I should probably be heading back—I completely forgot I was supposed to be filming a gaming video with Phil tonight.”

He picks up his laptop from the sofa and tucks it under his arm, already gathering to his feet. “Thanks again for everything. Like I said, I owe you one.”

“And like I said, it’s fine.” You rise to your feet, following his footsteps back toward the front door. “Letting you use my Wi-Fi was hardly the biggest inconvenience of my evening.”

“But my company might’ve been,” he jokes.

You roll your eyes. “Sure. It’s not like there aren’t five million people who would kill to be in my shoes right now.”

“It’s like you’re trying to inflate my ego.” As he readjusts the laptop under his arm, his dark-eyed gaze is punctuated by an unexpected flutter in your stomach. “Thanks, though. At least I know where to come next time Phil’s downloading more of the world’s longest and most pointless videos.”

“Anytime.”

“I’ll see you around.”

“Sure,” you say, as he reaches for the handle and pulls open the door, letting a cool blast of air into the apartment. “See you later, Dan.”

You linger as he crosses the hall, heading for his own apartment. Only once your door has closed behind you do you lean back against it, taking the deep breath you feel like you’ve needed for the past hour. The whole situation still feels surreal; though you had been hoping for a proper introduction to your neighbor, you’d also thought it might come with more preparation than the three seconds it had taken to answer the door. Maybe, when it came to Dan Howell, you had to be grateful for anything.

Still, as your mind runs back over the exchange that’s still fresh in your mind, you can’t halt the smile that’s now creeping onto your face. A tiny spark of excitement runs through you, fueled by the anticipation of the next time you bump into each other.

There’s no way of knowing where things might lead, but that’s not going to stop you from hoping Dan’s Wi-Fi might cut out again soon.

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.

It wasn’t a big deal at first. What you didn’t anticipate was how pigeonholed the story became by your labeling it as Dylan O’Brien fanfiction. But who are you to complain? Your story gets thousands of hits a day—a serialized delight that tons of people look forward to reading whenever you post a new chapter.

You cringe at the thought.

Fanfiction is weird when you think about it.

Well, at least the kind you write. Which technically isn’t fanfiction at all.

Sometimes you wonder if people read your story because of the plotline, or if they’re all just there for Dylan. You can’t blame them if it’s for him, though. There’s a reason you chose him to star in it . . . which makes you feel so creepy when you think about all 250,000 words you’ve written. Two book-length manuscripts, with a third installment already planned.

You sigh and kick your feet up on your desk, positioning your laptop for a better angle. You have noticeably more comments on Wattpad tonight—probably because of Dylan’s latest press tour. You always get a surge of activity whenever he’s in the press more than usual. At least it’ll provide new interviews to watch—new material to study.

God, you’re such a creep.

You’re scrolling through the comments when a link catches your eye. You read the accompanying comment once, then twice; then you kick your feet down and bolt upright in your chair.

I can’t believe Dylan talked about your fic in an interview!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Have you seen it yet??

That cannot be right.

But you notice more comments about it, and you start to feel nauseated.

This has to be a mistake. You click the link to make sure.

The interview is almost identical to the other ones you’ve seen from the press tour. More relief comes with every minute that goes by. Clearly someone misconstrued something, because there’s no way that Dylan would read your story, let alone name-drop it. You relax back into your chair.

Then the interviewer steers the conversation toward how the fans have reacted to the movie. Your stomach ties itself back into a knot.

“The fans are amazing, man,” Dylan says, scratching the side of his face before rubbing his nose. “Their love and support is crazy—they’re so passionate. The amount who show up to midnight showings and conventions, the signs they bring, fan artwork they make . . . It’s incredible, man.”

“We’ve been hearing a lot about fan artwork and fanfiction lately,” the interviewer comments, and your breathing is suddenly coming in short, shallow spurts. “Do you ever get the time to look at what your fans make for you?”

“Of course, man. I’ve seen some unbelievable artwork for this current movie, and there’s this one fanfiction story I’ve been following online for a while now.”

“Fanfiction that stars you?” The interviewer smirks. “What kind of story? Like, dirty fanfiction?”

“Nah, man. This one isn’t like that at all.” Dylan laughs. “But, yeah, I guess it is fanfiction that I star in. . . . But it’s different. It has this insane story line that hooks me every time.”

“Sounds interesting—what’s it called?”

Then, for all of the internet to hear, Dylan O’Brien says the title of the story you’ve been working on for two years, and you pretty much b

lack out after that.

THE FIRST EMAIL from a literary agent comes three days later.

Several more follow after that, and you decide to remove your email address from your biography at the beginning of the story. That still leaves emails in your inbox to deal with, though. They’re all asking to represent you, promising to cut the best publishing deal they can. You have half a mind to trash them and call it a day.

But then an email comes through with an offer you can’t refuse, and that’s how you end up sitting in a conference room on the top floor of a New York City skyscraper, with your new literary agent, Paul, and two intimidating bigwigs from an even more intimidating publishing house across from you.

“We’re so thrilled that you’re considering this opportunity with us,” says Janet, the publisher’s representative. She carefully removes some lint from her pantsuit and smiles at you.

“I’m thrilled too. Thank you so much for the opportunity,” you say stiffly, but you mean it sincerely. These people are offering you a chance at becoming a published author. You’d probably agree to licking the sidewalk outside if they asked you to.

“We’ll start shortly,” the balding guy next to Janet says. “We’re waiting for Mr. O’Brien and his attorney to arrive.”

Your head snaps up.

“What!?” you gasp.

“Mr. O’Brien and his attorney will be here shortly,” he repeats, oblivious to the anxiety attack you’re having.

Mr. O’Brien? Like, Dylan O’Brien? Coming to the meeting? With a lawyer?

You lean over to Paul, trying to play it cool, and mutter, “Why is Dylan O’Brien coming to this? When did that happen?”

“I’m not sure,” Paul says, looking as confused as you.

The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. You move your hands to your lap so no one can see how badly they’re shaking. Inhaling slowly, you try to calm the nervous prickles in your chest, but it’s no use. You’ll probably keel over from a heart attack before Dylan shows up. At least it’d save you the embarrassment—