Justin Bieber/Jason McCann Imagines | Book One

Bloodlust

Warning: This imagine is quite different to the usual that are in this book. It's based off of the novel 'American Psycho' by Brett Easton Ellis, which as you might know, is quite controversial. I've tried to keep it mild, but I tried not to block my imagination too much. I don't have the intention of offending, mocking, scaring or anything of the sort, it's simply a piece of fiction inspired by another. If it's not your type of thing, and you don't like it, move on. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it.

Justin's P.O.V

She lays with her head on my lap, her hair sprawls out and contrasts with my washed out jeans. I feel dizzy but I keep my focus on her to steady myself, it only just works.

The TV plays across the room, meaning there's no need for us to make any kind of conversation. It means I can sit and stroke her hair, feeling her shiver beneath me. It gives me great pleasure to feel her body jolt whenever my fingers touch her scalp.

Her feet twitch at the edge of the bed, she lets them sway gently and curls her toes every so often. It's a sight I'm familiar with and I'm taken back to the previous week when I managed to make them curl in the exact same way by pounding her with no remorse, I remember having to hold back from ripping her to shreds from beneath me.

My eyes coming back into focus, I realise I'm not paying even the slightest bit of attention to the TV but rather thinking of all the ways I could use the new power drill I purchased last night. So far, I've thought of six.

I'm not sure what we're watching, but it's quiet and calm - although, in my head it's a completely different story - and I'm happy to sit doing nothing besides watching the white walls of [Y/N]'s bedroom, thinking they'd look a lot more appealing if they were dripping red.

I'm guessing the movie is a slasher; the loud thuds of non-diegetic music as the poor, defenceless girl creeps cautiously around the conveniently destroyed and abandoned building pours through the speakers.

It all happens so fast, much to my disappointment. I'm suddenly paying attention and watching with bated breath. Does she die? How? Knife in the stomach? Decapitated? I hope [Y/N] doesn't feel my body stiffen.

She jumps when the killer takes a stab, meanwhile, I clench my fists. The fake blood and the shrill sounds of screaming awakens something in me and I can feel a wave of heat wash over me.

I abandon [Y/N]'s hair in fear of grabbing it too hard and instead, place them at my sides. They turn white from being balled so tightly while the girl on the screen writhes on the floor pathetically. [Y/N] is watching behind her hands now.

She looks up at me and for that moment, the world seems okay. "How can you watch this so casually? Are you not scared?" she whines and I smile.

I think about all the things I could tell her, about what I've seen, heard, done, and immediately decide against it; it's selfish but I refuse to let her leave.

"It's all fake, and not to mention, inaccurate. It'd take her a lot longer than that to die by a couple of mediocre stabs to the neck, and the blood is clearly paint. Blood's thick, but not that thick," I say and think back to the night I fell deep - deeper than usual - into my typical spiral and ended up in my neighbour's kitchen, drinking the blood from his neck after having used my - at the time - brand new pocket knife. It was bitter and left an unusual aftertaste but the kill was satisfactory.

"I know that," she rolls her eyes, although I know she probably didn't know. "But it's still scary, the thought of it, you know?"