🪷Tinyfawn🪷

The house that jack built

(NOT FINISHED! Still working on it but just seeing if anyone would want more.)

I just got bored so I decided to write a POV of Jack, A dark romance (Because he’s so hot in this movie but the characters ABSOLUTELY INSANE)

But i’m just a girl who’s in love with fictional unstable men so..Here’s what I got so far!

18+ MDNI

(and yes my character is OVER 18)

The lamb & the tiger

God created both the lamb and the tiger. The lamb represents innocence and the tiger represents savagery. Both parts and perfect and necessary..The tiger lives on blood and murder, kills the lamb and that is also the artist's nature.

I live for the build up. The wait. The thrill that comes from watching something before you take it.

She’s been part of my routine for days now, Closer than I’ve ever been. I know her schedule by heart. She wakes at five sharp, never late. Walks straight to the bathroom.

There’s a window beside her shower, Almost like it was made for me. It doesn’t just show her, but the world she’s built around herself.

On the counter, she leaves traces…objects that say more than words. A pink tube of lip gloss, the one she wears at work like a signature. Hair ties, always the same kind, used to pull her hair into those tight pigtails.

They’re small things. But they’re important. Rituals. Pieces of who she is.

And when the time is right, I’ll take all of it. Everything about her is placed just right. There’s a symmetry in the way she moves, the way she arranges her world. The same way a tiger plans every step.

I don’t usually grow attached to my victims.

But her eyes..those wide, glistening doe eyes hit something I didn’t plan for. They struck right through the center of me, softening the structure I built, blurring what was once clear.

In the beginning, my thoughts were clean, simple Where would I hide her body? Would I take a piece with me something small, something meaningful?

But now… now I find myself thinking of things I shouldn’t. Things that are pleasing.

And I hate that.

Because pleasure wasn’t part of the plan.

Lately, my mind drifts to softer things.

I imagine brushing her hair, slow and careful, like tending to silk. Dressing her in lace white, maybe, though pink feels more… fitting.

I wonder how her body would shape itself to my hand. How her curves would respond to the edge of my fingertip.

And when she cries..because they always do..I’d be there.

Not to stop it.

Just to wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumb, like a gesture of care.

A moment of calm before the inevitable.

Sometimes, my thoughts drift further..into darker corners.

I wonder how she’d sound beneath me. What kind of breath would escape her lips when I pushed myself inside her not out of love, but something heavier.

I imagine my hand around her throat. Not to end her. Not yet.

Just to feel the resistance.

To see if I have the strength to stop myself before I crush the windpipe.

It’s not the act itself that tempts me.

It’s the line I draw..and how long I can resist crossing it.

(Lmk if you want me to post the rest of the story on here)

PART TWO OF THE LAMB & THE TIGER

She’s in the shower.

Steam’s fogging the top corners of the glass, but the window gives me enough. More than enough.

The water runs down her back in clean lines. Her head’s tilted back, lips parted. She’s washing her hair slowly, eyes closed, completely unaware she’s not alone.

She doesn’t know how exposed she is. How clear she looks from here.

It’s perfect.

I could stand here for hours. Just watching. Quiet. Controlled.

I shift slightly my leg’s starting to numb. I move my foot just enough to stretch it.

And then

Snap.

A branch under my boot. Sharp. Loud. Crude.

Her head jolts.

I drop lower without thinking, sinking underneath the window.

Fuck.

I hear the water shut off. The curtain pulls back with that familiar slide.

She’s stepped out.

I retreat..quiet, measured steps back to the car.

She takes exactly twenty minutes to dress and paint her face. I’ve timed it.

So I figured I’d do the same.

Touch myself up.

Look a little more… presentable…Approachable.

After all, I was still wearing the clothes I usually kill in. Something plain, forgettable.

But today might call for something different.

Why not try charm before violence?

Sometimes the performance is part of the art.

I start by brushing my hair, slow and deliberate, making sure it’s just the right amount of volume..soft, a little fuller, but still neat..Presentable, Approachable.

Then I move to the stubble.

I shape it carefully, leaving a little more weight around the mustache.

I’ve always thought it made my face look more structured,More trustworthy.

Next, the red flannel. Dark green stripes across the chest..subtle, but enough to pull out the color in my eyes.

My eyes are important..

They do most of the work when I need to seem sincere.

Over the flannel, I layer a thin green vest.

Just enough to add depth. Black jeans, fitted but casual.

And finally, my favorite black leather belt. Not because it’s stylish, because it feels like part of me. Like a tool I’ve always kept close that comes handy.

Thirty five minutes later, I’m in my car. Parked on the far side of the lot close enough to see her, far enough to avoid being seen.

Watching her set up the coffee shop has become… routine. Almost meditative.

She moves with purpose. Focused. Efficient.

Like an ant working inside its nest cleaning, sorting, preparing the space around her.

There’s something fascinating in it.

But my favorite moment always comes at the end.

When she leans over a table to scrub out a stubborn spot, hips tilted just slightly, back arched -without knowing.

That’s when the image comes.

My hand at the back of her neck firm, still, not unkind.

Like how a hunter steadies a newborn fawn before the kill.

The cloth in her hand pressed to her mouth.

Not to hurt her.

“Jack… do you not see how your thoughts are beginning to cloud your judgment?

You speak of her with tenderness, but is that truly what you feel? Or is it simply another illusion you’ve built to disguise your intent?

You don’t honestly believe you’re falling in love with her… do you?”

Maybe I do feel something, Verge.

Not love not in the hearts and flowers way the world romanticizes.