fic: Anything but red paint (season 5 Joe/Bronte with alternate scenario: Dane is still alive, hungry for revenge and very dangerous)
Hello,
everyone, I've posted the second chapter of this mini-long a few days ago, but don't be deceived by the fluff (with some smut, too) of the first chapter; this is a very dark, creepy story (esp. this second chapter), miles away from my comfort zone, it's my first time dealing with r*pe noncon issues.
Writing this took a huge effort and made me sick, but I'll leave the link if you want to have a look.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/81261131/chapters/224674411
Here's a snippet, too, from Joe's POV:
*
I’ll reach you upstairs, outside.
You’re not here.
Maybe you already went to our apartment, without even warning me?
I remember all the times you asked me if you could quit the job a bit earlier because you needed to write.
If it’s true that I find it cute, there’s also a part of me who’s very jealous of your damn laptop.
I want all your attention for me.
However, you’re not even in our apartment.
Are you leaving me? Again?
It absolutely makes no sense, not now that we’ve reached such a level of understanding and trust.
Plus your rucksack is here, just like every cloth of yours and your books.
Not to mention your laptop.
Where are you, Bronte?
I call your number and the phone is turned off.
I’m liking this less and less.
Something is just not adding up.
And I have a terrible, very terrible feeling.
I rush outside once more, searching for any kind of clue, but I find nothing.
I rest my back against the half opened shutter, in frustration, and then something falls on the ground.
Something that was stuck inside it and I hadn't seen.
It’s a birthday card… sort of creepy.
First, because it’s not your birthday, Bronte, neither is it mine.
Second, because the deep red balloons on the cover almost remind me of blood.
I pick it up and open it.
Fu**.
That’s even creepier.
There’s a handful of red hair inside.
Not just any red hair.
I would recognize it among a million ones: it’s yours, Bronte.
And the message is even worse, shit:
It’s my birthday, Joe? Who knows? Not-dead people probably lose their right to have a birthday. But let me give you a little advice: next time you kill someone, get sure they die for real; otherwise they could become a tad revengeful. And I do perfectly know what your weak point is. I took her away with me, but I felt somewhat generous, so here’s a little souvenir of her. Have a nice mourning… Oops, sorry, I meant ‘morning’. Maybe.
I tear that fu**ing card to smitherens, but it’s nothing compared to what I wanna do to who wrote it.
Son of a b*tch. Whoever you are, you’re living on a clock.
I backtrack all my latest victims.
Uncle Bob? I can clearly still hear the noise of his neck cracking under that lasso.
And I know for sure I got the right twin killed. That blow on her temple couldn’t lie.
About the stupid Clayton… I can’t actually think of a more splatter way to kill someone.
Oh no.
My most recent victim.
I’ve lurked in the shadows, waiting for him to get home. Waited for the perfect moment to strike… Then walked away, without really checking.
Shit.
How dare that fu**ing wasting of space being still alive?
How dare that fu**ing piece of shit taking you away from me?
Right here, under my nose.
And if he already had wicked plans the first time he met you…
I have to stop him, just… how?
*