Some oneshots of your favorites!
I write for:
- Avengers/MCU
- Criminal Minds
- Harry Potter
- Star Wars
- The Originals
- The 100
- Twilight
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I own none of these characters. All rights go to their respective creator:
- Stan Lee (Avengers/MCU)
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You hate Jasper Jordan. You really, really hate him.
You hate his happy-go-lucky attitude, his natural love for life and the world. Even after he was speared, he still had the zest for life you could only dream of having.
You hate him because you love him, and he left you.
They left you in Mount Weather, strapped to a table with dead Mountain Men surrounding you.
He left you.
No one bothered to come for you, to make sure you made it out with them. Because of this, you stayed strapped to that table for twenty-four hours, the smell of decomposition nearly killing you faster than the dehydration and starvation.
You eventually managed to get out of the restraints, though it wasn't without blood being drawn and joints being dislocated. It's only when some of Skaikru came on a supply run did they finally find you rummaging for any first aid for your increasingly infected wounds.
They claim they thought you'd died since the others saw you taken by the Mountain Men before they were overthrown, but you don't care.
Being left by the people you cared about killed you inside, leaving you broken and struggling to build yourself back up.
You almost didn't go back with them, but you figured that after you gained your strength back, you could steal some supplies and go off on your own.
So, that's where you are now; sneakily eyeing the supplies while Abby takes out your stitches.
"They've healed nicely, it seems. Do they feel okay?"
"Fine," you answer shortly. Abby sighs and steps back, examining you.
"You need to talk to someone, (Y/N). You're not alone. Your friends were there too, you can talk to them."
"Sure," you reply sarcastically. Without another word, you leave medical, walking to your makeshift room. As you enter, you see Jasper sitting there.
Rage fills your chest as you look at him. You know he lost someone in the mountain, but it's someone he'd only known for mere weeks, and he couldn't bother to look for someone who's been beside him since your time on the Ark.
"What do you want?" you demand, throwing your bag on the ground.
"You planning on skipping out of this old town?" he questions. You can hear the remnants of alcohol in his voice, but it's at the end of its effects.
"What's it to you?"
"You taking our supplies?"
"Your name written on it?" Jasper snorts, and it takes everything in you not to smack him. "If that's it, get out."
"What's the matter with you recently? If one of us should be traumatized, it's me," he mumbles, standing.
Something in you snaps then, and you punch him, the force throwing him back onto the bed.
He stares up at you, shocked as blood falls from his nose.
"You, Jasper Jordan, have no idea what I've been through," you whisper dangerously. "I was left in that mountain to die by people I thought were my friends. By you. I was walking around the decomposing bodies of the people Clarke and Bellamy killed to save us, only for them to not even check if every person they killed for was even there!"
"(Y/N)—"
"I have every right to be as bitter as you. I'm sorry you lost Maya, but you had support around to help you through that. No one turned a blind eye to you. Everyone, from what I've seen, is worried and wants to help you. I was forgotten in a mountain with 381 dead people. And now, though I'm here at camp, I'm still forgotten!"
You step back from him, your chest heaving as you suppress the overwhelming urge to scream and punch and throw things.
"I can help you," he finally says, standing. "I haven't forgotten you." You laugh humorlessly.
"Bullshit. You forgot me long before we were taken into that mountain."
You and Jasper stare at each other, regret swimming in his eyes while betrayal and rage simmer in yours.
"Get out."
"Let me help you."
"No."
"I don't want to lose you too!" he shouts. You look away, wishing his words weren't too late.
"You already have."
Jasper steps back as if you punched him in the gut, his face falling. You wish you could shut yourself off from feeling his pain, but even with your hardening heart, you still feel it.
"Please," he whispers. You pick up your bag full of supplies and wall off your emotions, shutting down to make it easier.
