This is...very far from canon, my dears. We have Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, a polyamorous relationship in the works (this is a Jace/Clary/Simon fic), and pretty much everyone is either racebent or genderbent. A lot of characters are both. If that's not your thing, there's the back button!

On top of that, the Nephilim in this story look very, very different to Cassandra Clare's ones. You have been warned.

That said, I hope you enjoy the fic!

Summary: Clary really isn't like other girls: she's never met her mother, she can smell what you had for dinner last night, and the presence of other women makes her see red. Then there's her dad, Joscelin, who cares more about her Parkour and her Krav Maga than her GPA, and her boyfriend Simon, who's also her submissive. Not exactly traditional relationships for a seventeen year old girl.

She thinks her life is strange now. It's about to get a whole lot weirder. Clary/Simon, Magnus/Alec, Luke/Joscelin, eventual Jace/Clary/Simon.


It's like this:

Simon is Clary's. To the bone, incontrovertibly and irrevocably hers.

It's something they've both known since they were five years old, when Clary chased off Mary Jane from down the street by planting a handprint in blue paint on Simon's cheek and fiercely declaring, "Mine." Between the low growl and the patented Fray glare, MJ stalked off in a huff, and Clary's smug smile lasted the whole week.

Simon, of course, accepted the claim without question. Even when they were nine and Clary gave Gary Dowers a black eye because he'd tried to steal Simon's lunch money, Simon just sat back and let Clary handle it. The pattern was already well-established by then.

Neither of them noticed Clary's dad and Luke exchange the occasional worried glance over Clary's protectiveness—or connected those looks to Joscelin's decision to pull Clary out of school a few months after the lunch money incident.

Since he convinced Mrs Lewis to home-school Simon, too, what did Clary and Simon care?

By the time they were fourteen it had evolved into outright territoriality, with Clary circling Simon like a stallion around a mare, driving off any potential competition. Boys were all right—Clary graciously allowed Kirk, then sporting a neatly trimmed afro, into Simon's reach, and later Matt and Eric, who were a package deal; the one a quiet white boy with a surprisingly wry tongue, and the other a gamer of Mediterranean descent who bonded with Simon over World of Warcraft. She knifed each of them with a single piercing, all-seeing stare, before finally nodding regal acceptance: yes, they were good enough to be friends with her Simon. But girls? Any and all girls who approached Simon were summarily driven off without mercy. Frosty rudeness, wicked pranks, and when necessary physical violence sufficed to make sure that the female population of the neighbourhood received the message loud and clear: leave Simon Lewis alone, because Clary didn't share.

After a particularly vicious catfight, Joscelin sat his daughter down for a Talk—and got precisely nowhere.

"Simon's happy, isn't he?" Clary demanded. "He's healthy, he gets good grades—who says anything's wrong?"

She bristled at the suggestion that she wasn't taking good care of her Simon—because of course she was the one who had made him stop buying Mars bars and eat apples instead, and she was the one who made sure his homework got done when he and the other boys wanted to play video games, and Joscelin put his head in his hands and groaned.

"Clary, you can't keep Simon from making friends…" He tried. But his own voice was uncertain, and Clary huffed, not convinced in the least.

"He has friends," she pointed out. Which was true. There was Kirk and Matt and Eric, who were stupid boys but a little less stupid than most, since they liked Simon and that was a sign of good taste, as far as Clary was concerned. They weren't hers, not like Simon was, but they were acceptable.

"But no girlfriends—friends-who-are-girls," Joscelin clarified hurriedly when Clary's eyes narrowed. "Can't he hang out with girls, too, if he wants?"

And Clary said simply, "No."

And that was that.


When they're sixteen, Simon comes out as bi by admitting that he likes Spike the same way he likes Buffy.

It makes Clary pause, and consider. "I don't think I'm like that," she says finally. She feels vaguely annoyed, as if Simon's managed to one-up her.

He raises his eyebrows at her. "What about Storm?"

"Well, yeah, for Storm I'd turn bi in a white-hot second," Clary says, because obviously, does he even have to ask? "But I don't think I like most girls."

"I hadn't noticed," he says dryly, and she grins at him, unrepentant.

She kisses him a week later. They're in her room and they both taste of ice-cream, because it's summer and too hot to do anything but eat ice-cream, but Simon's lips are cool and perfect, and they part under hers when she runs the tip of her tongue over them. The way he shudders against her makes something hot and molten coil in the pit of her stomach, makes her fingers curl tightly in the fabric of his shirt.

His mouth is sweet like cookie-dough.


After that first kiss, they learn fast that Clary doesn't like what the girls in the romance movies like. Simon tries, clumsily and uncertainly, to take charge, the way the whole world says he's supposed to, and Clary tries to let him, but it just doesn't work; it leaves her body numb and her mind starts drifting to her Chemistry homework when Simon's trying to be macho or whatever.

She can tell he doesn't like it either. Not the way he likes her hands in his hair, bending his head back so she can suck at his throat. He never whimpers like he does when she pins his wrists to the mattress and kisses him slowly, like torture, lapping at his mouth until his lips are wet and swollen and he can hardly breathe. When he tries to give her a love-bite, the small, sharp pain makes her want to swat him; whereas he gets hard when she has her teeth in his neck.

They give it up after a couple of weeks and just do what feels good instead.

Sometimes it makes Clary wonder what's wrong with her, that she wants this. Wants it like this. She knows other girls like their boyfriends to be just a little bit possessive, to carry their bags and kiss them with their backs against a wall, but it just doesn't work for her. Other girls fantasise about their boyfriends getting down on their knees to propose; Clary imagines the look in his eyes if, while he was down there, she pulled his face between her legs and ordered him to use his tongue.

No one in the books or comics she and Simon read or in the movies they watch wants what she does. But Simon likes it, so what does it matter if she's the one on top? Who cares?

She wears a skirt without panties, and puts him on his knees, and watches his face as she spreads her legs.


Her plan is to have sex-sex—penis-in-vagina, hetero-normative, God-approved sex—on her seventeenth birthday. There's no real reason for it—by the time they both feel ready to go all the way, it's just a few weeks until the big day and they might as well wait a little longer. It can be her birthday present.

His fingers and mouth are pretty epic consolation for waiting, anyway.

But then Pandemonium happens, and pandemonium breaks loose.

Because she looks at Jace and thinks, mine.