**The characters of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. No infringement meant. All story plots and words belong to ddpjclaf. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without permission.**
Chapter One: "What the hell did I do?"
Well . . . this story kind of came out of nowhere, but the vision was so strong I had to write it. I'm a little nervous because it's going to include a subject that some people have very strong feelings about, and those feelings are not necessarily good, but I think it's important to explore all different kinds of subjects when writing, so I'm broaching one now. I think you'll be able to gather what this is going to be about from the title, summary, and the content of this first chapter. If this is not a subject you care to read about, then, please, do not read on. I won't be offended if you stop now.
I will warn you now: I have a feeling that this story will include more graphic description and vulgar language. Already, in this first chapter, things have been said that I would never have said in my other fics. There will be sexual talk and situations. I will discuss more at the bottom.
Both of these characters (Jace and Clary) are highly flawed and their actions stupid. Beyond stupid. I fully expect you to become enraged with either or both at one time or another in the course of this story. If you need to vent in a review, fine, just please don't attack.
Oh, and Clary is definitely OOC. Jace probably will be too.
**Sex on Fire – Kings of Leon
Clary's cheek pressed hard against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl. Her stomach roiled and flipped, a raging torrent of acid and whatever traces of last night's boozefest remained after heaving at least twenty times. Never, in all the times she'd partied, had she ever felt this horrible. How the hell much did she drink?
Her arms fell from the sides of the toilet and hit the tile below. She had no energy left. Not even to hold herself upright to puke. As she started to slip, Clary felt hands grab her and hoist her up against the wall, her mouth still aimed at the bowl. She groaned as another wave of nausea bowled over her.
"Never again," she croaked, swallowing against the urge to vomit once more. "Do you hear me, Izzy? Never. Again."
"Yeah, yeah," Isabelle, her best friend, said as she gathered Clary's long, red hair and clipped it to the back of her head. "That's what you say every time." She reached down and started tugging the calf-high spiked-heel boots from Clary's legs. "At least you looked damn hot. I knew these boots were a good idea." Isabelle grinned and started to pet them like they were alive and had feelings.
Clary glared at the boots from the corner of her eye. She remembered the look on her dad's face when she'd come out of her room with them on after changing from her cheerleading outfit. He'd been sitting at the table, going over his coaching notes after the game. The game they lost to Northwest Academy, their rival school and the team of Clary's dad's nemesis in business and in life.
He'd prepared his team all season for the match against Northwest. He was determined to win. To rub a victory into the face of Northwest's head coach, Michael Wayland. But, like always, when they didn't win, it was everyone else's fault. The offense couldn't open the line. The defense couldn't hold it. The quarterback needed to stop acting like a pansy girl and throw the ball into someone's hands or sacrifice himself trying. But most of all, the blame fell to Michael Wayland.
"That damned Wayland," he grumbled into his papers. "Never plays fair. Always throwing in dirty plays. Pays off the refs. Got that kid of his on steroids or something too."
He didn't know Clary was in the hall, and she didn't want him to. The last thing she needed was to listen to him go on and on and on about how Michael Wayland was the bane of his existence. Not tonight. It was an ongoing thing—since he and Michael faced off against each other as junior high quarterbacks. From what Clary had heard from her mother, Michael Wayland had been a gifted athlete all throughout high school, always besting her father, Valentine, no matter how much Valentine practiced. It drove him absolutely insane with jealousy. So much so that when he found out Michael would be the new head coach of the Northwest Bobcats, well, he just had to find a way to snag the job as Southeast Knight's head coach. And snag it he did. But it consumed him. Changed him. Made him into a man none of them, her mother and brother included, recognized anymore.
Clary had tried to keep quiet and sneak to the front door without him ever noticing she was leaving, but the heel of her five-inch boot caught the tile hard and the sound echoed through the room. Her father turned, and his eyes widened.
"Where in the hell do you think you're going dressed like that, Clarissa?"
Clary glanced down at her attire. Aside from the calf-high black stripper boots, she wore a tight black skirt that barely covered her panties, a snug, white tummy shirt which showed her belly button ring, and a bright green button up shirt, left undone and tied and the waist. "Out with Isabelle. And what's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she asked, as if she couldn't guess, but her father's reaction was one reason she dressed like this. Getting a rise out of him and letting him know he wasn't the only one who existed in this house was part of her daily routine. Shower, dress, hair, makeup, breakfast, school, TV, piss dad off, sleep. All in a day's work.
"Nothing. If you were a two-bit whore instead of a fifteen-year-old girl. Go change." Her father turned and went back to his intensive brooding.
"I'm almost sixteen," she retorted.
Her father ignored her and continued grumbling to himself.
Clary huffed and stomped back up the stairs, knowing how much her father hated that. With a slam of her door for good measure, Clary heard her father yell at her to knock it off from downstairs. She grinned and crossed to the window. The branches of a nearby oak stretched close enough to the ledge, she could easily climb down. Stripping the boots from her legs and throwing them to the ground outside, she launched herself onto the nearest branch and escaped into the night.
Now, as Clary glared over at Isabelle and the boots, she did not feel such affection for them, even though they'd accomplished her primary goal of goading her father. "Ugh," she said. "I hate those boots."
Isabelle clutched them to her chest and dropped her mouth open in offense. "Blasphemy! Take it back right now!"
"No. This is all their fault."
"How in God's name is your hangover the fault of my two-hundred and fifty dollar boots?"
"If they hadn't made me look like such a wanton skank, guys wouldn't have been pouring drinks down my throat all night long."
"Of course, and your ability to 'just say no' was also diminished by tight leather and stiletto heels?"
Clary nodded and groaned when her head pounded. Everything on her hurt: her head, her stomach, her eyes, her feet from the stupid heels, her— Oh. Oh, no. Oh, God! Clary gasped when she registered where else she hurt. It wasn't necessarily a painful hurt, but a burning, uncomfortable, sore kind of hurt.
Oh no. No, no, NO!
"What?" Isabelle leaned forward and placed her hand on Clary's head. "Are you gonna spew again?"
Clary shook her head no, then yes, unsure which answer was correct. "Izzy . . . did I . . .? What happened last night?" Her head was a mass of fog, only very small fractions of images breaking through.
"You mean . . ." Isabelle's brows rose nearly to her hairline. "You don't remember?"
Clary shook her head no, but slowly, things started to break through. A flash of a grin. Whispered words in her ear. Chills raking up and down her back. Warm hands trailing up her thigh. Lips, wet and urgent on hers. Her back against the bathroom door. Her hands wound in thick hair. Hot breaths. Cool tongues. Digging fingers. Fullness. Pain.
"Oh, God!" Clary covered her mouth.
"What?" Isabelle screeched. "You can't say 'oh, God' and not elaborate!"
"I think I had sex last night. No—not sex." She met Isabelle's eyes. "Crazy hot slam-me-against-the-door-leaving-me-unable-to-speak-or-even-remember-sex."
"What do you mean you 'think'? Don't you know?"
"I don't know! I mean, I never . . . before. But . . . I—I'm sore. Like, really sore! You know . . ." Clary lowered her voice to a whisper. "Down there."
Isabelle's eyes lightened and she reached out and smacked Clary in the shoulder. "You whore! Tell me all about it! Was it good? Did you . . . you know . . ." She waggled her brows.
"I—" Clary blinked and tried to focus the flashes in her mind, but none of it became clear. "I—I don't know." She glanced up and saw Izzy's excitement falter. "I don't remember anything except for a few flashes."
"Well, who was it?"
Clary's stomach started to churn once more as she realized she had no face, no name, no identifying feature except the way his voice made her body hum when he whispered, "God, I want you," in her ear. She shivered with the memory.
"I don't know." Her heart beat hard against her ribs, the action only exacerbating the rolling of her stomach. "I have no idea who it was. I don't even know if we used— Oh, God, Iz! What if we didn't use . . ." Her stomach was out of control now, wave upon wave of nausea crashed over her.
"It's okay," Izzy said, and placed her hand on Clary's back. "Don't worry, Clary. We'll find out, okay?"
No. No, it wasn't okay. None of this was okay. Clary had sex and didn't know his name or his face or if he'd had enough sense to sheath himself before impaling her against the wall. Oh God, this was the stupidest thing she'd ever done. Tears welled in her eyes and she let out an enraged sob.
Isabelle continued to pat her back and tried to reassure her with her words. "We'll go to Family Planning this afternoon. Then we'll find out who it was, Clary. Please don't worry. We'll find out, and when we do, we'll string that virtue stealing door banger up by his balls. Asshole! I promise, I'll do it."
But it was no use. What difference would it make now? There was no turning back time and changing it. She'd done the worst thing she could think of. She'd had possibly unprotected sex with a complete stranger—at least he was a stranger in the context of her drunken mind. He could be a boy from her school, or a really real stranger! What if people found out? What if her father did? What if she got an STD? What if—
"Uhh" Clary groaned as a stab of pain, followed by the worst nausea she'd ever felt gripped her. She bent forward, her chin hitting the edge of the toilet, just before her stomach heaved and emptied her body of every last drop of leftover liquor.
From the pounding in his head, Jace figured opening his eyes would be a very, very bad thing. At the moment, his stomach felt fine, but there was no telling how it would feel once he let himself come to full consciousness. Shit. Why the hell did he let Sebastian talk him into doing those shots? Drinking wasn't his favorite thing—actually, it wasn't the drinking he minded, it was the aftermath that had him shying away from the bottle. Well, at least today was Saturday, and his birthday. His eighteenth birthday. Finally. No reason to get up and do anything.
Unfortunately, his bladder had other ideas. With a groan, he shifted in bed, his arm brushing along the side of something very warm.
What the hell?
Opening one eye, he squinted into the bright room, his gaze falling on a sleeping figure on the opposite side of the bed. Her blonde hair draped across the pillow and tickled his nose. He swatted it out of the way and sat up, wondering who in the hell this was in his bed, he couldn't see her face and therefore had no idea. As he looked around the room, he realized this wasn't his room at all. Where in the hell was he? Girly pink curtains covered the window and an abundance of makeup and hair stuff covered a small table near the door.
The room spun a little, but not bad enough to nauseate him. Jace glanced down at himself. Fully clothed. Huh. That was interesting. Perhaps he hadn't done anything with the chick beside him. He hoped not. If his father found out about this, he'd have his balls clenched in a vise.
His father had only one rule: no girls during the season. None. No dating. No flirting. And definitely, absolutely, no sex. He claimed the built up tension helped keep Jace on his toes, helped his game stay on target. Jace didn't know if it actually worked, but he wasn't about to test its validity when they still had one more game against Southeast this season. He would never hear the end of it if he lost the game to his dad's arch enemy, Valentine Morgenstern.
The game last night had been bad enough. They'd only pulled off the victory by one extra point. One measly extra point. And Jace's inability to throw in the last minute, which resulted in him having to run and then being shoved off the field into the opposing team's cheerleaders, did not sit well with his father. After the game he'd reamed Jace a new one in front of the whole team. On the bright side, staring up at the spankys of that little red-headed flyer hadn't been so bad. He'd even awarded her his best smirk, and he'd felt the heat in her stare as she'd scowled and given him the finger. Yeah, she gestured tough. But she wanted him. They all wanted him.
With a groan, he took in a deep breath, trying to slow the spinning in his head. The girl beside him rustled and let out a yawn.
"Thank God," she grumbled. "You took up the entire bed."
Jace glanced back and focused on the girl's face. Annika Verlac. Sebastian's sister.
"Shit," he said aloud. Sebastian was going to kill him.
Annika looked up, the look in her eyes telling him she knew exactly what had him cursing, and scowled before snuggling back into her covers. "In your dreams, Wayland."
Relief washed over him. Perhaps he didn't screw up his playing streak by messing with his best offensive lineman's sister.
"So we didn't—"
Her eyes flew open. "You're not exactly my type." She pointed to the picture of her and a pretty Asian girl kissing that was encased in a frame and placed on a night stand next to the bed. "And even if you were, I still wouldn't screw you."
Jace grinned and rose from the bed. "Yeah, you would. Everyone would."
Annika snorted and flipped him off. "Next time you get drunk off your ass, crash on the couch or in Seb's room. I'm not interested in sharing my bed with any guy."
Jace stole out of the room in search of the bathroom. He found it a few doors down and shut himself inside. As he walked over to the toilet, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a complete mess, and not the type of mess he got from sleeping. It was the kind of mess that looked like someone had had their hands in it, and they weren't just admiring its softness. Jace frowned and reached up to fix his hair, noticing a painful pull. Wincing, he touched his shoulder and felt something raised underneath. He pulled his shirt over his head and turned. On the back of his shoulder were four small crescent-shaped scabs.
Jace leaned forward and squinted into his reflection. Damn it. There was no mistaking what those were caused from. Fingernails.
Jace looked over his other shoulder and down his back but found no more marks. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd just made out a little. That wouldn't ruin anything. He'd still be fine then. Convincing himself that's all it was, Jace moved away from the mirror and stepped up to the toilet. With a yawn, he undid the snap and lowered his zipper, pulling his boxer briefs down in the front to relieve himself.
It didn't take more than a few seconds for him to notice the problem. When he pulled his fingers away, they were sticky. And not sticky from anything that might be expelled after a very nice dream. No, this kind of sticky was different. Better, yet so much worse.
"Shit," he said, and raised a hand to his hair, staring at himself in disbelief. "What the hell did you do?" he asked his offending appendage, as if it could answer. Of course it didn't, so Jace tried to remember what happened.
There was nothing.
His mind was a complete blank. He thought maybe he remembered a laugh, soft, addicting. A flash of red. Hell, he didn't know. His head was full of fog. But the evidence spoke for itself. He'd had a lot more fun than he should have the night before, and unless he'd magically procured a condom from someone else, he most likely hadn't used one of those either. Jace never carried condoms during the season. It wasn't out of a lack of responsibility; it was to reinforce his temporary abstinence. If he didn't have them, it pretty much stopped the urge to get himself a piece. The practice had worked the last three years, so why change anything now? But still . . .
No. He wouldn't do that. Would he? Maybe he'd let a girl suck him off, and she'd had a lollipop just before. Maybe that was it. Even that wasn't really allowed, but considering the alternative . . . He'd never, ever have sex without a condom. He wasn't that stupid. How many times had his father drilled that into his head?
"Don't be a dick, Jace. Cover yours," was his father's favorite saying.
And he'd made sure Jace knew it. Made sure he knew what would happen if he didn't. More times than Jace wanted to count. "Everyone wants a piece of the Waylands," he'd said. "We're rich, we're good looking, but we're also smart. No woman will ever trap us, son."
Shaking the thought from his head, he finished up in the bathroom, cleaned himself off with a few wet wipes he managed to find in the cabinet above the toilet, and went to wash his hands. When he finished, he turned to face the door, and an image overtook him.
The flash of red from earlier came clearer, and there was a lot of it, hanging in soft curls from a head that was thrown back against the door. A creamy white throat. Legs clad in black boots wrapped around his waist. Squeezing him, enveloping him. His hands digging into warm flesh. Nails in his shoulder. Pain. Pleasure. So soft. So warm. So, so good.
Shit, he thought again as the realization crashed over him. Jace stumbled back until his back hit the opposite wall. He stared wide-eyed at the door, the very door in which he'd had some girl pinned the night before, his heart crashing in his chest. He wanted to hit it, to put his fist through the wood, as if the door had somehow caused all of this. Maybe it had! God-damned hot door sex! He'd really done it. Not only had he had sex during the season, he was pretty sure he'd had unprotected sex and had no idea who with.
Double, triple, quadruple shit!
Okay, now that we have the first chapter out of the way, I can breathe. Sort of.
Now that you've read this, and the title of the story, you can probably guess where this is going. Yes, we're going to delve into the very touchy subject of teenage pregnancy. And, seeing as Clary and Jace's fathers are enemies, expect for allegations of the criminal kind to be tossed around due to Clary's age. If these are not subjects you care to read about, please bow out now. I'm not writing this to give you a story full of surprising twists and turns, so it's kind of a given that certain developments will come to pass. I'm not doing it for shock value, or to teach anyone a lesson. I'm writing about two characters and the situation they've gotten themselves into. Yes, this situation has been done, probably in each one of its facets, but it hasn't been done by me, so, I want to write it. I hope you'll want to read it. :)
I'm not promising a fluffy story here. Yes, the way I write usually involves fluff and I'm sure there will be some in here, but this isn't a pretty story. Teenage pregnancy seems to be romanticized in books and television, and I'm not interested in doing that. I'm going to do my best to tell it like it is. For that reason, I'm sure many people will not like this story.
This is so far, unbeta'd. My beta is super busy right now, so I don't know when it might be done. Please forgive any errors you find.
I do not have an updating schedule. I'm still writing my original and it comes first. I'll write this as it comes. If you'd like to follow, please put it on alert.
Thanks so much! And I hope you like it. ~ddpjclaf