Hello dear readers. This is my first fic on this account. I have another one which I have a bunch of crack fics that tend to make my readers mad because I like to kill everyone off gruesomely, but I'm planning on making this one normal. I love Sebastian and want some romance with him but not with Clary incest is not really my thing so OC TIME! Yay! Romance! Sebastian! Toothbrushes! I don't know I'm sorry people.
Disclaimer: I didn't write TMI I would never have enough patience to write a book that long. Let's hope I can even finish this. Also, my name is not Cassandra Clare or Bianca Jones. I would tell you but I am a firm believer in internet stalkers. Please review!
Sebastian missed people.
Sure, he had his dark warrior army of 100% loyal demonic shadowhunters, and the pretty girls he brought home sometimes, but he couldn't really talk to them.
No, that's not right. He could talk to them, but not really talk to them. He couldn't discuss his thoughts and feelings with them, ask their advice, or just have meaningless conversations about music, celebrities, and their preference on cheetos.
He wanted someone with personality.
Like Jace.
Like Clary.
But Jace and Clary hated him. They always did. The time they had together wasn't real. Deep down, they hated him then too.
Everyone hated him. Valentine, who had raised him, never showed him any love. Jocelyn abandoned him, and last time he saw her, her werewolf fiancé tried to blow his head off. His own mother hated him. The only friend he ever had really hated his guts. His sister who he loved wanted to roll him over with that werewolf's truck multiple times.
Love.
No, he didn't love Clary. He was attracted to her because of their blood, but he didn't love her. He didn't love anyone. He didn't even understand the meaning of the word. Love was not something that existed to him.
He had moved houses since Clary blew up his old one. This one was also in a dimensional pocket. He housed the majority of his army here with him, but he had his own little section. He had his kitchen where one of his dark shadowhunters would cook for him, his dining room where he would spend his meals alone, his living room with the huge flat screen TV, his massive bedroom with the four post California King bed with the white fluffy comforter and the smaller TV on the wall facing it, his ultra-modern bathroom with marble counters, and his training room.
The training room was by far his favorite place. It was where he could let out his anger through the knives, swords, maces, and other various weapons which lined the walls. It was where he could be himself, slaughtering uncountable numbers of invisible enemies. It was where he could do what he was good at.
But he was alone. That was what he was thinking as he perfected his already superior throwing hand. He threw knife after knife at the target on the wall of the training room until he ran out, and would go pull them all out of the center of the target and go again.
He raised his hand back, and when his elbow was perfectly in line with his shoulder, let the knife lose, ending with a perfect follow-through of his hand pointing directly at the center of the target.
The point of the knife cut through the air and thumped against the soft material of the target; a perfect bull's eye. He always made the knife in the center circle of the target. He didn't need the practice. He only did it because he liked the pointless repetition, but at the same time resented it.
If only he wasn't so lonely.
Bianca Jones was an outgoing 16 year old with plenty of friends. She wasn't necessarily popular, but not an outcast either. She spoke her mind, literally. Whatever was on her mind at the time was blurted out. She was as uncoordinated as people come, unlike our other main character, and tripped over flat surfaces, rough surfaces, her own feet, other peoples feet, her pets, her backpack, other people's pets, other people's backpacks, tables, chairs, food, basketballs, soccer balls, tennis balls, ping pong balls, racquet balls, baseballs, lamps, fans, space heaters, imaginary objects, and well, you get the point.
But unlike most people who might find such situations embarrassing, she merely found them funny.
She was well aware that everyone at her school fit into the category of a bitch, a whore, a jackass, or her friend, but she enjoyed sympathizing with criminals and socially unacceptable people. One of her greatest dreams in life was to meet Hitler.
She was the perfect match for Sebastian.
Unfortunately, other than her slight quirks, she was a perfectly normal, non-violent, mundane who lived in the mundane world with no knowledge of shadowhunters.
The chances of them meeting were close to zero. Sebastian didn't spend much time with mundanes due to his bad temper and lack of self control when it comes to urges to slice someone in half when they annoy him.
You see, though, dear reader, the chances of them meeting were close to zero, not zero. There was a chance, however small that chance may be, for them to meet. Now I'm not saying they will meet, I'm simply saying that the possibility of them interacting at all is very small. Being the author, I hold the power to decide whether or not they do. I may write sixty chapters just on their own separate lives because fuck you that's why. Yes, yes, I know, language, but do you know what? I hope so, because I sure don't.
Yay! Chapter 1! It's a total filler chapter I know. Please excuse my language I've been trying to stop cussing but you can see how well that's working out for me. Review, please, I like reading them. I will read all of them. And then respond to you in the author's note of the next chapter if I remember.
Next chapter should be more exciting if I ever get around to it.