WARNING: This story is really, siriusly morbid. I cried when writing this. If you can't take some hard-core feels, then I'm not encouraging you to read any further than this. It is morbid. It is not for everyone. Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. Sadly. The twisted and tortured Jace belongs to Cassandra Clare, along with Clary and Alec.

He felt her tense as he skimmed his hand over her skin, resting on the clasp of her bra.

"Is this all right?"
Clary nodded, but she was still tense. Jace, feeling it, getting internally elated at the thought of more of her, tried to comfort her. He gently rested one hand on her cheek, lips on hers, but only just.
Living in another one of his dreams, he reached behind him. Internally, he screamed at himself to stop. Stop. Stop. Externally, though, he acted just as he would: keeping her close, being her comfort, kissing her, but everything in his mind now told his arm to stop. Yet it wouldn't. She noticed him reaching back and tensed a bit more. The rest of him felt peaceful, though. Just bliss. This was what's right.

She said something...

Then he stabbed her.
His eyes widened with terror as hers did, green eyes meeting gold, betrayal and fear and heartbreak in hers.
Everything in him broke.
"Clary," his voice started off low. She replied once, a barely audible whisper.
"Jace..." the light left her eyes as she went limp in his arms. And he screamed.
"NO! NO, CLARY! No, dammit you're not dead!" He saw her cheek, still warm, was wet, and realized that there were tears falling from his eyes. He was crying for the first time in a decade.
"No, Clary, no!" Vision blurred by tears, he ripped the knife from her heart and threw it at the wall, desperately putting his hands over the wound, his cheek on top of them as though that could heal her and he'd still head the steady beating of her heart that he loved so much. His voice rose even louder, face still on her chest, seemingly oblivious to the face he was being covered in her blood. So, so much blood.
"YOU'RE NOT DEAD, DAMMIT!"
But she was. His eyes caught a glimpse of hers, blank now, and he knew how much of a monster he was. Valentine was his father after all. He was worse than Valentine, though. He just killed his Clary. Everything in him was broken. Clary, he thought, Dead. By. My. Hand. The thought ate him up. He killed Clary. Jace-no, he didn't deserve anything the Lightwoods gave him. Not even a name. Jonathan Morgenstern-Wayland-whoever the hell he was- killed Clary. He sat up, part of his consciousness thinking he was in a dream. But he wasn't. He was already sure of that. Looking at the love of his life, lying motionless with death, he saw how quickly her blood had spread to coat her and the bed. He didn't notice how much of her own blood was on him until he looked down at his hands. A monster's hands. My own hands. They were coated in blood completely, only streaks smeared away. Hands shaking, he crossed to the knife he'd sunken into her heart. Through the heart. Because I am worse than Valentine. I deserve more pain. I deserve slow torture to death, enduring, terrible, seemingly endless pain until my body shuts down from too much of it. But a knife through the heart will have to do.
That's it, he thought. He would stand next to the bed, for he did not deserve the comfort (or maybe it was that it really was too much pain) to hold her as she died. He took a deep breath and crossed so that he was beside the bed, opposite the door. He was amazed his legs still worked.
His voice was barely a whisper as he looked into her green eyes again.
"I killed you." Still staring into her green eyes, intending that they be the last thing he sees, his voice went back up to a shout.
"I F*CKING MURDERED YOU!"
At that precise moment, Alec kicked the door down. "J-NO!"
But it was too late. Jace had already plunged the dagger into his own heart.