#Jackie lives au

[autism-swagger]

R.I.P. Jackie Taylor you would've been such a handsome butch.

Redraw of an old post.

[invisible-pink-toast]

yellowjackets au | jackie as the blackmailer

watching season 1 for the first time and deluding myself that jackie wasn't dead and could be the blackmailer... only now i'm waiting for s3 and thought 'hey i can make that myself!' Starring Robin Tunney as Adult Jackie 💛🖤

[kasinonightlife]

*After the Squad has been separated for a few years*

Jackie: So what have you been up to recently?

Misty: Solving a murder with Natalie.

Jackie: Good for you two! Me, I've joined an AA group.

Misty: *Nods* Oh, that's incredible! I'm so proud of you!

Jackie: Thank you! Anyway, have you heard from the others? Van?

Misty: Happily living as a hermit in the woods. Large collection of strange pets.

Jackie: What about Tai?

Misty: Wrongfully locked up in an asylum, which reminds me, we need to break her out later.

Jackie: Oh, wow. And what's up with Lottie?

Misty: Cult leader.

Jackie: Yeah, that sounds about right.

[hyperblue]

hello my fellow timkon clone baby au enjoyers, what are your clone kid oc's vigilante identities, i'm curious

[jilyandbambi]

so a Yellowjackets AU where mari says something to get herself kicked out of the cabin, and she dies of exposure and gets eaten at the bachanalian banquet instead of Jackie, who LIVES, who's there at Shauna's side when she goes into labor, stroking her hair and letting Shauna squeeze her hand hard enough to sprain her fingers, who keeps Shauna calm enough she has a (comparatively!!!!!!) easier delivery, who is the reason the(ir) baby lives.

who finally, after months of feeling adrift and useless because she’s not a hunter or a butcher or a prophet or a captain (anymore) finds her purpose in the wilderness. who painstaking sews patchwork baby onesies and cloth diapers from the girls' spare clothes (Offerings, not donations). who makes a baby sling from animal pelts and backpack straps. who makes a rattle from sticks and pinecones and some light blue pebbles Jackie found by the lake one day and saved. who makes sure the cabin stays warm and clean for Luke Dylan (from 90210--they couldn't decide whether to go with the actor or the character).

who builds them another shelter from blankets and animal hides after the cabin burns down. who keeps shauna and their baby warm through that first terrible winter and the one that followed.

and one day in 1998, Canadian forest rangers happen upon that American high school soccer team that went missing 2 years back. they find a group of starving teens and a baby, a little over a year old, two of the girls wrapped around him--and each other

and when the rescue team tries to separate them the one with tangled, golden brown hair bears her teeth and Growls

[javierduffy]

transing jack marston’s gender because john marston was born to be a girldad

[daffodils-loverrs]

#JACKIESHAUNA AU

Shauna’s life gets shaken up when she receives a visit from her past: her former lover — and everything in between — Jackie Taylor. From lifelong best friends to secret high-school sweethearts, Shauna was too afraid to be out in the open. She’s willing to try this time though.

Jackie Taylor lives! Long live adult Jackie Taylor!! Shauna Shipman finally gives happiness a chance!!!

[raventrigonsdaughter]

Jackie lives fanfic that is a venom AU where the team still eats her but Venom lands on earth close to the crash a little after it and finds her bones inside the plane and brings her back OR he finds her body in the shack before that disaster which takes away the canibalism (against jackie) part but it still opens for so many ideas

[heywoodvirgin]

[harrenhalyuri]

watching bullet train again made me rethink morgan/mortred and jackie's dynamic. I guess it is romantic in CP2077 but in 40k it's purely platonic

just two underdogs that spent a decade building their little underground empire until mortred is summoned by theodora. He leaves calixis and jackie takes charge of their whole operation

I love to think that he's alive and well back in calixis (probably married to 40k!misty) while mortred is involved in the most insane stuff in the Expanse

[autism-swagger]

Lol what if we loved each other so much it rewrote the narrative and un-doomed all three of us haha

Kinda sorta redraw of this.

[invisible-pink-toast]

jackieshauna au | betty

[aqpippin]

i need to stop coming up with fic concepts in the middle of the night 😃

[arolesbianism]

See my vision part 2

[leading-manhattan]

Jack's been settling nicely into his new life with his latest foster family. He's really, truly happy for the first time in what feels like forever. It's really no surprise that something pops up and throws a wrench into the new life he's started building for himself. With his father potentially about to be released from prison he feels unsafe and plans to take matters into his own hands.

That is, at least, until Spot catches him in the act.

Modern AU.

Jack is the fun one. He's a man built on charm, humor, and confidence. It's a persona that Jack's meticulously built over the years after nearly a decade of bouncing restlessly around in the system. His past is painted in a vast array of blues, purples, and red and he can't let anyone know that the mistreatment and disregard he's faced has affected him as much as it has. No one wants damaged goods. The second people hear that he's a foster kid they immediately assume that he's troubled and as much as that irks him he can't do anything about it. He can, however, show them a kid who's strong and unafraid.

Jack has been so careful to maintain the image he's crafted. He's been at this home for months now and it's been perfect. His foster mom was the sweetest lady Jack's ever met but she was also big and bold and carried with her a warmth that he'd never known before. She owned a theater just a few streets down where she played films and opened the space up for brilliant theatre productions that Jack had sat in awe of the first time he saw everything come together to tell such an intricate story. He had a foster brother, a rough and tumble guy that Jack was pretty sure hated him, but Spot left him alone for the most part so it was already more than he ever got from his past foster siblings. Hell, he went to school and he made friends. He even reunited with a few boys from a group home he'd been in when he was younger. Things were good.

Then his social worker showed up and Jack felt his mask crack.

--

Jack is terrified. It's been years since his father was arrested and Jack had been so sure that he'd never have to deal with the bastard again. Then his social worker stopped by this morning to tell him it was very possible his father would be released early for good behavior and shattered any sense of security he had. On the off chance he was granted release he apparently wanted custody back. Jack doesn't know what to do. The courts have never worked in his favor before and he knew that he'd be denied emancipation if he tried to apply; he was a troubled kid with a record, he needed guidance. He was powerless, at the mercy of people who claimed to care but never helped him when he needed them. He hasn't been this scared since he found his mother's corpse back when he was six, beaten to death by his father's hands and left to rot in the master bedroom.

He's been texting Crutchie and Racetrack all morning, nose buried in his screen even as he settled down at the table for breakfast. He wasn't exactly enamored by the idea of running away, he liked it here with Medda, but it was an option he was seriously considering. Crutchie and Racetrack acted as the little angel and devil on his shoulders respectively. Crutch was adamant that it was a bad idea, that he should just talk to Medda about it

She'd try to fight for him if push came to shove he said. Jack appreciated the sentiment but he didn't think Medda would go through the hassle of court just for a kid she's only known for a few months. Race was plotting how to hide Jack in his basement.

A hand slams onto the table in front of him and Jack nearly jumps out of his skin, head snapping up to stare wide-eyed at Spot. Spot glowers down at him and Jack instinctively sneers back, clutching his phone tightly to hide how his hands start to tremble. "No phones at the table." Spot sniffs, leaning back with a satisfied smirk that makes Jack's blood boil.

"It's alright, Sean." Medda assures from across the room. They can see her over the island counter separating the kitchen from the dining room, her back turned to them as she goes about making breakfast at the stove. She knows, of course, what's going on with Jack. He couldn't have hid it from her even if he wanted to. His social worker spilled her guts without even asking Jack's opinion. Spot frowns, eyeing Jack in search of whatever's giving him special treatment. Jack glares back, pointedly ignoring how his phone vibrates against his palm. Spot looks away first with a scoff and a roll of his eyes and Jack tries not to let the relief show on his face. Spot's left him alone for the most part but that didn't mean Jack wasn't painfully aware of how fucking buff the guy was. Jack had half a foot on him and he still knew that Spot could beat his ass if he wanted to. He wasn't in the right mindset to think about that right now.

Spot doesn't even try to hide his disdain as Medda brings in two plates piled high with pancakes, sausage, and eggs and Jack resists the urge to squirm under the fire in his stare. Jack didn't even do anything, he wasn't breaking any rules he didn't have permission to, but Spot was acting like he'd killed someone and wouldn't confess.

"What?" Jack snaps when Spot won't stop staring. Neither of them even moves to touch their food and Medda looks between them with open confusion and muted amusement.

"Nothin'," Spot shrugs, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't stop staring. If anything his eyes harden and his scowl deepens and Jack's stomach twists with an old dread that's been dormant for the past four months. He knows that look, he's achingly familiar with that look, and he hates the primal fear that bursts to life in his chest in response to it. His heart beats like a hummingbird's wings, caged beneath his ribs, and he snarls to cover the swell of terror.

"Jack," Medda scolds softly yet firmly and Jack averts his gaze swiftly. They both know that Jack practically has a foot out the door at this point but he didn't want to give her any reason to get rid of him before she had to. "Sean." She says in the same tone and Jack blinks in surprise. Usually he's the only one being told off. Even if he got baited into a fight, sometimes even if he wasn't part of the fight at all. That's just how it's always been. Sean huffs but uncrosses his arms and starts eating. Jack finds that he doesn't have much of an appetite and returns to his phone, relaying the oddities that just occurred to Crutchie and Racetrack. She likes you. Crutchie texts back easily.

Get fucked, Conlon. Race says. --

Jack's anxiety only builds throughout the week. It gets so bad that he can't sleep without waking up from violent nightmares, thrashing awake and digging his teeth into his palm in a desperate attempt to keep frantic cries quiet. He's exhausted and even before he started losing sleep he was far too distracted to focus in class. It was already starting to reflect in his grades with all the missing daily assignments and homework sheets. Jack was terrified that Medda would find out before he could get his act together and fix it.

His usual charm has been replaced by a hollow stare and a haunting lethargy that leaves his friends worried and caring. Jack would feel worse about that if they didn't go out of their way to try and make him feel better. Racetrack, it turns out, was serious about the whole basement thing. He shows Jack pictures at lunch of the blanket fort he made filled with pillows and snacks and it fills Jack with flashes of affection that briefly smother the chill of fear. No matter how much he appreciates the care from his boys it doesn't do much to alleviate the constant anxiety that thrums through him like a poison.

When Jack crawls home that evening he feels like he's been carved open and scooped out, empty and cold and rotting, and he makes a beeline for his room despite Medda trying to get his attention. He needs out. He needs to get away. He needs to feel safe and he can't do that here. The security that Medda offered him has chipped away. If he stayed here and his father got out then he'd know exactly where Jack was and the mere idea of being hunted down like a piece of property makes Jack's stomach roll and twist. He has to leave. He bolts into his room like there's a monster right on his heel and slams the door behind him, his backpack sliding off his shoulders and hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Racetrack. He has to go to Racetrack's, Race would hide him away. He whips out his phone and sends a quick text to Racer and the groupchat they have with Crutchie telling them both to delete any text messages even so much as joking about Jack running or staying at Racetrack's place before throwing his phone carelessly onto his bed. He can feel the panic bubbling up and boiling over in his chest, spilling out over his limbs. He tries to keep his breathing even as he drops to his knees and starts digging through his closet for the suitcase he used to move in back in July.

His hands are shaking and his body feels frail, weak and small in a way that's familiar and vile. He forces himself to drag the ratty little suitcase out of the closet and starts shoving the essentials in. He'd dump his school supplies and fill his backpack with what he could too. It's not like he could go back to school. That'd be the first place people would look and he wouldn't risk getting caught. He despises how much he has to give up just to feel like he wasn't in danger. It's not fair but he's learned long ago that life would be cruel to whoever it wanted. He shoves all the clothes he owns into the suitcase haphazardly and turns to grab his backpack only to freeze halfway off the floor. His door is open and Spot is standing by his bed with his phone held in his hand. Spot's flippantly scrolling through something with sharp eyes and a frown firmly in place. Jack realizes distantly that he left his phone unlocked on the message he'd just sent the groupchat begging them to help him cover his tracks. Jack's breath stutters and for a second he can't fucking breathe.

Spot shoots him a curious look but his expression doesn't shift, "Plannin' on bookin' it, are you?" He drawls, gaze falling back to Jack's phone.

"Fuck you," Jack growls. The cacophony of emotions swirling around in the void swallowing him whole all collide and Jack tries pathetically to keep the sudden rush of tears at bay. Spot Conlon was not the kind of boy you showed weakness in front of and Jack was pitifully aware that he was already vulnerable enough in this state.

"Good one, Kelly," Spot huffs a soft laugh, still not taking his eyes off the private messages he had no right to be reading. Jack doesn't know what to do. He's unsteady as it is, caught in the throes of panic and desperation, and he wouldn't be able to take Spot even if he was at his best. Spot suddenly stops scrolling and his eyes narrow at whatever he finds on the screen. His expression twists in open disgust, fury bright and undeniable on his face, and Jack's stomach drops. Spot's glare snaps up to Jack and he's helpless to stop the choked noise that rips from his throat when all that anger is suddenly directed at him.

Spot tosses the phone back onto the mattress and immediately starts stalking towards Jack. Jack scrambles away in the hope of maintaining the distance between them. Surprisingly Spot stops, raising his hands in surrender before he slowly crouches down. What? Jack thinks, baffled and slightly hysterical, as Spot's face softens into something that could almost be sympathetic. "Your dad hurt you?" He asks out of nowhere.

Jack flinches, scooting back until his back hits the wall. His chest is heaving with rapid gasps for air and no matter how much he inhales it feels like he's suffocating. Spot waits patiently, not quite worried but certainly not as hostile as he usually is. Jack doesn't understand. "What're you doin'?" Jack wheezes through the tightness in his chest, "You hate me."

"I don't hate you, moron," Impossibly Spot's face somehow softens more. His mouth is still set in a hard frown but his eyes are almost warm as he gazes back at Jack. Could've fooled me, Jack wants to say but his tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth. Spot lowers himself further, sitting down fully and crossing his legs neatly beneath him. Jack's eyes flick briefly to the open door. "My ma beat the shit outta me." Spot says apropos of nothing. Jack stills in the sheer shock that washes over him. "Don't remember my old man but whatever happened fucked Ma up good and she took it all out of me. 'S how I ended up in the system. Medda pulled me out a few years back. It took me a long time to realize she wasn't gonna be like everyone else. She cares, ya know?"

Jack knows what Spot's doing. It isn't the first time someone shared something personal with him in an attempt to get him to open up in return. It's not the genius move that Spot must think it is. Still, focusing on Spot's story helped calm Jack down and he finds himself hesitantly answering Spot's initial question. He nods and swallows thickly, "Yeah." He croaks. Spot immediately nods back. A flash of something sad and understanding dances across his features but it's gone just as quickly as it came. Maybe, Jack acknowledges, he isn't the only one that puts up a front.

"What's he in for?" Spot asks it like they're talking about nothing more than their hobbies. A fun little get-to-know-you game and not the horrors of his father's incarceration.

"Manslaughter," Jack answers, expression darkening, "It wasn't an accident."

"So, he wants custody, huh?" Spot sucks his teeth, "That blows."

Jack barks a startled laugh and lifts a shaky hand to wipe away the tears pooling in his eyes. "Yeah, well, I ain't got a say in it." He mutters bitterly. The sun is starting to set now and Jack watches the orange bars painted by the blinds shift lazily across the wall.

"Maybe you should give us a chance, kid," Spot says. Jack scoffs, Spot is only a year older than him. Then the words actually register. "Running away won't keep you safe long. They'll find you."

"Why?" Jack sniffs, anger rushing in, "Medda ain't gonna fight for me. She doesn't even know me." As much as Jack wants to stay he doesn't think it'd do him any good. He'd stay, his social worker would show up, and Medda would let him go with a quiet goodbye and nothing more.

"Of course she'd fight for you," Spot snorts, rolling his eyes, "She loves you."

"Why?" Jack presses, disbelieving.

Spot shrugs, "Beats me. You'd have to ask her."

"Why are you tryin' to convince me to stay? The hell do you get outta this?" Jack can't just take all of this at face value. Spot's barely talked to him outside of some snarky comments here and there and now all of a sudden he's trying to convince Jack to stick around. The ugly thought that maybe Spot wants Jack to get sent back to his father crosses his mind but he quickly bats it away. Spot was a bit mean but he's never been cruel.

"Did it ever cross your mind that I don't hate you? Maybe I actually like you, you idiot. You're happy here. I've seen it. If Medda ain't gonna fight for you, which she would, I will." Spot explains easily. Jack wishes he'd stop saying all of this so casually. He keeps dropping bombs on Jack's reality without even batting an eye.

"I don't get it," Jack confesses softly, voice floating through the air of the quickly dimming room. The warmth from the setting sun contrasts with the coolness of the spilling shadows and Jack thinks that they're at an impasse.

"We're brothers, Kelly, not by blood but in blood. We fought tooth and nail to get where we are today and I'll be damned if I watch that all be for nothin'." Spot spits it with such fire and conviction that it makes Jack cringe back, pressing his shoulders into the wall like he could blend into it if he tried hard enough. Spot quiets but the determination doesn't ebb, "I'll back you up, Jack, and if we can't win the case I'll help you pack these damn bags myself, alright?"

Jack ponders this, watching as the bars of light from the blinds start crawling across Spot's shoulders. Spot waits patiently and Jack releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He swallows and nods slowly, "Okay." He breathes.

Spot grins, "I got you, kid." He assures. Jack thinks he might believe him.

[another-corpo-rat]

Prelude of Ours

I’m back on my AU bullshit and I’m dragging Jackie’s ass into it now.

Regency AU Jackie Welles/Fem V | One-sided Arthur Jenkins/Fem V Summary: V’s life is in danger of becoming unbearably changed, Jackie has an offer to make it a lot more bearable.

.

The bite of the cold air is a welcome thing as Valerie slips free into the gardens, her skin warm from the heat of the tightly packed ballroom, blood abuzz from the energetic plucking of strings and the steps that follow to their rhythm. At least, that’ll be her excuse for the pinkness in her cheeks and the tip of her ears should someone come to inquire the reason for her slipping out as quiet as a thief. The truth of it, that the sickening warmth had clawed up her chest at Jenkins’s proposal was entirely too likely to raise more questions and invite a chatter she didn’t have the strength to bear for the foreseeable future.

She could only pray that he would keep it between them for now – that he would make no effort to approach her father with it instead, or that it perhaps was even one of those business hypotheticals he was so keen on prattling about while also waving away her own mild interest with the claim that she wouldn’t understand the true grandness of it all. The business in this instance was simply marriage. To him.

There was certainly lead or something of a familiar weight in the night’s drinks, as her stomach felt heavy with the thought yet the pace of her steps hurried, carrying her further away from where curious eyes might pry. She had little doubt her father would give under the consistent pressure of mother and her insistence that Jenkins would be a good fit for his only daughter, that he was indeed a good man – for her mother made no distinction between wealthy and good, and Arthur Jenkins despite the unshakable unpleasantry of his temper and the many more displeasing facets of his personality, was considerably wealthy. There would be a mere pretence of choice in the matter, if she was offered the pretence at all. She would not choose Jenkins as a partner in any matter; he was dreadful enough as a dining guest, or a dance partner, as stiff in the steps as he was in conversation with any he deemed below him. No, she would much rather—

“Jackie?”

Despite her surprise, she is still cautious of the pitch in her voice; her shock little more than a whisper into the night’s air but still enough that the man in question, who was currently halfway over the hedges, pauses in his venture. She imagines his expression must mirror her own for a brief second; wide-eyed surprise, his lips parting into an ‘o’ as his head snaps to the sound of her, but his surprise is much more short-lived than hers, his expression easing into something much more familiar – that bright, doe-eyed smile that lights his face upon seeing her. No matter how many times their paths may cross or however short their time spent apart, it never fails to alter his already handsome features into something much more beautiful to behold. It eases her somewhat, the fanciful little voice in her head drawing threads from old tales of princesses and knights; that he must be hers to come to her now, when her chest is so tight she fears it may squeeze her heart into stopping. But still— “You shouldn’t be here.”

His dismount from the height is a practiced thing, done with such ease that she has to remind herself of his life as a petty thief and that those cat-like landings, heavy as they were, were honed from necessity rather than any natural skill. She watches as he rubs his attire down, casting aside stray leaves and twigs caught upon fabric, and notes that it is significantly different than what he’d usually wear; gone is the apparel of a common man and in its place is the finery she’d expect from her peers – or that she would expect, were it not a lifetime out of fashion and ill-fitted on his broad frame.

“I know, I know,” he placates, his hands outstretched between them, palms facing her. She can see the roughness of them even in the dark, well known to her mind’s eye from the time she has spent meticulously mapping them with her own delicate fingers. She’ll cling to those memories should her fears of the night come to pass. “They’ll think I’m your…your…what was it again?”

“A cur I lifted off the street.”

“Right, that. So,” he gestures proudly to the outfit, puffing out his chest and giving her a slow spin to appraise it further than she already has. She takes the opportunity of course, and deems that it is acceptable in its complimentary tightness around certain assets of his figure. “What do you think?” She thinks it doesn’t suit him, that is ill-fitting on him in a way she’d struggle to articulate beyond stating the sight as wrong. But she spares him that, knowing it will bring the tightness back to her chest and that he would set whatever hopes and plans he had for the night aside to take her hand in his and soothe her nerves. He was terribly skilled in that art even before she realised he had stolen away a facet of her heart, when their relationship was soundly a thing she could call friendship and not—not whatever she wished it to be now.

“I believe you’re in great danger of being assumed a Spaniard.” He lays a hand over his heart at her words, bracing as if she had struck him and muttering to God in a tongue she regrettably never learned. That’ll be her excuse she thinks as she feels her expression tighten and her lungs heft with effort, for why her mood has suddenly turned, for why she doesn’t share in his usual exuberance at seeing him again. His own countenance turns to concern, stepping forward to brace her with rough hands in a gentle hold as she draws in a too purposeful breath.

“What’s wrong, cariño?”

And it is a lacklustre excuse she realises quickly, unfair to them both but especially to him – he is no idiot. He knows her well enough to know her moods, and that a lack of skill would nary be enough to move her to tears.

“I…I believe I may be engaged before the night’s end, or perhaps by teatime on the morrow…” She wishes to prick at her nails, or chew on her lip, both until the part in question is bloodied. The sting of it will hurt less than the ache blooming in her chest, an ache that Jackie shares in but presses down, his hands upon her arms trembling as his thumb traces a comforting motion. It is not enough. She steps closer, pressing herself tightly to him and yet yearning to be tighter still even his arms curl around her.

“Do you remember that night on the docks?” His voice is quiet, breathy and warm against her ear and yet cautious too, as if he were treading on ice. She nods without lifting her head from where she has it buried against his shoulder, breathing in the faint spice of his cologne. As if she could forget that night and the promise he extended at the same moment he held his own heart out to her. “The offer is still there, Valerie.”

“And where would we go?”

“Anywhere. Wherever you want, we can go and find El Dorado if that’s still on your list.”

“You remembered…”

“Always do…or try to, when it comes to you.”

She knows what her answer should be, knows that she shouldn’t even consider his offer as anything more than a flight of fancy that will have her plummeting within weeks of accepting. If not for herself, she should consider her family; the scandal she would stir, the whispers that would follow for generations. The shadow of the runaway-daughter looming so greatly even over the grandchildren of her future nieces and nephews, twisting into some warning or another. And yet—

“Let’s go, Jackie. Together.” She lifts her head to look up at him, smiling through teary eyes as he lifts a hand to cup her cheek, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. The warmth of him pleasant.

“Together.”