─── werewolf!jackie headcanons.
summary; your best friend's a werewolf. honestly, you might like her better this way...
warnings; blood mentioned. implied possessiveness. no nsfw. pre-crash/no-crash.
coming home to find her, fresh off her first full moon, mud-soaked and laying in your mother's flowerbeds.
she's dirty and disheveled, covered in a mix of mud, torn fabric, and something that you really hope isn't blood. or at least isn't hers. at least she looks peaceful, the petals brushing her, and you're once again grateful that your mother doesn't grow roses. you have to drag her from the moist dirt and haul her up to your room. did she get heavier all of a sudden?
jackie, who's loud. louder than normal, anyway.
she's never snored before, not at any of the sleepovers you've ever had. now, though, after that night, she makes all sorts of noises she would have called undignified. she snores now, soft and deep in her chest, especially emphasized by her new habit of sleeping on her back. the other noises are more subtle, sure, but every once in a while you'll catch a whine or even a growl leaving her. it always happens when someone gets too close, when someone reaches for you or touches you in any way. she gets this pitiful little look on her face, but never says anything until you’re alone and she can whine in your ear all she wishes.
jackie who's always staying over.
jackie was always welcome at your house before, your parents always gushing over that “polite taylor girl…” and approving any sleepover at the first syllable of her name. You’d never thought to abuse that before, but now that jackie’s attached to your hip she’s always begging to stay over. your bed has a permanent her-shaped divot in the middle of her bed, and you learn to adjust to her starfish-like way of sleeping. there’s a polaroid taped to the frame of your mirror, one your parents took and cooed over infinitely. jackie lays sprawled, all limbs going in different directions with you bundled against her side, which is how they find you most mornings of every week.
jackie who... really doesn't pay jeff any mind anymore.
for a girl who was always with her boyfriend, wrapped around him at parties or holding his hand at the hallways, she dissociates from him heavily. no longer does she entertain his plays for attention at lunch or his clumsy attempts to get her alone. she’s just focused on you, culling you into a corner or to dance. despite everyone’s confusion, no one really protests, jeff fades like last week’s gossip, apparently latching on to some other girl instead. there’s no more of him mentioned in the locker room, your name phasing in instead.
body hair...
everything just seems to sprout. she’ll whine that she just shaved yesterday while rolling up her pant-leg to display wispy honey-blonde hair an inch long—and then pouting as you go silent, assuming a bad reaction. her hair starts to grow quickly, as well, and you start giving her haircuts because it’s too expensive to go to a hairdresser every week even on her parents’ mansion-buying budget. she’s a familiar presence in your bathroom, your desk chair pulled in so that you can clip her ends and re-do her bangs.
growing. not upwards, but…
she gets broad. soccer practice seems to have a profound effect on her body. the exercise that used to keep her slim builds her muscle, her legs growing especially. she’s never truly buff, but she’s certainly more muscular than before. there’s tone to her limbs now, shadowed divots that weren’t there before. the first time you saw her at a game after that night you almost choked, the ripple of her pounding legs and the flex of her raising arm almost made you miss the next goal she made.
and she gets so much better at soccer.
before she could barely outpase laura lee, but now she’s nipping at shauna’s heels all up the field. her stamina skyrockets, her chest barely heaving even after coach’s hardest, most dreaded practices. she’s the one, now, who stays after practice instead of showering quick and running off, drilling with natalie and lottie and really whoever stays behind because she’s still ready to work after running intense drills and about twenty sprints.
her personal skills, on account of all that extra practice, soars. jackie seems to smell girls, knowing when they’re behind her and who’s who-–especially if they’ve already played the team. she'll be bringing the ball up-field, the other team attempting to catch her, and she’ll yell “tai! get eleven off of me!” even though the girl’s four feet behind her.
the yellowjackets, who become so tight-knit there’s not much that could halt them.
her relationships with the girls, first and foremost, gets better. She’s seen slinging her arm over nat’s shoulder in the halls or stealing a cig with lottie at a party. the girls start to give in to her bids for team bonding, sleepovers and movie nights ending with the seven, eight, nine of them all bundled together on one couch. and you’re there too, always dragged along because why would jackie go anywhere without you?
other teams start to dread playing the yellowjackets even more than they already did. what was once a group of strong, stinging players is now a conditioned hive, the swarm of them overwhelming even to the best player. They take over the state, cementing themself even further into new jersey’s legacy. scouts show up at almost every game, now, even if they’re playing some poor junior varsity team, furiously taking notes every time even one of them takes a step.
jackie who steals your clothes.
it’s not an odd thing for her; you’d find her bundled in shauna’s flannel nine times out of ten calling it her pajamas. you have no idea how shipman hasn’t run out of them yet. it seems like jackie has at least ten. it’s gotten so much worse since that night, though. it started gradually—you’d be missing a shirt, maybe a pair of sweats. then it was the sweatshirt, one of your warm long-sleeves after a cold day. at this point you’re running out of clothes.
jackie who really steals your clothes.
if you’re the same size you’re missing bras, underwear. if you’re not… she’s taking them anyway. her denials and claims that they fit her only make you laugh, watching her get redder and redder.
(eventually, when you finally hang out at her house again, you find them in her blankets smelling greatly of her, along with most of the other clothing you lost.)
physical affection. which devolves into possessiveness.
always, always all over you. draped over your back, sat so close she’s almost in your lap. she insists on cuddling whenever possible, whether you’re alone in your room or out at a sleepover with the rest of the team. despite the ease at which she touches you, it’s quickly made clear that only she can touch you like that. mari drops a hand to your shoulder and she scowls, and she almost attacks someone who bumps you in the hallway. the only exemptions from her protectiveness? her now-close-nit hive, or pack, perhaps, puddled like puppies at the end of movie-filled nights.