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innytoes · 1 year

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So @hawkguyhasstarbucks prompted me 27+Carrie/Flynn for the A/B/O prompts and this went way angsty. Special thanks to the Rulie Canoe Crew for answering my very weird hypotheticals aboutTaylor Swift.

Being the daughter of Trevor Wilson, it felt like Carrie had to work twice as hard to get acknowledged for her own talents. Being an Omega on top of that, and sometimes it felt like she was climbing a mountain through an avalanche while other people looked down at her from their heated gondola ski lifts and told her maybe she just wasn’t cut out for it.

But she was making headway. She finally found a label that actually spoke to her, the leader of the group, and not Kayla, the only Alpha, when they had in person meetings. That didn’t want to play up the ‘sweet demure helpless Omega’ angle, but instead kept it about what Carrie wrote her songs about: strong, powerful women who could be whatever they wanted to be.

Even if what they wanted to be was pink and sparkly, because femininity wasn’t something to look down on.

Of course, with all that work and the extra fame and being Trevor Wilson’s Daughter, that didn’t leave much room for finding a heat partner. If she picked someone up at the clubs, she was painted as a whore. If she went on the apps, it would be all over the internet. Kayla had offered, and while she loved Kayla, she loved her like a sister, not a heat partner.

The other two Omegas in the group both had long-term partners, and Heather, who was a Beta, had offered to set her up with some of her Alpha friends from her D&D group, but Carrie didn’t want a pity date. She could handle things on her own. She did, sometimes.

And sometimes, when she could tell it was going to be a really bad one, she called a Heat Agency. Because sometimes, being Trevor Wilson’s Daughter had its perks, and when Taylor Swift had taken one look at fourteen-year-old Carrie at one of Dad’s ridiculous parties, she’d slipped her a card for a heat agency and told her not to trust just any Alpha.

The heat agency had been very discrete and very accommodating. Hell, the nice lady on the phone had even talked her through her first heat at fifteen, after Dad smelled one whiff of pheromones and booked it to the helicopter, shouting something about a week long meditation retreat. They hadn’t even sent a person that time, but a box with everything she’d needed had been magically delivered to her doorstep within an hour, along with a cooler full of food and drinks.

The box had been cute and pink and she still had it, though these days it was used to store her nail polish.

After Carrie broke up with Nick her senior year (who she thankfully had been able to trust, because deep down Nick was just a golden retriever), she’d used the service a few times. By then they’d had an app, and she could click on her basic preferences, and then scroll through profiles with little blurbs and reviews (anonymous, of course, all from vetted users). She’d never had a bad experience, and everyone the agency had sent had been professional, discrete, and very good to her.

So when she knew her heat was going to be bad, she opened the app. The pre-heat syndrome had been so bad she’d actually sent all the Candis apology chocolates for being such bitch during their last dance rehearsal. She flicked through the little questionnaire, filling in her preferences. Age, sex, secondary sex. The app already knew how long her heats averaged and only showed her people available for that time.

She finally picked someone who could be there in two hours, which gave Carrie enough time to take a shower, put on some comfortable sweats, and nest a little, letting down her walls. It was always hard for her to allow herself to be vulnerable, but the nesting did help with that. It made her feel more secure.

So she got out her favourite blankets, making her bed cozy and pink and perfect, changing her mood lighting to a soft pink as well. She was pretty satisfied when the doorbell rang. Just in time, because she could feel her cheeks starting to flush, her unsexy but incredibly comfortable panties (the ones with little lolly pops on them) starting to dampen.

Only when she opened the door with a smile, it wasn’t a beautiful woman there to take care of her, it was Flynn Taylor.

Or more accurately, it was a beautiful woman sent to take care of her (she was holding up her Heat Agency ID and was carrying a cooler with all Carrie’s favourite heat snacks), but that beautiful woman was Flynn Taylor.

Her high school nemesis.

“Carrie,” she said, startled.

“Flynn,” she said, feeling faint, and embarrassed, and flustered. Immediately, she pulled her walls back up. “There must have been some kind of mistake.”

“Don’t think so, Princess,” Flynn said. “I got this address, and you know the Agency doesn’t mess up. I should have known, who else in the world would ask for chocolate covered Doritos?”

Flynn had been there, that time her dad had ordered a chocolate fountain on a whim for one of their sleepovers with Julie, and they spent the evening dunking all kinds of things under the spray.

“Are you going to let me in and put this stuff in the fridge?” Flynn asked, and she couldn’t, could she? After the way Carrie had treated her? The thought of allowing herself to be vulnerable with someone who would want revenge on her for any number of reasons just didn’t sit right, even though she knew everyone at the Agency had signed an NDA.

“Only if it will make you leave faster,” she said, and then winced. She sounded just like her fifteen-year-old self.

Flynn just rolled her eyes at her, and when she walked by Carrie to put away the snacks and drinks, she almost whimpered. Flynn smelled so good.

“I can call the Agency and have them send an emergency replacement,” Flynn said as she Tetris’ed food and drinks into Carrie’s fridge, finding a bowl in her cupboards and plopping the chocolate Doritos in them, and pushing them over. “Willie drives like a maniac, he could pick someone else up and have them here in forty-five minutes.”

But Carrie didn’t want anyone else, she realised, munching on her favourite heat snack, watching Flynn be all cool and competent. Still, she knew what she had to do, and was about to agree, but what came out of her mouth instead was: “I’m sorry I was such a bitch in high school.”

Flynn stopped, looking over her shoulder. Whatever she saw in Carrie’s face, it softened her posture considerably. “Ditto. Teen girls can be vicious,” she agreed. “We probably all had stuff going on back then.”

Which was the nicest spin anyone had ever put on why her relationship with Flynn and Julie fell apart so rapidly after Rose got sick. Between Carrie’s heartbreak at losing what was basically the only female role model in her life, her jealousy at the way Julie was treated like glass, while her own grief at her dead mom and absent dad was always something that had generally been shrugged off as ‘you never even knew her and your daddy’s rich, get over it’. The way Carrie learned to lash out and project this mean girl persona, while Julie put her pain into her music, once she finally started singing again, allowed herself to be vulnerable, and how that was just fuel to the fire of Carrie’s jealousy and rage when it got her everything, a record deal and an album before she even finished high school…

When she looked up from her trip down memory lane – heats always made her spacey, she hated it – the Doritos were gone and Flynn was standing in front of her. “Have you picked someone else in the app yet?” she asked.

She was so close, and she smelled so good, and Carrie just wanted to cry, to keen, to have someone treat her like glass, like she was precious, just once…

“Please don’t go,” she said, hiding her face in Flynn’s shoulder, inhaling the smell of Alpha, of safety, or memories of sleepovers and hiding under the covers together after they all thought they were mature enough to watch IT despite Mr Molina warning them it was a bad idea, of the life she could have had if she hadn’t been so singularly focussed on making it, on being the best.

“Are you sure?” Flynn asked, even as her hand came up to cradle the back of Carrie’s head, fingers soft and gentle in her head.

“Please, I’m sorry, please…” Carrie blinked away the tears, because she hated this part as well, the emotions, the vulnerability.

“Okay,” Flynn said, a hint of Alpha steel in her voice that made Carrie’s knees go all weak. “I forgive you, Carrie. We were both assholes in high school. Let’s get you more comfortable, okay?”

“You’ll take care of me?” she asked, hopeful and pitiful and she hated this, she hated it…

Except when Flynn smiled and wiped her tears away, something inside her just melted, and everything went hazy when Flynn promised: “I’ll take care of you.”

#julie and the phantoms #flynnxcarrie #a/b/o dynamics #I wrote a thing #fanfic #flynn works for the agency as a side hustle while she's working on her fashion line #willie got in touch with the agency after one of the band used it and was like: your response time sucks I can do much better #because he was bored and also it's not fun breaking in to skate in Justin Bieber's pool when you live next door to him #we decided yes Taylor Swift knows Trevor Wilson but only because they're both rich musicians #she thinks he's weird but she'll still go to his parties because he always has bomb-ass snacks #he takes food very very seriously #wonder why

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