February 2022
Bentham, Maine
Anthony grumbled under his breath as he began driving down the cul-de-sac with his last delivery of the day... and probably the last delivery of the next few days. This street was a pain in the ass in regular weather, never mind the nor'easter that was just beginning and already the roads were getting bad and visibility was not optimal.
It's my own bloody fault. Anthony knew he should have kept the shop closed today, but he opened it for a half-day to squeeze out as much money as he possibly could - there was the pandemic and the beginning of a recession, and Anthony was going to need to replace the battery on his Prius soon, and his lease was up in March and his landlord would raise his rent significantly if he renewed... and Anthony had seen enough independent restaurants and other small businesses shutter over the last two years to know he couldn't afford to lose potential business, and the Super Bowl was close enough that blizzard or no blizzard, people wanted their pizza.
Which just exacerbated his annoyance. He'd lived in the States since he was fifteen, today was his forty-second birthday, and one thing he couldn't get over was Americans calling it football. Football, as per the proper definition, was what Americans called soccer. Anthony shook his head. This is how Donald Fucking Trump won. Bloody idiots.
Anthony usually didn't deliver the pizzas himself, he just made them, and sandwiches, and salads, from his late stepfather's recipes plus his own creations. But he'd sent his drivers home an hour ago, handling the last deliveries himself, not wanting the drivers out in this weather. Especially not on a street like this. Anthony had delivered here before, on the rare occasions when he handled a delivery, but never this far down, all the way down. He was getting into the woods now, snow dusting the evergreens and bare oaks.
This last delivery was four pizzas - probably to freeze and reheat during the big game. Americans were crazy enough to still get together for Super Bowl parties in weather like this, and Anthony bitterly wondered how many people would die in a car accident, like the one that took his mother's life, though that had been a drunk driver. Anthony felt himself getting angrier and angrier as he continued to drive down and down and down, the road narrowing. This was really going to be hell to turn around in and drive out of when the delivery was done. He tried to pull himself together, not wanting to lose his temper with whatever asshole had decided now was a great time to order four fucking pizzas.
Anthony didn't know what he was expecting - a large estate, perhaps, big enough for someone to hold a Super Bowl party where four large pizzas would be served - but it was definitely not a tiny house. Anthony's jaw dropped as he pulled in to the 600-square foot ranch-style house with a dark grey saltbox roof and soft blue paneling. There was no way in hell someone could cram a Super Bowl party full of people into that. At best, three to five people and even that was pushing it.
The house was cute, though. His late mother had been an architect and she wouldn't have approved, preferring big, spacious 19th century homes as fixer-upper projects, but Anthony found the tiny house charming.
Only just so. Delivering four pizzas in this weather was not so charming. Anthony took a few deep breaths and braced himself to get out of the car. Even with his warm wool trenchcoat, scarf and gloves, and the ridiculous hat-with-flaps on his head, he still felt the sting of the cold, the snow blasting his eyes. Anthony maneuvered gingerly to not slip, getting the pizzas in their insulated carrier from the back of his Prius.
He walked slowly and carefully to the front door. It was a no-contact delivery, he was just going to drop it off at the doorstep, but nonetheless, the door opened before he could knock or ring the doorbell to let the person know the pizza was here.
"I wanted to give you an extra tip for coming out all this way in this weather," came a dark, smoky voice with an accent Anthony couldn't place - kind of like a hybrid of Spanish and Swedish, rolled r's, breathy.
Anthony blinked, stunned. Then he looked into the most beautiful brown eyes he'd ever seen, long-lashed, kind of sad puppy dog eyes...
...and he noticed two things.
The first was the scent, rising above the smell of the pizzas. It was like a mixture of cherry blossoms and spice with a touch of woodsmoke. It was unmistakably an Omega smell, and Anthony's body began reacting to it, his cock stirring as his nostrils twitched.
The second was that a Jon Snow lookalike was standing right in front of him, but prettier. The man was a couple inches shorter and had long black curls to his shoulders, a short dark beard framing full, sensuous lips. He was wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt with a pair of blue-and-green flannel pajama bottoms and pale blue bunny slippers and he still managed to look like a supermodel. Anthony's mouth opened and he tried to find words as the man pulled out his wallet and held out a twenty-dollar bill.
"I. Ah." Even with the storm brewing, that was a ridiculously large tip. "That's too much, I..."
"No, take it. I feel bad, you making this trip with the storm..."
Anthony took the twenty-dollar bill, and just the split second of his fingers brushing the man's felt like an electric shock. Jesus Christ, get it together, Anthony told himself. He didn't need to be swooning over some random Omega who looked like Jon Snow and had a sexy accent.
Some random Omega whose scent was overpowering. The man looked off to the side and bit his lower lip, lingering at the door, and Anthony wondered for a moment if he was going to be invited in. But then the man gave him a shy smile and a little wave before he said, "Drive safe," and closed the door.
The man smelled like he was in heat - Anthony knew from past experience with the last Omega he'd had the misfortune of shacking up with for awhile that probably that amount of pizza would get him through the three to four days of heat without having to take a break to cook. Of course he wouldn't be invited in, such a gorgeous guy probably had an Alpha in there.
And Anthony would be going home alone. He'd been a single, unmated Alpha for four years, save a few random hookups from Grindr, because his last mate couldn't handle the downsizing that had happened once Anthony had been stabbed and retired from civil rights law, and had taken over the pizzeria from his stepfather in his final days, the move from New York to sleepy coastal Maine. At least they hadn't had pups. The pandemic hadn't exactly helped him find a mate, and he was wary of another Omega, yet Betas didn't really do it for him either.
Anthony's steps felt leaden as he walked back to the Prius. And then the unthinkable happened - the car wouldn't start.
Anthony tried again. And again.
He buried his face in his hands with a deep sigh. He knew he was going to have to replace the battery soon, but he didn't expect it to die now. Of all the worst possible times...
Anthony pulled out his cell phone to call a towing company. There was no answer. He tried again with another towing company. His cell dropped the signal after two rings.
Anthony got out of the Prius and leaned against the car as he tried again, maybe he'd get better reception outside. But the wind howled and then Anthony noticed his phone battery was dead too.
Worst. Fucking. Birthday. Ever. This was somehow even worse than the birthday where he found out he'd been cheated on.
The door of the tiny house opened again and the man peeked his head out. "You having car trouble?" he called.
Anthony nodded. "Car battery died."
"Shit. I would offer to jump you, but I don't have cables."
Anthony's mind went right into the gutter - even several meters away he could smell that Omega, and his cock throbbed. Not now, boner. "I don't either. I should have brought them, I knew my battery was getting low, but I'm an idiot."
"Hi An Idiot, I'm Sören."
Anthony facepalmed but he couldn't help laughing at the corny joke. The man - Sören - smiled back at him, and that beautiful smile took Anthony's breath away.
Sören gestured. "Come inside before you freeze out there, já?"
Anthony felt a bit nervous as he walked the path up to the tiny blue house. He was in a small town in Maine - Stephen King had written about these places, for all he knew Sören could be some kind of serial killer.
For all Sören knows, YOU could be some kind of serial killer, Anthony told himself. The minute he stepped inside, a black-and-white tuxedo cat brushed against his legs and looked up at him with big chartreuse eyes and a "Prrp?"
"Kitty!" Anthony melted a little and stooped down to pet the cat without thinking. The tuxedo cat leaned into his touch, purring.
"That's Snúður," Sören said. "So glad he didn't try to escape, that's the last fucking thing I need right now. Er... language, sorry."
Anthony chuckled. "It's quite all right. It's some fucking storm we've got going."
"The worst possible time for your car to break down." Sören waved a hand at the open-plan living room and kitchen, with a soft blue love seat and armchair, each covered with a cozy knit throw in shades of blue, green and violet like an aurora. Anthony noticed a painting of the northern lights at a black sand beach, over the fireplace. A fire was going in the fireplace; it was warm and toasty.
"Thank you," Anthony said. "My phone died too -"
Sören took out his own cell phone and handed it to Anthony. "Use mine."
Anthony tried to call the tow truck place where his signal had dropped, then he called a couple more places. No answer. "Everything must be closed for the storm," Anthony said. "Well... if you're OK with me parked here for a day or two, I'll call a cab."
Sören nodded. "Not like I'm going anywhere, já?"
Cab company wasn't taking calls either. Anthony groaned loudly and facepalmed as he handed the phone back to Sören. Sören sat down on the love seat, with Snúður on his lap, and stroked his chin thoughtfully, looking like he was collecting his words. Anthony once again tried to place the accent - the name Sören was obviously Scandinavian, but the way he said já was different - like "yow" instead of "yah"...
Sören leaned forward. "Do you have critters at home that you need to take care of? Cat? Dog? Kids? I really don't want to drive in this weather but if you've got something depending on you -"
"I don't," Anthony said. He gave a sad, wistful little sigh. "No kids, no mate." Anthony couldn't believe he'd just admitted aloud to being unmated. He quickly added, "...and my elderly cat passed on a year ago."
"Sorry to hear that." Sören frowned. "Well..." Sören cleared his throat. "This couch folds out into a bed. I... hope you like pizza. I wasn't expecting to share the pizza with someone, that was, um."
"For your heat," Anthony said point-blank.
Sören looked off to the side, shifted awkwardly in his seat, and just nodded.
"You... don't have an Alpha?" Anthony asked.
"No, he was a teacher and got killed in a school shooting three years ago." Sören looked down.
"Jesus fucking Christ, I'm sorry." Anthony didn't even know what to say to that, feeling crushed by the weight of the world.
And then, unbidden, the perverted horny Alpha part of Anthony thought, I could help you feel better. Anthony's conscience snapped back, arguing with himself: Fuck you for even thinking that.
"I thought about going back to Iceland but then the pandemic happened and I've, y'know, been stuck here." Sören shrugged. "Shit happens."
"Oh, that's where you're from? I was trying to figure out the accent." Anthony quickly added, "You have a lovely accent," as his cheeks burned. He was starting to smell his own Alpha scent.
It was bad enough he was stuck here at least overnight. He didn't want to make this poor guy feel unsafe.
"Takk. You're British?" Sören raised an eyebrow.
Anthony nodded. "Been here since I was fifteen but I never completely lost the accent."
"It's... nice. You want some hot cocoa to warm up?"
"Sure, thank you very much." Anthony watched Sören's ass as he walked to the kitchen, and once again the perverted part of him responded that's not all I'd like that's hot.
Will you. Fucking. Bloody. STOP THAT, Anthony yelled at himself.
After Anthony took off his boots and outerwear and tried to unmuss his short black hair, Snúður walked over and hopped up onto the arm of the armchair for pettings. The distraction was welcome - Anthony loved cats, and this one was adorable.
Sören was adorable too. Anthony kept stealing glances at him. He felt like he was being exceptionally rude, like Sören was going to think him some kind of predator.
Sören brought the hot cocoa over to him. It had whipped cream on it. They sat there for a few minutes of awkward silence, drinking their cocoa, staring at each other, trying not to stare at each other, and then Sören got whipped cream on his nose and it was ridiculous - and somehow made him even sexier. Anthony couldn't help laughing and Sören glared at him murderously.
"You... have whipped cream on your nose," Anthony said.
"Oh." Sören giggled and then he continued to drink his hot cocoa like that didn't phase him... and got even more whipped cream on his nose.
When their cocoa was done, Sören took their cups to the kitchen sink, and then he patted the seat beside him on the couch. "You want to watch a movie or something? Sorry, I'm really bad at this."
Anthony grinned, not able to resist. "Hi Really Bad At This, I'm Anthony."
Sören glared again, and then he had a gigglefit. Anthony sat beside him on the couch and after awhile they decided to watch The Old Guard on Netflix. Sören shared the first of his four pizzas - sausage and mushroom, which made Anthony's mind go in the gutter again - and Anthony could barely concentrate on the movie with the proximity of Sören next to him, that intoxicating scent...
...Sören still had whipped cream on his nose.
Snúður begged and Sören had to fend him off, and then he shook his head, laughing. Then Anthony cleared his throat and said, "You... you still have whipped cream on your nose."
"Oh, dammit. I knew I forgot something when I was in the kitchen."
"Here." Anthony took a napkin and dabbed at Sören's nose. When he was done, he couldn't resist giving that cute little nose a boop, and Sören booped him back.
Just from that little touch, Anthony felt ready to come in his pants. It took Anthony every ounce of his strength not to grab Sören and kiss him.
When they'd had their fill, Sören put the pizza in the fridge. "I'm gonna go wash my face, in case I have any pizza on it or something," Sören said. "Be back in a few."
Sören didn't have pizza on his face, but before Anthony could say so, Sören walked off - giving him a pat on his way. Anthony heard the sound of the sink running in the bathroom... running and running and running, longer than face-washing usually lasted. Maybe he's giving himself a facial.
Once again Anthony's mind went in the gutter, thinking of Sören with cum on his face. He had an obvious hard-on now, and that was going to spell disaster once Sören got back. He would find himself out in the snow, surely -
"Hey, Anthony?" came Sören's voice across the house. "Can you help me with something?"
Anthony got up. He found his way to the bathroom, which was bigger than he'd expected... and then, across from the bathroom, there was the bedroom. But Anthony smelled Sören before he saw him, that spicy-smoky-floral Omega-in-heat scent even stronger now.
On the bed, Sören was on all fours, naked. Sören had full-sleeve tattoos - flames on his right arm, ocean waves on his left - leading out to two phoenixes on his back, one of fire, one of water. His ink was beautiful... just like the perfect peach of his ass. There was slick dripping out of his twitching pink puckered hole, adding a vanilla-like scent to the air. Sören looked over his shoulder and whimpered.
Anthony's cock jolted, and he licked his lips, going out of his mind with lust.
"Jæja, hurry up and get naked," Sören said.
Anthony laughed - Sören was so brazen, he liked that - and then he started to undress, hands trembling. Suddenly his unluckiest day had become a whole lot luckier.
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