No Place Like ~ Hunwick/Wheeler ~ R
radio silence ends briefly for fic purposes! ;D
for the friends not hanging out at 2mins4slashing, may i share:
Title: No Place Like
Author: jennyagain (with a generous pinch of help from eleanoraq)
Pairing: Matt Hunwick/Blake Wheeler (Boston Bruins)
Rating: R
Summary: Conveniently in the Twin Cities to play the Minnesota Wild on Wednesday, November 25, Matt tags along with Blake for Wheeler Family Thanksgiving.
Disclaimer: The following is for entertainment purposes only. Real people, places, and things appear, but the work is complete fiction, and there is no intent to defame, insult, or slander. No money is being made. Any and all errors belong solely to the author.
No Place Like
"Feel good to be heading home, Wheels?"
Blake Wheeler looked up. John Bishop, ever smiling, was standing there with his trusty microphone, his cameraman a half step behind him. Blake smiled back. "Of course, Bish. Nice of the NHL to schedule things so I could be in the Twin Cities for Thanksgiving, you know?"
"Want to talk about it on camera?"
"You sure you don't just want to run last year's footage since you're going to ask me the exact same questions?"
"Ouch, buddy. How about I just promise not to ask you what Kessel is up to? That work?"
Blake grinned. He could feel the adrenaline from their win suffusing him with goodwill. He caught Matt Hunwick's eye a few lockers away, and that euphoric feeling intensified, just a bit, a sudden surge of endorphins, and then it subsided, as usual. Game face, Wheels. He looked back at Bish and put on his interview face. "OK, man, ask away."
::
Matt watched Blake answer Bish's questions about heading home, about playing in front of family and old friends and teammates, about who was handling ticket requests--the exact same batch of questions he himself had been asked when they were about to go to Detroit. He watched Blake duck his head, touch the back of his hair, make eye contact with everyone in the room except Bish as he talked. Blake's dorkiness triggered a subtle response in Matt, and there it was, creeping in again, though less unexpectedly than it used to. They'd been fooling around--kind of a lot--for about half a year now, and while Matt wasn't excited to be having these kinds of, well, feelings as often as he seemed to be, at least they no longer blindsided him.
Blake finished his interview with Bish and wandered over to Matt's locker. Matt could tell he was trying to be casual and of course, thus, was totally overdoing it. Matt did his best to hide his smile. "So, how many Wheelers can I expect to play in front of Wednesday night? Fifty? A hundred? Your mom's going to be there, right?" Matt gave Blake his smarmiest grin.
Blake shook his head, turned away. "You are so uninvited from Thanksgiving."
From a few lockers down, Marc Savard, clearly eavesdropping--and there was always someone eavesdropping, Matt knew--chimed in. "Does that mean I can come now? Wheeler Family Thanksgiving, man. Hottest ticket in town."
Blake stared at Savvy. "No."
::
The atmosphere on the bus ride from Scottrade Center to the airport in St. Louis was one of muted jubilation. First three-game win-streak of the year--Jesus--and Blake was playing good hockey again, clicking with Krej and Rydes and finding his stride. He'd scored, and on the power play even; the team was winning. It actually felt good to fold himself into the too-small seat next to Matt, playfully lay his head on Matt's shoulder and pretend to snore. Matt laughed loudly; Blake thought too loudly because Mark Stuart didn't appear to be feigning annoyance when he got up from his seat across the aisle and moved further forward in the bus muttering something about "dumbasses."
"Good, privacy," Blake said to Matt, who immediately rolled his eyes and tried half-heartedly to shrug Blake off. He gave up when Blake snuggled closer, keeping his eyes closed, looping an arm casually around Matt's waist, trying for contact within the bounds of plausible deniability should anyone ask questions. "You still coming over tomorrow?" Blake asked very quietly.
"Thought you said I was uninvited?"
"Mom said no take-backs."
"I fucking love your mom, Wheeler."
"Shut up, Munch."
"So yeah, sounds like I'm coming."
Blake smiled to himself before responding, his eyes still closed. "Hmm. That's what she said."
This made Matt laugh, which made him jerk forward suddenly, which made Blake's head fall off his shoulder unexpectedly and bang into the armrest jutting out between them, which made Matt laugh even harder, and watching Matt in paroxysms over his slapstick moment made Blake start laughing too. By the time several of their teammates poked their heads over the seat backs to see what was going on, Blake could only pray they were dismissing this as just another one of Matt and Blake's stupid movie quote-offs.
In short order, they were at the airport and on another plane, this time--for Blake--headed home.
::
Laughter echoed up the stairs from the family still gathered in the kitchen as Blake opened his old bedroom door, ushered Matt in, closed and locked it behind him. Matt arched an eyebrow; Blake answered by wrapping Matt in his arms.
They were full of food, and they were sleepy, but Matt wanted to see and hear stories and touch bits of Blake's past; he needed to see this room. Matt had been to Blake's cabin, he'd been to Blake's Boston condo, and he'd been in innumerable hotel rooms with him, but no space could have said "Blake Wheeler Lives Here" any more loudly than Blake's childhood bedroom.
He kissed Blake quickly on the cheek, then moved away from him, over to Blake's dresser to look at the trophies and medals arranged on top. At least thirty little plastic hockey players were arranged in various elated positions on the tops of as many trophies. "You suck at hockey," Matt said, picking up a trophy and studying its mildly tarnished inscription. 1992 Mites Holiday Classic. Edina, Minnesota. FIRST PLACE.
"I slept with that thing when we won," Blake said, coming up behind Matt and wrapping his arms around him again, this time from behind. "First tournament victory," he said in Matt's ear. "I thought nothing could ever feel better than that."
Matt set the trophy down and turned around, grabbing Blake's denim-clad ass with both hands and pulling him close. "You know that's wrong, right? That there are lots of things that feel better than winning a Mite tournament?"
"You mean like you blowing me?"
"Yeah, for starters."
"You mean like the time we had a fucking threesome with Kristen?"
Matt grinned crookedly at the memory. "Yeah, exactly."
Blake brought his hand up to cup the back of Matt's neck. Matt felt shivers shoot through him as Blake's fingers threaded through his curls. "You mean," Blake whispered, leaning in close so that Matt could hear him despite his voice being mostly breath, "like the time you kissed me for the first time?"
Matt's eyes slipped closed and he found Blake's mouth with his own purely on instinct. They kissed, and it was nothing like the first time, and it was everything like the first time, and Matt suddenly found himself remembering his own packet of elated memories: breakaway goals and the first time he'd picked up a girl in Ann Arbor and getting a Nintendo for Christmas when he was eight. This was still better, though, better than hockey and better than Christmas and better than all the girls in Ann Arbor.
Matt broke the kiss, startled at its intensity, but still jubilant, breathless. "Yes."
He kissed Blake again, got lost in the sensation of the brush of Blake's lips against his, until, hey--"Wait one fucking second, Wheels, what do you mean, 'I kissed you for the first time?' You totally were all over this first."
Blake growled and touched his forehead to Matt's. "Fine, Munch, whatever. Jackass."
"But yeah," Matt said, looking straight into Blake's eyes, intense and purposeful. "Just like that."
::
Blake had had plenty of pretty intense make-out sessions in this room. He'd gotten his first blow-job here, sitting on the edge of this bed, and he'd jerked off for the first time here, too. Nothing, though, was as intense as having Matt there, hovering over him, straddling his hips on the bed, pinning Blake's wrists over his head and licking his neck, kissing his way down Blake's naked chest, tonguing his hard cock. They were completely silent, not a word between them. They could hear voices drifting up from downstairs, and occasional laughter, and if they could hear Blake's family, then Blake's family could hear them.
Matt's mouth enveloped Blake's cock, and Blake thrust up, shallowly, wanting so badly to come, wanting so desperately to tell Matt just how awesome it felt, how fucking hot this was, and how intense. But he couldn't. He had to be quiet, and he was at Matt's mercy. He ran his fingers through Matt's curls, pulling gently, and exhaled slowly, savoring the sensation of hair between his fingers and a mouth on his cock as he concentrated on keeping quiet.
Matt teased Blake, licked his balls, fingered his asshole, sucked him intently, got him to the edge, then he stopped, backed off, and whispered, "Turn over."
Blake rolled over, set his knees wide, lifted his ass in the air, needing this, wanting Matt to be part of the memories of this room, his family, this holiday. Blake closed his eyes, buried his face in a pillow, and blew out a breath as Matt's cool, slick fingers entered him, followed quickly by his sheathed cock.
"Oh, fuck, man," Matt whispered, voice almost sandpaper-rough, "So fucking good, Blake, Jesus Christ."
"Shut up, Matty, for once in your fucking life," Blake whispered back, "Be quiet and fuck me."
Matt raked his blunt fingernails down Blake's back, shoulders to hips, and little trails of fire erupted where he'd scratched. Blake stifled a groan, knowing this had to go quickly, they needed to get off fast or they'd be missed downstairs and the family would come looking. That could not happen.
"Touch me, Matty," he whispered, cock jerking as he listened to the ragged quality of his own voice. "Make me come. Fuck me, stud."
"Oh no you don't," Matt said, almost too loudly. Blake shushed him, and Matt continued, more quietly. "No turning that nickname around. You're the stud, stud," he finished, and then his hand on Blake's cock felt too good to argue about. Blake hadn't the faintest idea why Matt's inclination to argue at these moments turned him on so goddamn much, but holy shit.
Matt set a familiar rhythm, hips moving smoothly, and the slide of him inside almost felt familiar to Blake and incredibly good. Each time they did this it felt better, more like home. He pushed himself back against Matt, silently asking for more, and Matt jerked him off in time with his thrusts. They were both getting awfully good at this.
Then the pace intensified, and Matt's breathing grew more harsh, and Blake whispered, "Yeah, Matty, come, make me come," and Matt's hips slammed home again, and that last time, Matt did not pull out, and Blake could feel the tremors of Matt's orgasm as it rippled through him. Blake joined his own hand with Matt's on his own cock, and Blake thrust into their interwoven fingers, and he came, hard, too.
::
They were dozing, curled around each other, when Matt startled out of half-sleep. "Blake? Honey?" a woman was calling up the stairs.
"Dude, it's your mom, wake up, man," Matt whispered, shaking Blake awake and scrambling out of bed for his clothes, certain that at any moment Blake's door would fly open and that Mrs. Wheeler would be standing there on the threshold, eyeing him in all his naked glory, the guy who just fucked her son. As much as he joked about it, having Blake's mom show up in this context was not on Matt's list of Things That Would Be Awesome.
"What, Mom?" Blake yelled back, stretching lazily and rubbing the back of his head. He threw Matt a grin, apparently amused by his panicked dressing.
"Aunt Cindy and the twins are getting ready to leave, come say goodbye?"
"Be right down!"
Matt let out a breath, the crisis having been averted. " 'Be right down,' " he mimicked, "Oh man, that's what she said."
It was Blake's turn to roll his eyes. He picked up Matt's shirt, threw it at him.
"Good to be home, eh, Wheels?"
Blake pulled a thoughtful face. "I wonder who I have to sleep with to get the schedule-makers to put us in Detroit next Thanksgiving. Can't have your mom getting lonely for the holiday next year, huh, Matty?"
"I think she was looking forward to seeing you over Christmas."
"Really?"
"You make it sound like I'm going to share you."
"You're not?"
Matt let that question hang in the air unanswered. Blake was just piling the pillows on his bed again--grinning at Matt like what he really wanted to do was mess up that bed all over again--when there came a knock at the door. Matt ran his hands through his hair, straightened his shirt, and nodded at Blake, who opened the door. Mrs. Wheeler stood there, beaming at her son, and then at Matt. "Has Blake told you all his stories from his dad's efforts to turn him into a baseball player?"
"Of course, of course." Matt kept his eyes on her face and gave her a warm smile. He was determined not to give Blake any ammunition, not that Blake needed facts to come up with wild accusations of impropriety. Blake had a wonderfully overactive imagination. Matt hoped Mrs. Wheeler did not.
"He was good, you know," she said, smiling.
Matt was pretty sure she had no idea what had just happened in Blake's room. "Oh, I'm sure he was. Very talented young man." Matt smirked, and Blake glared at him from behind his mother's shoulder.
"Are you boys ready to come back downstairs? Some of the family is getting ready to leave, and Blake's dad is threatening to hook up the Wii to the big tv in the living room. Sweetie, can you make sure he doesn't break it again?"
"Be right there, Mom."
"Thank you, boys."
She pulled the door shut behind her again, and Matt took that as his cue to take two strides forward and confidently pull Blake to him again for another kiss.
Blake eventually pulled away, face serious. Matt met his eye as Blake said, "If you make one comment about doing my mom in the butt..." He let his threat trail off.
Matt opened his mouth, closed it again, then sighed happily and said, "Feels like home."
THE END.
for the friends not hanging out at 2mins4slashing, may i share:
Title: No Place Like
Author: jennyagain (with a generous pinch of help from eleanoraq)
Pairing: Matt Hunwick/Blake Wheeler (Boston Bruins)
Rating: R
Summary: Conveniently in the Twin Cities to play the Minnesota Wild on Wednesday, November 25, Matt tags along with Blake for Wheeler Family Thanksgiving.
Disclaimer: The following is for entertainment purposes only. Real people, places, and things appear, but the work is complete fiction, and there is no intent to defame, insult, or slander. No money is being made. Any and all errors belong solely to the author.
No Place Like
"Feel good to be heading home, Wheels?"
Blake Wheeler looked up. John Bishop, ever smiling, was standing there with his trusty microphone, his cameraman a half step behind him. Blake smiled back. "Of course, Bish. Nice of the NHL to schedule things so I could be in the Twin Cities for Thanksgiving, you know?"
"Want to talk about it on camera?"
"You sure you don't just want to run last year's footage since you're going to ask me the exact same questions?"
"Ouch, buddy. How about I just promise not to ask you what Kessel is up to? That work?"
Blake grinned. He could feel the adrenaline from their win suffusing him with goodwill. He caught Matt Hunwick's eye a few lockers away, and that euphoric feeling intensified, just a bit, a sudden surge of endorphins, and then it subsided, as usual. Game face, Wheels. He looked back at Bish and put on his interview face. "OK, man, ask away."
::
Matt watched Blake answer Bish's questions about heading home, about playing in front of family and old friends and teammates, about who was handling ticket requests--the exact same batch of questions he himself had been asked when they were about to go to Detroit. He watched Blake duck his head, touch the back of his hair, make eye contact with everyone in the room except Bish as he talked. Blake's dorkiness triggered a subtle response in Matt, and there it was, creeping in again, though less unexpectedly than it used to. They'd been fooling around--kind of a lot--for about half a year now, and while Matt wasn't excited to be having these kinds of, well, feelings as often as he seemed to be, at least they no longer blindsided him.
Blake finished his interview with Bish and wandered over to Matt's locker. Matt could tell he was trying to be casual and of course, thus, was totally overdoing it. Matt did his best to hide his smile. "So, how many Wheelers can I expect to play in front of Wednesday night? Fifty? A hundred? Your mom's going to be there, right?" Matt gave Blake his smarmiest grin.
Blake shook his head, turned away. "You are so uninvited from Thanksgiving."
From a few lockers down, Marc Savard, clearly eavesdropping--and there was always someone eavesdropping, Matt knew--chimed in. "Does that mean I can come now? Wheeler Family Thanksgiving, man. Hottest ticket in town."
Blake stared at Savvy. "No."
::
The atmosphere on the bus ride from Scottrade Center to the airport in St. Louis was one of muted jubilation. First three-game win-streak of the year--Jesus--and Blake was playing good hockey again, clicking with Krej and Rydes and finding his stride. He'd scored, and on the power play even; the team was winning. It actually felt good to fold himself into the too-small seat next to Matt, playfully lay his head on Matt's shoulder and pretend to snore. Matt laughed loudly; Blake thought too loudly because Mark Stuart didn't appear to be feigning annoyance when he got up from his seat across the aisle and moved further forward in the bus muttering something about "dumbasses."
"Good, privacy," Blake said to Matt, who immediately rolled his eyes and tried half-heartedly to shrug Blake off. He gave up when Blake snuggled closer, keeping his eyes closed, looping an arm casually around Matt's waist, trying for contact within the bounds of plausible deniability should anyone ask questions. "You still coming over tomorrow?" Blake asked very quietly.
"Thought you said I was uninvited?"
"Mom said no take-backs."
"I fucking love your mom, Wheeler."
"Shut up, Munch."
"So yeah, sounds like I'm coming."
Blake smiled to himself before responding, his eyes still closed. "Hmm. That's what she said."
This made Matt laugh, which made him jerk forward suddenly, which made Blake's head fall off his shoulder unexpectedly and bang into the armrest jutting out between them, which made Matt laugh even harder, and watching Matt in paroxysms over his slapstick moment made Blake start laughing too. By the time several of their teammates poked their heads over the seat backs to see what was going on, Blake could only pray they were dismissing this as just another one of Matt and Blake's stupid movie quote-offs.
In short order, they were at the airport and on another plane, this time--for Blake--headed home.
::
Laughter echoed up the stairs from the family still gathered in the kitchen as Blake opened his old bedroom door, ushered Matt in, closed and locked it behind him. Matt arched an eyebrow; Blake answered by wrapping Matt in his arms.
They were full of food, and they were sleepy, but Matt wanted to see and hear stories and touch bits of Blake's past; he needed to see this room. Matt had been to Blake's cabin, he'd been to Blake's Boston condo, and he'd been in innumerable hotel rooms with him, but no space could have said "Blake Wheeler Lives Here" any more loudly than Blake's childhood bedroom.
He kissed Blake quickly on the cheek, then moved away from him, over to Blake's dresser to look at the trophies and medals arranged on top. At least thirty little plastic hockey players were arranged in various elated positions on the tops of as many trophies. "You suck at hockey," Matt said, picking up a trophy and studying its mildly tarnished inscription. 1992 Mites Holiday Classic. Edina, Minnesota. FIRST PLACE.
"I slept with that thing when we won," Blake said, coming up behind Matt and wrapping his arms around him again, this time from behind. "First tournament victory," he said in Matt's ear. "I thought nothing could ever feel better than that."
Matt set the trophy down and turned around, grabbing Blake's denim-clad ass with both hands and pulling him close. "You know that's wrong, right? That there are lots of things that feel better than winning a Mite tournament?"
"You mean like you blowing me?"
"Yeah, for starters."
"You mean like the time we had a fucking threesome with Kristen?"
Matt grinned crookedly at the memory. "Yeah, exactly."
Blake brought his hand up to cup the back of Matt's neck. Matt felt shivers shoot through him as Blake's fingers threaded through his curls. "You mean," Blake whispered, leaning in close so that Matt could hear him despite his voice being mostly breath, "like the time you kissed me for the first time?"
Matt's eyes slipped closed and he found Blake's mouth with his own purely on instinct. They kissed, and it was nothing like the first time, and it was everything like the first time, and Matt suddenly found himself remembering his own packet of elated memories: breakaway goals and the first time he'd picked up a girl in Ann Arbor and getting a Nintendo for Christmas when he was eight. This was still better, though, better than hockey and better than Christmas and better than all the girls in Ann Arbor.
Matt broke the kiss, startled at its intensity, but still jubilant, breathless. "Yes."
He kissed Blake again, got lost in the sensation of the brush of Blake's lips against his, until, hey--"Wait one fucking second, Wheels, what do you mean, 'I kissed you for the first time?' You totally were all over this first."
Blake growled and touched his forehead to Matt's. "Fine, Munch, whatever. Jackass."
"But yeah," Matt said, looking straight into Blake's eyes, intense and purposeful. "Just like that."
::
Blake had had plenty of pretty intense make-out sessions in this room. He'd gotten his first blow-job here, sitting on the edge of this bed, and he'd jerked off for the first time here, too. Nothing, though, was as intense as having Matt there, hovering over him, straddling his hips on the bed, pinning Blake's wrists over his head and licking his neck, kissing his way down Blake's naked chest, tonguing his hard cock. They were completely silent, not a word between them. They could hear voices drifting up from downstairs, and occasional laughter, and if they could hear Blake's family, then Blake's family could hear them.
Matt's mouth enveloped Blake's cock, and Blake thrust up, shallowly, wanting so badly to come, wanting so desperately to tell Matt just how awesome it felt, how fucking hot this was, and how intense. But he couldn't. He had to be quiet, and he was at Matt's mercy. He ran his fingers through Matt's curls, pulling gently, and exhaled slowly, savoring the sensation of hair between his fingers and a mouth on his cock as he concentrated on keeping quiet.
Matt teased Blake, licked his balls, fingered his asshole, sucked him intently, got him to the edge, then he stopped, backed off, and whispered, "Turn over."
Blake rolled over, set his knees wide, lifted his ass in the air, needing this, wanting Matt to be part of the memories of this room, his family, this holiday. Blake closed his eyes, buried his face in a pillow, and blew out a breath as Matt's cool, slick fingers entered him, followed quickly by his sheathed cock.
"Oh, fuck, man," Matt whispered, voice almost sandpaper-rough, "So fucking good, Blake, Jesus Christ."
"Shut up, Matty, for once in your fucking life," Blake whispered back, "Be quiet and fuck me."
Matt raked his blunt fingernails down Blake's back, shoulders to hips, and little trails of fire erupted where he'd scratched. Blake stifled a groan, knowing this had to go quickly, they needed to get off fast or they'd be missed downstairs and the family would come looking. That could not happen.
"Touch me, Matty," he whispered, cock jerking as he listened to the ragged quality of his own voice. "Make me come. Fuck me, stud."
"Oh no you don't," Matt said, almost too loudly. Blake shushed him, and Matt continued, more quietly. "No turning that nickname around. You're the stud, stud," he finished, and then his hand on Blake's cock felt too good to argue about. Blake hadn't the faintest idea why Matt's inclination to argue at these moments turned him on so goddamn much, but holy shit.
Matt set a familiar rhythm, hips moving smoothly, and the slide of him inside almost felt familiar to Blake and incredibly good. Each time they did this it felt better, more like home. He pushed himself back against Matt, silently asking for more, and Matt jerked him off in time with his thrusts. They were both getting awfully good at this.
Then the pace intensified, and Matt's breathing grew more harsh, and Blake whispered, "Yeah, Matty, come, make me come," and Matt's hips slammed home again, and that last time, Matt did not pull out, and Blake could feel the tremors of Matt's orgasm as it rippled through him. Blake joined his own hand with Matt's on his own cock, and Blake thrust into their interwoven fingers, and he came, hard, too.
::
They were dozing, curled around each other, when Matt startled out of half-sleep. "Blake? Honey?" a woman was calling up the stairs.
"Dude, it's your mom, wake up, man," Matt whispered, shaking Blake awake and scrambling out of bed for his clothes, certain that at any moment Blake's door would fly open and that Mrs. Wheeler would be standing there on the threshold, eyeing him in all his naked glory, the guy who just fucked her son. As much as he joked about it, having Blake's mom show up in this context was not on Matt's list of Things That Would Be Awesome.
"What, Mom?" Blake yelled back, stretching lazily and rubbing the back of his head. He threw Matt a grin, apparently amused by his panicked dressing.
"Aunt Cindy and the twins are getting ready to leave, come say goodbye?"
"Be right down!"
Matt let out a breath, the crisis having been averted. " 'Be right down,' " he mimicked, "Oh man, that's what she said."
It was Blake's turn to roll his eyes. He picked up Matt's shirt, threw it at him.
"Good to be home, eh, Wheels?"
Blake pulled a thoughtful face. "I wonder who I have to sleep with to get the schedule-makers to put us in Detroit next Thanksgiving. Can't have your mom getting lonely for the holiday next year, huh, Matty?"
"I think she was looking forward to seeing you over Christmas."
"Really?"
"You make it sound like I'm going to share you."
"You're not?"
Matt let that question hang in the air unanswered. Blake was just piling the pillows on his bed again--grinning at Matt like what he really wanted to do was mess up that bed all over again--when there came a knock at the door. Matt ran his hands through his hair, straightened his shirt, and nodded at Blake, who opened the door. Mrs. Wheeler stood there, beaming at her son, and then at Matt. "Has Blake told you all his stories from his dad's efforts to turn him into a baseball player?"
"Of course, of course." Matt kept his eyes on her face and gave her a warm smile. He was determined not to give Blake any ammunition, not that Blake needed facts to come up with wild accusations of impropriety. Blake had a wonderfully overactive imagination. Matt hoped Mrs. Wheeler did not.
"He was good, you know," she said, smiling.
Matt was pretty sure she had no idea what had just happened in Blake's room. "Oh, I'm sure he was. Very talented young man." Matt smirked, and Blake glared at him from behind his mother's shoulder.
"Are you boys ready to come back downstairs? Some of the family is getting ready to leave, and Blake's dad is threatening to hook up the Wii to the big tv in the living room. Sweetie, can you make sure he doesn't break it again?"
"Be right there, Mom."
"Thank you, boys."
She pulled the door shut behind her again, and Matt took that as his cue to take two strides forward and confidently pull Blake to him again for another kiss.
Blake eventually pulled away, face serious. Matt met his eye as Blake said, "If you make one comment about doing my mom in the butt..." He let his threat trail off.
Matt opened his mouth, closed it again, then sighed happily and said, "Feels like home."
THE END.