This outtake was written for the Fandom Fights Tsunami compilation. Many thanks to those amazing girls who put brought it all together, and to everyone who donated to the cause.

dellaterra betad and managed not to laugh at us. Much.

Disclaimer: We don't own these boys. They own each other.

Day 1: Punk

How I met James is a really long story that you probably wouldn't even believe.

Perhaps it's easiest just to say that he was the asshole repairing a hole in my neighbor's roof, who somehow ended up spanking me, tying me up with his belt and making me laugh while I danced to the Y.M.C.A. He's a loner, the most exciting person I've ever met, and I have absolutely no control when I'm with him. The end.

The first day that I got sick was also the first time I spoke with his mother. It wasn't exactly a face-to-face conversation. Actually, it was a face-to-cock conversation. I was down on my knees after getting the spanking of my life for accidentally-on-purpose inviting the neighborhood stray cats into his kitchen, sucking him off the way he likes best when his cell phone rang. Just as I was really getting down and dirty, taking him as far into my throat as I could, drooling and slurping and all that good shit, I got distracted by the ring-tone. It sounded just like a mosquito, and James batted at his phone, just like you would a bug, and told me to ignore it.

Doing as I'm told has never been my M.O. Instead I sucked him hard, all the way up to the tip, then popped off and answered the phone while I jacked him good and fast. James growled and threatened, so I just slowed my fist until he whined. She sounded really friendly so we had a nice talk as I got her awful, terrible, son off.

It's not that I think he's awful and terrible. Fuck, no. Apparently, he never called her, and she had to wait forever for him to come fix things around the house. I made sympathetic noises while James made sounds like I was killing him slowly. It was all kinds of hot. Maybe I'm the pervert.

Just as James was about to shoot his load, and I know all the signs – he shivers, then stares like he wants to eat me with a spoon, whispering Riley, Riley, Riley – I sneezed. Then I sneezed three more times as he painted my chest with his jizz. I could just make out her tiny little voice over James's groans. She said I sounded sick; she'd be over right away.

Less than an hour later, I was tucked in tight on the couch with a comforter wrapped around me and with a thermometer in my mouth, trying not to smile as she bombarded James with questions. Why didn't he tell her he had a special friend? Hadn't he noticed that I was hot? He'd never keep me if he couldn't pay attention.

James was grumbling, saying that the only hot thing about me was my ass – and he was kinda right, it was on fire in a really good way – but he looked kinda guilty all the same.

Day 1: Perv

If I had known my mother was on the fucking phone, I would have thrown it across the room. But it was too late; he was already chatting away with her. I knew what this meant: The next time she saw me, I'd get chewed out for not telling her I was dating someone. But I never told her about guys I dated, or really, about the guys I fucked. Why the hell would Punk be any different? Besides, he was fucking crazy. My mother would hate him; I was sure of it. She'd probably call him an obnoxious child and tell me to grow up and find a real man.

I told him to hang up already, and get his fucking mouth back on my dick, but he slowed his hand down, and fuck, I really wanted to come. So I let him talk. Anyway, he's always so fucking naughty that talking on the phone while getting me off is actually fucking angelic behavior. And fuck, it felt good.

He didn't even tell me she was coming over. He just wiped the come off his chest and curled up on the couch like he was going to take a nap. I should have known something was up just by the obnoxious smirk on his face. With Punk, something is always fucking up.

I had opened a beer and was just about to put a pizza in the oven when suddenly my mother was knocking on the door, carrying enough bags of food to feed a fucking army. Fuck. I hoped that she was just dropping shit off. Punk was here and I had plans to fuck the hell out of him after we ate.

She came barrelling though the front door and threw the bags on the kitchen counter, barely even looking at me.

"Where's Riley?" she demanded.

Then I heard a quiet in here come from the living room.

Well, shit. This was not going to be good.

Before I could stop her, she raced into the living room, straight to where Punk was lying on the couch, clutching a pillow.

She went on and on about how adorable he was, how she was so sorry that I was so rude and hadn't introduced them earlier. Punk just smiled weakly and coughed. He looked as innocent as a fucking puppy.

She felt his forehead and turned to me, completely livid.

She started yelling that I should be ashamed of myself. Riley was obviously sick. Had I taken his temperature? Why wasn't he in bed? Did I even have any medication in this filthy bachelor pad of mine?

After she insisted, Punk hobbled his way to the bedroom. He looked so pathetic that I almost wanted to clap. Well done, Punk, well done.

He crawled into my bed and my mother tucked him in like he was five, all It's okay sweetie, I'm going to take care of you, and It will all be all right.

But every time she turned around it was like Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. As soon as she looked at me, her nostrils flared and she narrowed her eyes and demanded to know what the hell was wrong with me.

I huffed, and while my mother went back into the kitchen, I went to feel his forehead for myself. It felt warm. Hot, actually.

Punk groaned a little and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Well, shit. He was actually sick.

Day 2: Punk

The second day that I was sick started out with James stroking my hair.

He said that he was just feeling my forehead, checking for fever, but he's a terrible fucking liar. I kept my eyes closed for ages while he pushed my hair away from my face. I felt like I was floating. It was hard to believe that the hand in my hair, which sent me spiralling to heaven, was the same one who spanked me so hard I'd have to sleep on my front for fucking days.

I couldn't tell you why, but I loved it when he spanked me.

He was the first dude who made me lose control, and there's no way in hell I'd trust my ass with just anyone. When he first told me that I'd been nothing but naughty, and I could do with some discipline in my life, I got a little overexcited.

Sometimes I would sit through a boring meal at home, ignoring my dad moaning about what a waste of space I was, picturing James beating the crap out of him for being so mean, then spanking me for not telling him sooner.

James always told me not to call him when he was at work because he had important shit to do, but when I got to the stage where I was buzzing with tension, I'd find a way to track him down just so I could feel better. Driving around town in my dad's car that I hot-wired, I'd keep going until I saw James's truck, then go and shake his ladder.

He'd lose his temper and chase me down the street, then pin me to the ground in a stranger's backyard and hump me like I wasn't only me who was feeling desperate. If I talked back, he would add extra punishment to my tally, then make me count them back when it was time to spank me later.

It didn't take me long to figure out that it was the anticipation that got him off. James was the master at making me wait, which only made me naughtier. It was a game we played. There weren't many rules. If I was naughty, I got spanked. And fucked. If I was too naughty he punished me by keeping his hands to himself. No spanking, no fucking. It was a game we both enjoyed, and one that I usually won.

His rough palm circling my ass-cheeks got my dick standing at attention in thirty seconds flat. Sometimes he would get me to drop my pants the minute we got in, then he'd spank me fast, and fuck me furiously up against his fridge.

If I was lucky, he would put me across his knee on the couch, so my face was down by his feet, and my legs ended up over his shoulders. When he spanked me like that, he would shade my ass deep, dark pink – just this side of purple – then fuck me with two fingers that he made wet with spit.

He took his time, telling me exactly what he was going to do before he did it, pushing me further into a place where all I did was feel instead of think, and I loved it. I fucking loved it.

He might be a pervert, but he's the best thing in my life. End of discussion.

But when I was sick, I think he worried that he might have really hurt me. So he knelt on the floor, ran his fingers through my hair and whispered that he was sorry.

I played possum and he did that stroking shit for so long that I almost slipped back into sleep. I was just this side of conscious when he kissed me. He spends most of his time looking angry, but my secret James is nothing but a cuddler.

When I opened my eyes, he was just inches away. Have I told you that he's beautiful? Even short of sleep and gray with tiredness, he's my own version of completely fucking gorgeous. I love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, and the way he growls is beyond hot.

Most of all I love the way he doesn't take my shit. Not many people get that I act crazy so that they'll keep their distance. James understands, he does pretty much the same fucking thing, only he looks like a package of pure evil tied up with angry, tight-looking string.

That second day I was sick, he looked at me long and hard, then growled that I was a pain in the ass. Was I thirsty? Would I like some juice? He was pissed at listening to me cough, and couldn't I do that shit any quieter? Here, I went down to the all-night drugstore and got you something to sooth your throat. And Jesus fuck, could I try to hit the trash can next time I used a tissue? These Kleenex have aloe in them – much better for your nose.

His mom had already called three times and it was only eight o'-fucking-clock. He was pissed, muttering to himself that he could take care of me just fine, and I slept peacefully until his mom arrived, feeling pleased that he stayed with me.

The way she bitched him out was music to my ears.

What was I doing asleep in his room? Why hadn't he taken me to the hospital yet? I could have pneumonia! Where was his common sense?

She told him off, then did that exact same running-a-hand-through-my hair thing, and I guessed that they were more alike than either of them would admit to.

He told her that she was overreacting – I only had a bad cold – but he sounded worried. It was cute. I pretended not to listen.

When I tried to make it to the bathroom, she shrieked as I started to wobble, and my man picked me up. Snuggling my face into his shoulder was blissful, even when he moaned that I was getting snot all over his collar. I was fine until I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Fugly doesn't even begin to describe how I looked. I might have had a hissy fit. I almost refused to come back out; I blame it on my fever.

James was nothing but short-tempered.

He propped me up against the sink saying hadn't he already spent a whole night listening to me puke, and wiping the floor when I missed the toilet? How was my stomach now? Could I face something to eat? Hadn't he wiped my nose and washed my face when the snot stuck my face to his pillow? Did I want a shower? Maybe that would cheer me up. I nodded and he made it happen, holding me steady when my eyes were shutting with tiredness, washing my hair, then rinsing until it squeaked while I rested my head on his broad shoulder.

Tucking me back in to his bed, which had been made up with clean sheets that were covered in snitches and broomsticks, he told me to shut the fuck up when I tried to thank him for not making me go home. He said that I could stay for as long as I liked. At least that's what I thought he said. I couldn't be sure that I wasn't delirious. All I could see was Harry Potter chasing Draco Malfoy over my perv's quidditch-covered bed.

I went to sleep wishing that he might have meant forever, not just until I felt a little better.

Day 2: Perv

I felt weird. Not hot/shivery/pukey weird, just strange. Punk was actually sick, and it was fucking with my mind.

I had never seen him like that before, all curled up in a ball, shivering under the blankets. He barely moved or said anything, he just laid there. Punk never just laid there, even when I told him to stop fucking moving, when I was trying to get my cock in his ass. He was always wiggling or squirming or dancing. Fuck, he was always fucking dancing.

So while he laid there I paced the bedroom until I realized I was probably disturbing his sleep.

Then I paced the living room until I missed his stupid sleepy face. So I stood in the corner and stared at him. Fuck, when did I get to be so fucking creepy?

I looked at the clock. About four hours had passed since he took some of that medicine my mom brought over yesterday, so it would be another two hours until I could give him some more. But it was almost lunchtime, and he hadn't eaten breakfast. That was okay, wasn't it? Feed a cold, starve a fever, right? Or was it the other way around? And what the fuck did he have, anyway? He definitely had a fever, but he also had snot leaking out of his nose all over my fucking sheets, so didn't that mean he had a fucking cold? Fuck.

I got my laptop and opened up about ten different windows trying to figure that shit out when my phone rang – again. My mother would not leave me the fuck alone. Not until I answered, anyway. So I picked it up and barked hello and half listened to her rambling while I reread the information on Web M.D. for the sixth time.

She asked… No, she fucking demanded to know how Punk was doing, and I told her that he was just fine. I had this under fucking control. I'd given him orange juice and medicine, and he's been drinking plenty of water. Then she asked if he'd eaten. Fuck. I mumbled that he said he wasn't hungry and she said I was an idiot, then hung up on me.

Twenty minutes later she was in my kitchen, pouring a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup. I know for a fact that her soup takes at least two hours to make, so her whole I just threw it together story was fucking bullshit. But I murmured a thank you anyway and she snapped that I was welcome. Really, it was our nicest conversation in a long time.

When she brought the soup to Punk, she felt his forehead and told me I was a fool; I should have brought him to the hospital already. I told her she was ridiculous. She went on and on about his temperature and the color of his snot, then propped him up on the bed to eat. He winced a little and I thought maybe his ass still hurt from yesterday. I had spanked him hard. Really fucking hard. Fuck, maybe it was too hard.

Punk ate his soup and I stood and watched, remembering how naughty he had been. I told him not to feed the stray cats. Now they were never gonna leave me the fuck alone – so I spanked him. He deserved it. He always deserved it. I never spanked him unless he did. But fuck, maybe he fucking didn't. Not that hard. And maybe if I hadn't spanked him so hard he wouldn't be so miserable right now.

He said he wanted a shower so I ran the water and peeled off his sweaty clothes. It wasn't easy holding him up under the hot water, but when I propped him against the wall, he would only slip, so I held him against me with one arm and washed his hair with the other. When I washed his body and got a close look at his ass, I almost punched a fucking hole in the fucking wall. His ass was deep purple and there were outlines of my hand, solid fucking lines where my palm had hit his cheeks in the same spot again and again. I stood there for a minute, just staring, wondering why the water from the shower tasted so salty.

I couldn't stare at his ass anymore. It was too painful to even look at, so I dried him off. Then I slipped him into my softest pajama pants and tucked him back into bed. That's when I saw that my mother had changed the sheets, using my old Harry Potter set from home. Fuck. Punk asked if he was dreaming. I said no, but he said he must be because all he could see was Harry Potter. I told him to shut up and close his eyes and he kept going on and on about the sheets, WHAT ABOUT THE SHEETS?

So I pulled my mother into the kitchen and asked her why the fuck she brought those stupid old sheets. I have fucking sheets of my own. I am a fucking grown man after all. She told me to watch my mouth and I told her to go home.

After she left in a huff, I realized I hadn't eaten all day either, so I heated up some of her soup and fuck, it tasted so fucking good, which made me feel pretty shitty. But instead of calling her to say I was sorry, I crawled into bed with Punk. I kissed his scar and then I kissed his cheek, and stared at his sweet face until I fell asleep.

Day 3: Punk

On the third day I felt better.

Not entirely better, but definitely not sick like I had been the past two days. When I woke, it was still really early. I ached all over, but I didn't feel like I was dizzy-floating anymore, and I crawled back under the sheets instead of laying on top of them like I'd done when my fever was raging.

James was sleeping so deeply that I traced the tat running all the way down his spine without him even flinching. I did that a few dozen times, then licked it a little. I was really, really hungry. He just sighed and huffed, then turned and kind of gathered me up, tucking me under his arm, telling me to be good you little shit.

I loved it when he sleep-talked.

If he was sleeping deeply, I could ask him anything at all, and he would tell the truth. The first time I realized he was such a chatty sleeper, I wasted my opportunity asking stupid, random shit like what his favorite colors were – green and silver – and his favorite things to do – fuck and watch you dance. Since then, I'd been keeping a mental list of secret sleepy-time questions.

I snuggled in, trying to resist playing with his barbells, and whisper-asked if he was okay, then got pissed at myself for wasting another golden opportunity. He told me no, he wasn't okay, and I forgot my list of stupid questions for a while.

Instead, I asked him what was wrong, and he huffed that he'd been worried about me for fucking days. He thought that he had hurt me, really, really hurt me, and I wondered exactly what he meant until he sighed and held me tighter. He was so sorry for spanking me too hard.

I told him not to be sorry because I really liked that shit, and anyway it was me who asked for more. I was feeling much better, so he could quit worrying. I'd never seen someone look skeptical in their sleep before, so I told him again, and this time I was clearer. I loved it when he spanked me; it was my absolute favorite thing. It was even better than dancing.

My perv sleepy-smiled, then hugged me.

The next time I woke up, he was gone.

I lay in his snitch-sheeted bed and thought about his dawn-o'clock answers, then dragged myself to the mirror on the closet door and took an awkward-angled look at my own ass.


Thinking about it, maybe I shouldn't have pushed him so much, even though his temper made me feel wanted. The problem was that I forgot everything else when he laid his rough hands on me. It would start from the moment that he finally let his control slip, even just a little – get in the truck, Riley. GET IN THE MOTHERFUCKING FUCKING TRUCK – and whenever I made him growl – just you fucking wait – my balls would start to tighten.

I couldn't help riling him up if I thought that I might get lucky.

Usually he was so calm, no matter what I did to provoke him. It was like he'd already learned all my little tricks. Sometimes I just needed to feel completely free inside my head, like I do when I'm lost in music, or toes to the nose of a wave taller than my board down at First Beach. The way he bent me over and made me ask him nicely could get me there before he even drew his hand back.

But when he spanked me, he shot me so far past that place where I didn't hear what a waste of fucking space I was that I almost went into orbit. If he made me wait for it long enough, one firm slap would send me straight to outer space, and I loved it. I more than loved it. His spankings set me free.

Maybe I overdid it that night. Maybe my fever had made me a little more irrational or had set my pain threshold higher, way past where I would usually twist in his lap and start to suck his dick to stop him.

Either way, my ass looked really kinda beautiful – dull firework blooms on a background of light purple – there was no way in hell that he should feel bad about it.

I brushed my teeth and then went to ask him to take a photo.

Day 3: Perv

I couldn't believe he fucking wanted a photo, that he wanted to remember the terrible shit I'd done to him. I told him no way. No fucking way. But he pouted and wrapped his arms around me and looked up at me and told me that he loved it. He thought what I'd done was beautiful.

I didn't know what to say, but something told me that he meant it, and it really was okay. So I smiled and told him that I would, just this once. The picture was actually pretty good. Punk laid down on my bed, pressed his cheek into the sheets, stuck his ass up a little in the air and just smiled. Yeah, his ass was purple, but fuck, he looked so damn happy wrapped up in my Harry Potter sheets.

He squealed a little when he saw it and smiled all goofy like I'd just told him I'd take him out to a club to dance all night. Then he sneezed.

Oh no, I told him, he was going back to bed, right fucking now.

Punk whined that he didn't want to and he wasn't tired anymore and he wanted to go out for ice cream. He pouted when I told him no and grumbled when I handed him a popsicle from the freezer instead.

He sucked on the popsicle like we were in the middle of the fucking desert, telling me to stop staring. Then he licked it from the bottom up, swirling his tongue over the tip. I told him I wasn't fucking staring and he pushed the whole thing in his mouth, the whole goddamn thing, so only the stick was left out. I think I licked my lips 'cause he told me I did and then he told me to stop staring at his popsicle.

I rolled my eyes, adjusted my dick and told him he'd lost his mind. But then he grabbed my cock and said he wanted to fuck so I felt his head – still a little warm – and told him no fucking way. He needed to rest; he should go back to fucking sleep.

He wouldn't go back to bed so I picked him up and carried him down the hall. I shut the door behind me but he kept getting up and poking his head out and whining that he was lonely and he was bored and hadn't he slept enough already? Eventually, just to get the little shit to shut up, I promised to stay with him and watch So You Think You Can Dance. I told him I don't record that shit, but what do you know? I had half the fucking season on my DVR. Fucking Punk. So we laid in bed and he put his head on my chest and pointed out who was good and who was shit and which moves he wanted to learn.

I watched until I couldn't stand that shit anymore. Punk pouted and whined, then smiled and said that if we weren't going to leave my apartment and I wouldn't watch dancing then he knew exactly what he wanted to do: Watch porn.

Porn. Of course he wanted to watch fucking porn. I rolled my eyes but I was already half hard from all the giggling and rubbing and humping Punk had been doing for the past half hour. So I opened my laptop and he picked a video. I glared when I saw that one of the dudes looked a lot like Jake, but I let it slide because I sure as hell wasn't going to be spanking him today.

The porno was of the Jake-looking dude and a dark-haired twink. The big guy was behind the twink, kissing him all over, stroking his cock, and moaning really fucking loud. Punk bit his lip and stared at the screen. His hips moved a little, so that his ass brushed gently against my cock. I moved back a little in case he was still tender, but he shoved back some more, so my cock was pressed against his asscrack.

Then the big guy yanked the twink's hips up and went for it – circling his asshole with his tongue. Punk moaned real loud and his hand went straight for his dick and I sat up to watch. It was really fucking hot. I watched as he stroked himself, up and down, slow and then fast, his moans growing louder and louder.

I leaned down and kissed his hair and fuck, his head still felt warm. So I grabbed the lube off my nightstand and I put some in my hand and whispered for him to relax, that I would take care of him, make him feel good. He nodded and melted against me, and I took over for him, stroking him up, then down, then twisting over his head. I bit his ear gently and he groaned and told me that it felt good, so good, so fucking good.

The boy in the porno looked like he was in heaven, with his hand around his cock and the big guy's face pressed into his ass. A few minutes later I could feel Punk tense up, his balls contract and his mouth open in a silent wail. Fuck, I whispered as he came all over my hand and all over my sheets.

Punk looked up at me, all stupid happy and sleepy eyed. I wiped my hand on the sheets and pulled him to me. Then I told him that he got what he wanted. So now he'd better fucking go back to sleep. For once, he fucking listened.

Day 3: Punk

When I woke up later, it was dark outside, but his laptop lit the room. I slid it toward me and changed his screensaver to red-hot pictures of my true love, Adam Lambert, then put it on the floor.

Snuggling up, squeezing closer, I made the most of my pervert's deep sleep and asked him if he was happy. He turned, cupping my ass in his rough hands, and I guessed that was a yes.

Then I asked him if he wanted me to go home, and he pulled me to him tighter, so I guessed that was a no.

He whispered always when I asked him how long I could stay.

I would have to work on that in daylight.

Second Disclaimer: Do not take any medical advice from Perv. Just sayin'.