Fruit Salad

by Jane Davitt

"You just made that weird sound you make when you've thought of something." McKay moved a bare inch or two closer on the bed and prodded Sheppard in his sweat-shiny ribs with a finger that was still shaking. Who knew sex could be so physically exhausting? He contemplated checking his pulse but Sheppard always got so agitated about him doing that, even after the sex was over. Like there was something wrong with keeping track of vital bodily functions like heart rate, blood pressure and that strange stabbing pain behind his left eye. "Share."

"What weird --? Never mind." Sheppard arched and stretched, limber as a cat, and finished by wiggling his toes happily. "And as it happens, yes, I did."

"And?" McKay prompted.

"You'll laugh."

"Probably. So?" Like Sheppard cared if he laughed. Wait. Sheppard cared if he laughed? Before McKay had time to process that, Sheppard replied.

"I was just thinking that as you can't love me for my brain, seeing as how you think it's pea-sized and yours is a, a cantaloupe --"

"No," McKay protested, uneasily aware of how pro-forma it sounded. "You're at least a, uh, an apple. Maybe an orange. Are oranges bigger than apples?"

"I don't know, Rodney," Sheppard said. Okay, that was his testy voice… "But, as I was saying, logically --"

"Oh, logically," McKay said, relieved to be back in familiar territory. "Go on."

"Logically, you must love me for my body." Sheppard stared down the length of his sweaty, hairy, muscular body and preened. "You think I'm hot," he said with some satisfaction.

"That doesn't follow. You see --" McKay began and then paused. Sheppard was staring at him, patiently waiting for -- what? An insult, a put-down? McKay used them like pet names, endearments, and knew that Sheppard knew that. Or at least he'd always thought that Sheppard knew that.

McKay cleared his throat and made a supreme effort. "As it happens," he said with immense dignity, sucking in his gut to make his voice go deeper, "I have a deep admiration and respect for your..."

"Go on," John said, quirking an eyebrow.

"Oh, come here," McKay snarled and ignored his rising, hammering, dangerous pulse-rate, in favor of kissing Sheppard right there on that bit of soft skin on his neck that made Sheppard shudder and stop talking. "Love that bit," he muttered and moved down Sheppard's body, leaving a trail of kisses and bites, licks and nips. "Love that bit, too, and this, God, this, yes, this is good…"

He got to Sheppard's cock, already showing signs of reawakening, unfurling, sticky-damp and salty-sweet against his tongue. "You're not a melon," he said between licks.

"Don't… care…"

"I'm thinking more like --"

"Don't say it."

"A --"


"I wasn't going to say 'banana'."

"Yes, you were."

He was. God, maybe Sheppard was a melon, after all. A small one. Not a watermelon, like he was, of course, no…

"Rodney. Concentrate."

What? Oh, right… sex again. He placed his fingers surreptitiously over the wrist of the hand wrapped around Sheppard's cock and tried to count and suck at the same time.

It turned out that there were some things even geniuses couldn't do.

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