He has to run his fingers through John Sheppard's hair. It's terribly cliché--everyone wants to run their fingers through the Colonel's hair--but there's nothing more practical for his purposes than taking hold of the unruly strands with both hands and pulling the taller man down to his lips. John never sees it coming, his lips freezing for a second as a startled little squeak--yes, a squeak--escapes him. But then he melts into it with the same gusto he puts into everything he does, the squeak morphing slowly but surely into a moan. And then the attacker becomes the victim, being pushed against the nearest surface by the Colonel, armed and fully loaded. Not bad for a man who claims to love the ladies.
He has a thing for Carson's hands, it's why he always finds a way to aggravate his injuries, or at least make them appear to be worse than they are. He has no doubt that Dr. Beckett sees right through the charade, though it took the good doctor long enough to do something about it. "Is this where it hurts?" Carson asks, soft lips brushing over a spot of skin to the left of his right nipple, then he lifts his head and smiles teasingly.
And he takes Carson's hand, pauses to stroke the palm with his fingers, to feel the lines in the skin like a palm reader, and he brings it to his lips, kissing the fingers, licking the palm to get the taste of him in, and how incredibly unlike him to be like this with someone else, but there is something about the doctor. Maybe it's voodoo.
He didn't need to ruin Radek's reputation like this, but at the moment, he didn't care. Half the department probably already thought they were doing it. The furry little Czech had a way of driving all such concerns out of his head. Where he'd learned moves like that, he'd never know. Radek kissed like he argued: all hands and tongue on oversensitized skin. Radek still had his glasses on, but his eyes were closed as his tongue did all the work, exploring, wrestling, pausing to murmur nothing in Czech and take a breath and start all over again. And then--oooh!--his hips were going and they were both so hard it hurt.
A year off-world had taught him a few things, or rather, had put life, the universe, and everything in perspective. He was going back to Atlantis and he might never come back, yet again. And he'd been dying to do this for far too long. He might never get another chance. So before he boarded the Daedalus, he turned around, stalked purposefully towards his target, wrapped an arm around her neck and shoulder, and dipped her old-movie-style before kissing some sense into her. She'd see the error of her ways soon enough. All she'd been missing out on while he was away. She was smart, she just needed a nudge every now and then.
"Rodney!" she exclaimed, though her tone told him she'd liked it. He smirked. "Yes, dear?"
"Rodney?" and this time she sounded different. Wait... she's not Scottish! A hand on his shoulder and he turned to see Carson, looking at him, confused. "Stop woolgathering, Rodney, or do you want to get left behind?"
He wasn't into anonymous sex. He really wasn't. And he'd maintain that claim despite all evidence to the contrary: he didn't even know the boy's name, had never bothered to ask. He knew his rank only because he'd heard Elizabeth call him 'Sergeant' one time. 'Sergeant Console Guy'? 'Sergeant Hot Lips' sounded about right. Maybe it was something about the other man being Canadian; a hazy connection to home and a past he'd put so far behind him that most on Atlantis wouldn't believe it if he told them. He kissed the sergeant breathless, borrowing some of those Eastern European techniques he'd picked up along the way then finally letting him come up for air. Rodney's hands on the boy's ass, holding him steady as he nudged the boy's head back to get at his neck. He liked leaving a mark, just below the collar, so that it would only be visible after a certain shift of the slender body; a tease and a question for the rest of the crew to ponder.
And there you have it.