When people ask John what his type is, he tells them that he doesn't have one, that he's attracted to all kinds of women (and men) and that sexiness depends on personality and chemistry and circumstances, not on hair colour or body type or other superficial criteria.
But that's not strictly true. John does have a type. Two types, in fact--one for women and one for men. Teyla is totally his type. And Chaya. He likes his women just a bit exotic--not exactly a PC word to use, but it's accurate. He likes skin with some colour to it, like café au lait or brown sugar, and he likes eyes dark and deep and knowing. He likes when they're strong and mysterious and in control.
He likes his men like he likes his football: All-American. The boy next door. Friendly, funny, a nice guy you could take home to your mother (if she weren't dead) (if he wasn't technically in the closet with DADT). Light brown hair, light blue eyes, and bodies in top physical condition. Like Holland, like Cam.
Daniel Jackson would absolutely be his type except for how Jackson scares him a little, with that freaky brain and his sexy alien girlfriend and the on-again, off-again relationship with death. John would sooner make a move on Woolsey.
Doesn't mean John's blind. For a scientist, the guy has some really nice arms. Jackson's stretching to reach a textbook on the top shelf and his t-shirt rides up to show a flash of skin.
Cam catches him drooling. "Are you trying to make me jealous?" he says, incredulous.
John smirks. "Is it working?" It's fun when Cam gets all possessive on him.
But Cam's gaze shifts to focus on someone who's come up behind John, and if the prickling on the back of John's neck is instinct warning him of impending doom, then odds are...
"General O'Neill." John gulps and takes an instinctive step back. "I wasn't really-- I didn't--"
Cam comes to the rescue. "We were just leaving, sir. Paperwork, you know."
"Okie-dokie," O'Neill says brightly.
Grabbing John's elbow, Cam hauls him out of Jackson's office and doesn't stop moving until they've reached the relative safety of Cam's office. "You owe me one, Shep," he laughs, perching his ass on the edge of his desk.
John's not about to argue. "I'll pay up when we get home," he promises, too aware of the security camera in the corner to try anything on base. Cam just shrugs, arms crossed over his chest, grinning like he knows something John doesn't. "What?"
"He's not your type, you know," says Cam, amused and confident.
John quirks a challenging eyebrow. "You think so?"
"I know so. Too high-maintenance."
Screw the security camera. It's not like everyone doesn't already know about them. "Hmm, you have a point there." He walks right up to Cam and plants himself between Cam's knees. "Whereas you're kind of the opposite of high-maintenance, right?"
"Easy as pie." Cam's grin turns wicked. "Dynamite in the sack, too."
John fists one hand in the collar of Cam's t-shirt and pulls him into a fast, sloppy kiss. "Lucky me. Sounds like you're exactly my type."
Summary: John Sheppard likes his men like he likes his football: All-American. John/Cam with implied Jack/Daniel and Daniel/Vala.