Lily Hargrave (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lilyhargrave) wrote2025-04-28 10:23 pm
lilyhargrave) wrote2025-04-28 10:23 pm
Entry tags:
Fanfic: Symbiosis (SGA/SG-1, NC-17)
Title: Symbiosis
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis/Stargate SG-1 fusion
Rating: NC-17/Explicit
Pairing: John Sheppard/Anansi the Goa'uld (OC), future likely: John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell
Tags & Warnings: Slash, canon-typical violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Goa'uld (Stargate), Action/Adventure, Made-up Goa'uld biology, Taking liberties with canon, because canon is inconsistent and doesn't make sense sometimes, I invented one (1) good Goa'uld for this, Goa'uld!John, Sharing a Body, Consensually, Internalized Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John gets to get over it, WIP, No idea when or if I'll finish it, Start at your own risk!, Conquering the galaxy, Politics, More tags to be added as applicable
Summary: In the early days of the Stargate Program, one John Sheppard is recruited into the SGC.
His first mission on a gate team goes catastrophically wrong.
A/N: Well, I once had a dream where John Sheppard stepped out of a Goa'uld ship elevator and flashed the eyes and went: "Jaffa. Kree!" and then I woke up and thought "That was hot!" and so I started writing this. : )
More seriously, I very much enjoy this fanfiction, and it's been an intriguing challenge to synthesize something that makes sense out of the Stargate Goa'uld lore, and expand on it, to imagine how it all looks behind the scenes, so to speak. But also, I started this ages ago, and I've no idea how big it's going to get or how long it'll take. So I've decided to start posting what I have, and then we'll see. I'm still working on the skill of Finishing Things.
Cross-posted on AO3 here
Chapter 1
It's blood and screams and chaos, the smell of singed leather and metal, burning flesh, and the ozone-y taste of discharging staff weapons. The air is hazy with red dust, and it clings to John's skin like a memory.
But this isn't Africa, or the Near East. This is an alien planet– the first alien planet he's ever set foot on, and it ends like this. It's a war zone, and SG-14 stepped right into it.
Three months of training, after he got the offer– a top secret posting, another one, very dangerous, if he hadn't believed Colonel O'Neill when he brought the offer he would've when he saw the pay package. And he's done the confidentiality agreements all his career, but this time... this time what they told him blew his mind: Stargates, alien planets– aliens to go with the planets, and the Air Force is at war with them.
It was amazing. It was... It was something he could believe in. It was what he needed, after Nancy.
So, three months of training, of orientation videos, of briefings that include Dr Jackson, linguist and anthropologist and archaeologist, enthusiastically explaining first contact with alien civilisations and what to do if they found any interesting-looking ruins and when not to eat cake offered by pretty young women.
Three months of preparation, of getting to know his team, and it all went to shit the moment they stepped through the gate. Somehow, in the twenty minutes between the MALP going through to show the crumbling red sandstone ruins of an old desert city beyond the empty plaza the gate stood on and SG-14 stepping out of the event horizon, the empty scene had turned into a chaos of staff blasts and clashing bodies.
John doesn't know who's fighting who– it's all chain mail-clad Jaffa, but he doesn't know the symbols on their foreheads. They weren't in any of his briefing material. He doesn't particularly care, either, just at the moment.
Rick, their quiet, shy team archaeologist, went down from a staff blast the moment they stepped through the gate. John remembers yelling, diving off the pedestal after him, just in time to avoid the barrage of shots coming their way– from both sides, he thinks, either thinking they might be reinforcements for the other, before realizing they're neither and turning back on each other. Rick was dead, though, eyes already staring glassy at the sky by the time John landed half on top of him, and Sergeant Willis bled out from a shot that seared away a chunk of her thigh as he and Major Carter (not SG-1 Sam Carter) dragged her towards cover. They had to abandon her body on the plaza halfway between the gate and the first wall, where she's lying even now, among dozens of dead Jaffa.
Death gliders howl overhead, strafing the ruins, the plaza, and John ducks his head instinctively, not that it'll help at all.
He peeks around the doorway of the house he's taken cover in– the back half's nothing but a heap of rubble, but at least no one can sneak up on him, clutches his Beretta with damp fingers. He lost the P-90 when they were suddenly fighting Jaffa, their eyes glittering feverishly as they yelled in incomprehensible Goa'uld, and John's still not sure where they came from, a street corner or a building or something, they were just suddenly there, and John was fighting, and hands ripped the gun out of his fingers, and then there were more Jaffa, and in the confusion he somehow managed to duck away– only John didn't see Carter anywhere when he did, and he had to run before someone noticed him.
He's been trying to make his way around the plaza ever since, staying low, trying to get back to the gate and the DHD, because he needs to find Carter and get the hell out of here.
His immediate area seems clear, the death gliders chased everyone under cover or something, and he risks ducking out of the building and running along to the next one, crouched low, shoulder blades itching with the expectation of a staff blast.
But he makes it, flattens himself against the wall of a house, sights down the alleys– all clear, for the moment, and he crosses a narrow street, every step tense, muzzle of his gun up and finger inside the trigger guard, flattens himself to the next wall, from where he can see the gate and the plaza past the building opposite– through the building opposite more like, because it looks like something took a gigantic bite out of the side of it.
He curses, silently, because the front lines are still wavering around the gate as the open space turns into a killing ground for any side that tries to rush the other taking cover in the rubble. He'll be a sitting duck out there.
He catches sight of what looks distinctly like BDU-wearing legs sticking out of a doorway further down the street he's on. With another mental curse, he takes a deep breath, and dashes over, head low.
The top of the body is lying in the shade inside a little square house that seems more intact than most, and it's dark in there, but the huge staff blast burn on the back doesn't look good. John casts another look up and down the street, which remains empty, though he can hear fighting from somewhere nearby, and inches his way inside, gun pointed.
He almost pulls the trigger and gives his position away, too, because there's a pale splotch by the wall– another body, crumpled on it's side against the stone, this one in the rough-spun, kaftan-like robes he's seen on a few other bodies around. Not Jaffa. Civilians, maybe, the people who live here... if anyone lives in this decaying ruin of a city.
The body by the wall doesn't move, anyway, so John crouches beside the BDU-wearing one, feels for a pulse and looks down while his gun remains pointed at the other side of the small room.
It is Carter, and John's fingers only find stillness and cooling skin at his neck.
He grits his teeth, shuffles over to the other body to check for any sign of life.
It happens so quickly.
One moment he's crouching there, fingers reaching for the man's neck, the next something jumps at his face. He jolts back and gasps in surprise– and there's claws at his face, and in his mouth, he gags and chokes and it's ripping at the back of his throat and there's blood and it hurts and the body curves, snake-strong, and oh god he knows what that is, he's so fucked, he's so fucked, he needs to get it out, he needs to do something, something, through the blinding pain and the thick metal taste of blood and he can't breathe and he can feel it, he can feel it dig its way into his body where nothing has any business being, he can feel it curling around his spine.
And it's in, and he's so fucked, so fucked, so fucked, he has to, he still has the gun, under his chin, he has to, he raises the gun and then he sets it back down, oh god, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I apologize for the rude intrusion. I am Anansi.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
He's getting to his feet. He's giving the body at his feet a last look, something like sorrow sweeping through his mind. Then he turns the gun in his hands, tests its weight and grip, and makes his way out of the house, around it, towards the back, away from the gate.
John whimpers, but he doesn't, he turns the gun on himself, but he doesn't, he turns back towards the gate, but he doesn't, he stops and digs his heels in, but he doesn't, he screams, but he doesn't.
Please, we must leave. It's not safe here for either of us. I see you understand what I am, and I do apologize for using you this way– I'm in a bit of a pinch here. I won't hold you if you refuse, just as soon... ah, here we are.
John crouches down next to some sort of open drain, lined with flagstones. The water running along it is pink with blood. His reflection is a wavy, pale oval, blurry and uncertain, but he can make out the dark stains of the blood he can feel drying on his lips, crusted down his chin, on his throat.
I'm in the process of repairing the damage– you should feel better in another few minutes. I believe we will be safe here until then.
The voice is vaguely male, smooth and assured.
He has a snake in his head. Fuck, he has a snake in his head, he's so screwed, so so so screwed...!
JOHN! He snaps to attention at the sound of his name– mentally, at least. His body doesn't move. His heart beats slow and steady as a rock. His breath is light and even.
Will you stop panicking and listen to me?
Oh, hey, he can do that, maybe he should do that. (He has a snake in his head.)
Thank you. I will leave if you refuse to host me.
Oh yeah? Getoutgetoutgetout...
If you hear me out.
John's heart sinks, because you can't trust a snake. Never trust a snake.
Something like wry amusement washes through his mind, an emotion not his. And there's more, now that he's forcing the panic down, away– a sense of pleasure, of snug warm damp contentment– and that's what the Goa'uld feels at being buried in his neck, and nausea hits him hard and fast– and goes away.
Well, vomiting wouldn't help anything in this situation, and your throat's in no condition for it. Now. Here is my offer: You have no love of my brethren– neither do I. Join me, and help me rid the galaxy of the Goa'uld.
What, you're a Tok'ra? John thinks, vaguely sorta maybe in the direction of the snake's voice in his head. If it's a Tok'ra, maybe he really isn't entirely screwed...
There's a hiss, and a sweep of disdain through his mind. Hardly. I am not content to cower in tunnels and hoard titbits of intelligence to maybe, some day, launch my perfect strike to bring them down without risk to myself. Nor do I hide myself behind a pretty name– I know what I am. I am Goa'uld.
So... Why don't you like the other Goa'uld? (He's still screwed.)
You have to ask? The tone is dry. They're a scourge on the galaxy. The slavery and suffering they inflict on hundreds of worlds, on untold billions of people?
You've a... moral objection? John knows the sarcastic scepticism is loud and clear in his mind– it's kind of hard to be diplomatic when you're talking to someone in your head. (He has a fucking snake in his head.)
The Goa'uld feels wryly amused again. Yes.
What makes you so different? John wants to know. From every report he's read, every Goa'uld they've met thinks they're the one who deserves to be worshipped.
I want no worship. I am not a god, I am a sentient being like other races in the galaxy– races like yours. And considering that without your race, mine would be condemned to lurk in the muck on river bottoms and fight each other claw to claw rather than with space craft and armies of Jaffa, I should say the least we can offer you is a little respect.
Huh. Okay, no, that's not the usual Goa'uld rhetoric.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis/Stargate SG-1 fusion
Rating: NC-17/Explicit
Pairing: John Sheppard/Anansi the Goa'uld (OC), future likely: John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell
Tags & Warnings: Slash, canon-typical violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Goa'uld (Stargate), Action/Adventure, Made-up Goa'uld biology, Taking liberties with canon, because canon is inconsistent and doesn't make sense sometimes, I invented one (1) good Goa'uld for this, Goa'uld!John, Sharing a Body, Consensually, Internalized Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John gets to get over it, WIP, No idea when or if I'll finish it, Start at your own risk!, Conquering the galaxy, Politics, More tags to be added as applicable
Summary: In the early days of the Stargate Program, one John Sheppard is recruited into the SGC.
His first mission on a gate team goes catastrophically wrong.
A/N: Well, I once had a dream where John Sheppard stepped out of a Goa'uld ship elevator and flashed the eyes and went: "Jaffa. Kree!" and then I woke up and thought "That was hot!" and so I started writing this. : )
More seriously, I very much enjoy this fanfiction, and it's been an intriguing challenge to synthesize something that makes sense out of the Stargate Goa'uld lore, and expand on it, to imagine how it all looks behind the scenes, so to speak. But also, I started this ages ago, and I've no idea how big it's going to get or how long it'll take. So I've decided to start posting what I have, and then we'll see. I'm still working on the skill of Finishing Things.
Cross-posted on AO3 here
It's blood and screams and chaos, the smell of singed leather and metal, burning flesh, and the ozone-y taste of discharging staff weapons. The air is hazy with red dust, and it clings to John's skin like a memory.
But this isn't Africa, or the Near East. This is an alien planet– the first alien planet he's ever set foot on, and it ends like this. It's a war zone, and SG-14 stepped right into it.
Three months of training, after he got the offer– a top secret posting, another one, very dangerous, if he hadn't believed Colonel O'Neill when he brought the offer he would've when he saw the pay package. And he's done the confidentiality agreements all his career, but this time... this time what they told him blew his mind: Stargates, alien planets– aliens to go with the planets, and the Air Force is at war with them.
It was amazing. It was... It was something he could believe in. It was what he needed, after Nancy.
So, three months of training, of orientation videos, of briefings that include Dr Jackson, linguist and anthropologist and archaeologist, enthusiastically explaining first contact with alien civilisations and what to do if they found any interesting-looking ruins and when not to eat cake offered by pretty young women.
Three months of preparation, of getting to know his team, and it all went to shit the moment they stepped through the gate. Somehow, in the twenty minutes between the MALP going through to show the crumbling red sandstone ruins of an old desert city beyond the empty plaza the gate stood on and SG-14 stepping out of the event horizon, the empty scene had turned into a chaos of staff blasts and clashing bodies.
John doesn't know who's fighting who– it's all chain mail-clad Jaffa, but he doesn't know the symbols on their foreheads. They weren't in any of his briefing material. He doesn't particularly care, either, just at the moment.
Rick, their quiet, shy team archaeologist, went down from a staff blast the moment they stepped through the gate. John remembers yelling, diving off the pedestal after him, just in time to avoid the barrage of shots coming their way– from both sides, he thinks, either thinking they might be reinforcements for the other, before realizing they're neither and turning back on each other. Rick was dead, though, eyes already staring glassy at the sky by the time John landed half on top of him, and Sergeant Willis bled out from a shot that seared away a chunk of her thigh as he and Major Carter (not SG-1 Sam Carter) dragged her towards cover. They had to abandon her body on the plaza halfway between the gate and the first wall, where she's lying even now, among dozens of dead Jaffa.
Death gliders howl overhead, strafing the ruins, the plaza, and John ducks his head instinctively, not that it'll help at all.
He peeks around the doorway of the house he's taken cover in– the back half's nothing but a heap of rubble, but at least no one can sneak up on him, clutches his Beretta with damp fingers. He lost the P-90 when they were suddenly fighting Jaffa, their eyes glittering feverishly as they yelled in incomprehensible Goa'uld, and John's still not sure where they came from, a street corner or a building or something, they were just suddenly there, and John was fighting, and hands ripped the gun out of his fingers, and then there were more Jaffa, and in the confusion he somehow managed to duck away– only John didn't see Carter anywhere when he did, and he had to run before someone noticed him.
He's been trying to make his way around the plaza ever since, staying low, trying to get back to the gate and the DHD, because he needs to find Carter and get the hell out of here.
His immediate area seems clear, the death gliders chased everyone under cover or something, and he risks ducking out of the building and running along to the next one, crouched low, shoulder blades itching with the expectation of a staff blast.
But he makes it, flattens himself against the wall of a house, sights down the alleys– all clear, for the moment, and he crosses a narrow street, every step tense, muzzle of his gun up and finger inside the trigger guard, flattens himself to the next wall, from where he can see the gate and the plaza past the building opposite– through the building opposite more like, because it looks like something took a gigantic bite out of the side of it.
He curses, silently, because the front lines are still wavering around the gate as the open space turns into a killing ground for any side that tries to rush the other taking cover in the rubble. He'll be a sitting duck out there.
He catches sight of what looks distinctly like BDU-wearing legs sticking out of a doorway further down the street he's on. With another mental curse, he takes a deep breath, and dashes over, head low.
The top of the body is lying in the shade inside a little square house that seems more intact than most, and it's dark in there, but the huge staff blast burn on the back doesn't look good. John casts another look up and down the street, which remains empty, though he can hear fighting from somewhere nearby, and inches his way inside, gun pointed.
He almost pulls the trigger and gives his position away, too, because there's a pale splotch by the wall– another body, crumpled on it's side against the stone, this one in the rough-spun, kaftan-like robes he's seen on a few other bodies around. Not Jaffa. Civilians, maybe, the people who live here... if anyone lives in this decaying ruin of a city.
The body by the wall doesn't move, anyway, so John crouches beside the BDU-wearing one, feels for a pulse and looks down while his gun remains pointed at the other side of the small room.
It is Carter, and John's fingers only find stillness and cooling skin at his neck.
He grits his teeth, shuffles over to the other body to check for any sign of life.
It happens so quickly.
One moment he's crouching there, fingers reaching for the man's neck, the next something jumps at his face. He jolts back and gasps in surprise– and there's claws at his face, and in his mouth, he gags and chokes and it's ripping at the back of his throat and there's blood and it hurts and the body curves, snake-strong, and oh god he knows what that is, he's so fucked, he's so fucked, he needs to get it out, he needs to do something, something, through the blinding pain and the thick metal taste of blood and he can't breathe and he can feel it, he can feel it dig its way into his body where nothing has any business being, he can feel it curling around his spine.
And it's in, and he's so fucked, so fucked, so fucked, he has to, he still has the gun, under his chin, he has to, he raises the gun and then he sets it back down, oh god, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I apologize for the rude intrusion. I am Anansi.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
He's getting to his feet. He's giving the body at his feet a last look, something like sorrow sweeping through his mind. Then he turns the gun in his hands, tests its weight and grip, and makes his way out of the house, around it, towards the back, away from the gate.
John whimpers, but he doesn't, he turns the gun on himself, but he doesn't, he turns back towards the gate, but he doesn't, he stops and digs his heels in, but he doesn't, he screams, but he doesn't.
Please, we must leave. It's not safe here for either of us. I see you understand what I am, and I do apologize for using you this way– I'm in a bit of a pinch here. I won't hold you if you refuse, just as soon... ah, here we are.
John crouches down next to some sort of open drain, lined with flagstones. The water running along it is pink with blood. His reflection is a wavy, pale oval, blurry and uncertain, but he can make out the dark stains of the blood he can feel drying on his lips, crusted down his chin, on his throat.
I'm in the process of repairing the damage– you should feel better in another few minutes. I believe we will be safe here until then.
The voice is vaguely male, smooth and assured.
He has a snake in his head. Fuck, he has a snake in his head, he's so screwed, so so so screwed...!
JOHN! He snaps to attention at the sound of his name– mentally, at least. His body doesn't move. His heart beats slow and steady as a rock. His breath is light and even.
Will you stop panicking and listen to me?
Oh, hey, he can do that, maybe he should do that. (He has a snake in his head.)
Thank you. I will leave if you refuse to host me.
Oh yeah? Getoutgetoutgetout...
If you hear me out.
John's heart sinks, because you can't trust a snake. Never trust a snake.
Something like wry amusement washes through his mind, an emotion not his. And there's more, now that he's forcing the panic down, away– a sense of pleasure, of snug warm damp contentment– and that's what the Goa'uld feels at being buried in his neck, and nausea hits him hard and fast– and goes away.
Well, vomiting wouldn't help anything in this situation, and your throat's in no condition for it. Now. Here is my offer: You have no love of my brethren– neither do I. Join me, and help me rid the galaxy of the Goa'uld.
What, you're a Tok'ra? John thinks, vaguely sorta maybe in the direction of the snake's voice in his head. If it's a Tok'ra, maybe he really isn't entirely screwed...
There's a hiss, and a sweep of disdain through his mind. Hardly. I am not content to cower in tunnels and hoard titbits of intelligence to maybe, some day, launch my perfect strike to bring them down without risk to myself. Nor do I hide myself behind a pretty name– I know what I am. I am Goa'uld.
So... Why don't you like the other Goa'uld? (He's still screwed.)
You have to ask? The tone is dry. They're a scourge on the galaxy. The slavery and suffering they inflict on hundreds of worlds, on untold billions of people?
You've a... moral objection? John knows the sarcastic scepticism is loud and clear in his mind– it's kind of hard to be diplomatic when you're talking to someone in your head. (He has a fucking snake in his head.)
The Goa'uld feels wryly amused again. Yes.
What makes you so different? John wants to know. From every report he's read, every Goa'uld they've met thinks they're the one who deserves to be worshipped.
I want no worship. I am not a god, I am a sentient being like other races in the galaxy– races like yours. And considering that without your race, mine would be condemned to lurk in the muck on river bottoms and fight each other claw to claw rather than with space craft and armies of Jaffa, I should say the least we can offer you is a little respect.
Huh. Okay, no, that's not the usual Goa'uld rhetoric.