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lilyhargraveFandom: 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.
Previous Chapter: Chapter 4
This is really boring, he complains many hours later, resists the urge to rub the back of his neck again.
Anansi chuckles. This ship has very limited weapons and shield capabilities– I prefer boring, all things considered.
Yeah, John concedes that point. Still. What did you do on the way there?
Oh, we found ways to entertain ourselves.
John doesn't need the shadow of a pleasurable shiver that accompanies the statement– the tone's enough.
Oookay, too much information!, he says, feels himself flush.
If you say so. The Goa'uld's voice is teasing. Then he grows serious again. Despite the fact that I might lose any chance at convincing you to host me: I do enjoy the pleasures your bodies provide. And while I would never force intimacy on a host to which they're violently opposed, you would need to be willing to compromise to a certain degree, as we'll hardly always share an attraction to the same person.
Oh, God, John groans. There's little he hates more than talking about this kind of personal stuff, and doing it with the Goa'uld lodged in his brain– yeah, that's a whole different level of awkward.
I'm sorry. But given the chance, I would not feel right withholding this sort of information from you before you make a choice.
Yeah, no, John agrees. But... how does that even work? I mean, you said you don't even... reproduce, so... why would you be attracted to anyone? And how?
It has nothing to do with reproduction. I have never been attracted to another Goa'uld. Maybe the true males feel something for their queens– they certainly are protective of them. But the rest of us... There are a very few among the Tok'ra who share a... companionship with one another. That is the exception rather than the rule, though. In general, we're attracted to you– humans. It is odd, I grant you, considering our species evolved on planets far apart. You would think this kind of compatibility would be a product of a joint evolutionary process, but no– you are far superior hosts for my kind than the sentient bipeds on our first home. And you are so very beautiful.
Wait. You're attracted to humans? Like, sexually? Yeah, this conversation is shaping up to be as disturbing as the one about Goa'uld reproduction.
As near as I can tell, not having an actual sexuality, it's equivalent, yes.
That... is really, really creepy, John tells him. Then something occurs to him.
Wait. Does that mean you're attracted to me?
Yes.
There's amusement coming from the Goa'uld, and John has the urge to run away and hide until he can forget he ever had this conversation.
I believe I told you you're what I desire in a host.
You didn't use that word!, he protests. And I wish you hadn't, now. And this is extremely fucking creepy. You're a snake... thing, you have no business being attracted to me.
I'm sorry, Anansi says, but John can tell he's still more amused than anything. But we do spend most of our lives inside your bodies– does it not make sense that we would develop an appreciation for them rather than our own? Especially considering we don't maintain much of a physical self when inside a host.
Well, when you put it that way... Still. That's not the same as wanting to sleep with someone.
He gets something that might be a mental shrug. I like to explore a beautiful body with all senses, and the sensations of your arousal and climax that follow are addictively enjoyable. And some of those I share the experience with I'm quite fond of– it is a lovely way to show your care for someone.
That is kind of like wanting to sleep with someone, John has to admit.
Creepy, he maintains.
At least it would be another thing we share– an interest in the male human form.
John kind of freezes.
What? I... He feels himself flush. That's none of your business.
Anansi feels puzzled. I didn't mean to offend you?
It's... I'm not offended, John replies, and even in his thoughts, he sounds defensive to himself. He takes a deep breath. It's just not something I talk about, okay?
A societal taboo?
Well. Yeah, I guess you could call it that. (How the hell do you explain DADT?)
Very well, then.
They spend the rest of the flight on less charged topics. John probably should use the opportunity for all it's worth and find out whatever he can about the Goa'uld, but honestly? After two very disturbing conversations about Goa'uld personal lives, he's kind of had enough. He'd rather hear about the Loop of Kon Garat– an actual space race. Apparently there's a few planets here and there that've managed to kick their ruling Goa'uld out, and a few of them have pretty advanced technology. There seems to be a sweet spot where they're not advanced or ambitious enough to pose a threat to the Goa'uld as a whole, but well-armed enough that conquering them would take too much effort on the part of an individual Goa'uld. Unfortunately, Earth is nowhere near that position.
Between talking racing ships, playing Goa'uld puzzle games, sleeping and eating, the remaining forty hours somehow pass, eventually, and Anansi wakes him from a nap just as they're coming out of hyperspace.
John hurries down the ladder, drops into the pilot's seat, starts running the diagnostic routines Anansi showed him to prepare for landing as they approach their destination.
It's a small planet, smaller than Earth, Anansi tells him, and greener, too– more landmass, most of it covered in dense vegetation. It's bright and pretty against the darkness of space, the system's small, young sun a glaring dot off to the side.
John sets his hands on the controls, checks his approach vector, and can't help grinning, because he's flying a spaceship.
He loops under the planet, from the perspective of his approach, to enter the atmosphere on the right side for Anansi's base and the stargate.
Re-entry is smooth and much less dramatic than he would've thought, and then he's cruising in atmosphere again, and the only really weird thing is that there's a defined up and down again.
There, Anansi tells him as they cross from night into day, chasing the sun into a morning that has steam rising from the greenery below, and John can make out a few structures– the ordered lines of fields, a large yellowish building– a stepped kind of pyramid, at least twenty stories high, plants and flowers pouring over the edges of the steps, he sees as he swings around it to lose momentum before he sets the ship down in a courtyard before the front door. There's hardly a bump as he touches down, and he grins as he initiates shut-down routines.
Told you I could do it.
Anansi laughs in his head. You are indeed a talented pilot.
When John exits the ship, he's faced with a bunch of stern-faced Jaffa, all big and broad and muscular and chain-mailed. Their foreheads are tattooed with what's probably a stylized spider, two pairs of legs curving upwards, two down. The tattoo of the guy in the middle is raised and golden.
“Um, hi,” John says. “I have your boss in my head?”
Anansi snorts in amusement, says Allow me, and takes over.
John gives a resigned sigh, mentally, as he feels his posture shift slightly, listens to his mouth speak words he doesn't understand.
It's weird. He knows what Anansi's saying, because they're sharing a brain, but the way his mouth moves is unfamiliar, and so are the sounds that're coming out of it. And Anansi's doing the Goa'uld voice-thing, too, which... It's like there's an extra sort of vibration in his throat.
But it does mean he doesn't get shot, but instead is hustled inside the pyramid with salutes.
They climb up a flight of stairs, and arrive in something that's very much a throne room. The pyramid is built from a warm, yellow kind of stone. The next, smaller level is suspended above the floor on pillars and interior walls, the sides open to the balmy, tropical air carrying the scent of rain and flowers. The larger footprint of the bottom story means there's a sort of balcony running all around, heavy stone planters against the low walls that are responsible for the plants he's seen from the outside, more against the first row of pillars to let vines with thick clusters of flowers wind their way up towards the ceiling.
The interior pillars and walls are carved with those ubiquitous hieroglyphics Goa'uld are so fond of, and there's a huge, gold-plated rendering of that same stylized spider symbol on the wall behind the throne. The throne itself is carved from a big block of the same stone, low and long, more a couch than a chair, piled with golden pillows and colourful fabrics.
Yeah, it's very... Goa'uld.
That's the idea, Anansi tells him dryly, and walks them right up to the throne, throws himself down on it in a proprietary sprawl– well, throws them down. It's more comfortable than it looks.
Pillows. Lots of them. I've had a long time to figure out the perfect ratio between comfort and style.
Yeah, okay, John snickers, mentally.
It's more important than you'd think– you wouldn't want visiting Goa'uld to think that you're too spoiled to defend your holdings. On the other hand, you also don't want to look too poor to afford comfort.
Sounds like a nightmare, John comments while Anansi orders some food from a pretty young girl in a very flimsy white dress that John tries very hard not to look too close at.
Actually, I enjoy the challenge, Anansi informs him. And I assure you, Salima won't mind in the least if you look– that's the point.
Um. No thanks?
As you wish.
She's what, twenty?
I... actually have no idea, Anansi replies. He probably feels John's disapproval, because John gets a touch of exasperation back. I'm several millennia old by your count. Anyone under a few centuries seems very young to me. I assure you, I don't force her to share my bed if she doesn't want to.
But she's a slave, right?
Technically, Anansi agrees. She was a gift. I would have done her no favour by declining and she has nowhere else to go. I maintain a certain authority, yes, but my people know most of it is an act to keep us all safe.
The girl, Salima, returns with a platter piled high with fresh fruit and small cakes, and there's no fear in her eyes as she kneels to offer it, only curiosity... and something that's a lot less innocent. Anansi takes the platter to set it on the throne next to them with a “Thank you”, and she reaches out as if to touch his (their) face. John would've flinched back if he could, and Anansi catches her hand, gently, before she can. It's very soft and small in his.
“I'm afraid this body is not mine to enjoy, my dear,” he tells her, in Goa'uld. “Not unless John agrees, and he has not.”
The girl... pouts. “But you're so pretty, my Lord,” she says, and John kind of wants to die a little, while Anansi uses his face to laugh.
“John thanks you for your kindness,” he says, which is a big fat lie, but probably more polite than the truth, “but sadly, we must discuss the matter of whether or not he'll stay first.”
She huffs a little, rises and bows, deep enough that Anansi appreciates the view and John thinks very hard about flight checks, and then she pads away on bare feet, hips swaying.
You're easily embarrassed, Anansi observes, amused.
Well, excuse me for not being comfortable with this little harem fantasy you've got going here, John grumbles, and gets laughed at for his trouble.
Anansi pops a slice of fruit into their mouth. It's a little tart for John's taste, and his hand veers away from more of the same, to one of the small cakes.
Better?
Er... yeah.
So. Have you made a decision, or do you need more time? I can hold out for another day or so.
John's gotten almost used to the mutual discomfort they're feeling, but at the reminder, he remembers the ever-present strain on his shoulders, his neck and throat. And also, the subliminal tension coming from Anansi as he forces himself to hold still where he is against the urge to burrow deeper into warm dark safety.
I gotta go back, John tells him, wonders that he's not eager about it. But... he has to.
You're sure? I can't tempt you with long life, eternal youth, perfect health? Anansi's tone is teasing. Nubile young women in our bed? And young men, too, of course.
If John's face were his to control at the moment, he'd be blushing.
Oh, shut up.
Anansi chuckles, then grows serious. We would be a good match. I believe there's much we could accomplish together. Maybe even break the Goa'uld Empire's hold on the galaxy.
Yeah, maybe, John answers. But, like you said– I have a duty to my people.
Anansi sighs. I can't say I'm surprised. Very well. It's been an honour to meet you, John, all the same, and I thank you for your help.
You're welcome. You're not so bad yourself, for a Goa'uld.
Anansi chuckles again, then gives orders to his First Prime, who's been standing stoically to the side of the throne, to put the word out that he's looking for a new host, to take care of John after he's out and to get him anything he needs.
He walks John over to a side room where there's a wide, flat stone altar sort of thing, has his people fetch something that despite its gilded edges looks a lot like an aquarium.
The royal fish tank? John quips, and Anansi snorts.
I shall miss your insolence.
It's a cultural thing, John tells him as Anansi removes his tac vest, jacket and shirt, stretches them out on the stone on John's stomach. Truthfully, he's trying to distract himself.
Yes, I'm sorry– it will hurt. I'll make it fast. And if you ever need anything– you'll be welcome here.
Thanks.
Good bye, John. A pleasure.
The back of his neck and shoulders goes numb like he's been shot up with local anaesthetic, but he can still feel Anansi moving, gets a last echo of the way he pushes through instincts that are screaming at him to do the opposite of what he's doing, and then there's hideous pressure low on John's neck, and with every accelerating heartbeat the numbness wears off and he can feel the Goa'uld sliding out of him, every tapering inch, through flesh that roars to life with deep, bruised, raw pain, can feel the slight weight curl in the middle of his back, sticky and warm and damp, fins scratching against his skin until someone's hands lift him off and there's a muted splash, but, oh god, he hurts, he's kind of clinging to the stone white-knuckled with his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clamped tight to keep from screaming.
Aww ...
Date: 16 May 2025 04:40 (UTC)Anansi: Why thank you.
John: *squiiiiick*