Chapter Text
In open defiance of Weyoun, he takes two bottles of kanar back to ops and distributes it, taking a generous measure himself. He’s the one that everyone expects to find the solution eventually, after all. When he finally leaves ops and goes back to his quarters, he fumbles around in the dark for a few minutes before realizing that there’s someone else in his quarters—another minute of focus tells him that the person is on the bed. He draws a knife—better than an energy weapon, in close quarters—and says “Lights” as he springs.
If he’d thought about it for more than a second, the identity of the person would have been obvious. Who else would have the authority to enter his quarters and the poor judgment to wait there in the dark?
Weyoun had been sitting cross-legged on his bed; Damar’s lunge means that he’s now pinning Weyoun to the bed. He’s clumsy about his knife as he does it, and what wouldn’t have hurt a Cardassian instead draws blood a scant centimeter from where Damar would have cut to kill him. Weyoun claps his hand to his neck and looks at the blood—a few drops, barely a scratch—in outrage. “You could have killed me!”
“If I’d meant to kill you, I would have.” He doesn’t let Weyoun up. “What are you doing in here?”
“I thought you would appreciate it.” Weyoun’s eyes are huge and innocent. “Your armor is very hard. It can’t be comfortable to wear.”
He isn’t actually going to kill Weyoun, so he stands back up and wipes his knife on his leg before re-sheathing it. “Armor is supposed to be hard. Don’t be obtuse.”
Weyoun shrugs. “You seemed upset by what I said at the council meeting. Though motivated, so perhaps it was effective after all.”
“You know, I had just decided against killing you, and then you said that.”
He tilts his head. Damar hates it, the way that Weyoun looks at him like he’s the strange one. “It would be inefficient to kill me. The Dominion would send another of me in a few days.”
“What do you want?” He begins the process of shucking his armor. Weyoun isn’t wrong that it’s uncomfortable. But this is hardly a safe place for them, and as long as Dukat wears armor, Damar will too.
“I—enjoyed what we did, the last time I was here. I understand there are many more things that can be done.” He mistakes Damar’s shock for misunderstanding and says, “I want to have sex again. You seemed to enjoy yourself too.”
‘Enjoy’ hardly captures it. The marks have faded, but while they were still there, Damar would press his fingers hard against them while he stroked his cock furiously, would come remembering the feeling of being turned inside out. “I don’t like you,” he says. It’s a mantra these days.
Weyoun looks surprised. “Does that matter?” He stands up too and helps lift the armor off Damar’s shoulders, then untucks Damar’s shirt and slides his hot hands up inside it. The sudden shock of it makes Damar flinch, and Weyoun stops. “Does that matter?” he repeats.
What do they even do in the Dominion, when they’re not out managing Jem’Hadar? Do the Vorta just sit and make snide comments to each other until they die and then clone themselves and do it all over again? Do they have feelings? Do they understand them? It doesn’t matter. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to fuck you,” and the crude word sounds bizarre coming out of that mouth.
Just like that, Damar’s entire body is aflame again. “Before that,” he says, and pulls Weyoun tight against him. He slides his fingers into Weyoun’s hair, tilts his head to the side a little so that Damar can lick the place where he cut Weyoun—he almost expects Vorta blood to taste different from his own, but it doesn’t, so instead he leaves a sucking kiss, hard enough that Weyoun makes a little hurt noise, hard enough that he can already see the mark forming when he pulls back. Absurdly, ridiculously, then he moves to Weyoun’s mouth and kisses him—softly at first, to see if Weyoun even knows what to do, and then Weyoun opens his mouth to Damar, tastes him the same way that he’d tasted Damar’s cock last time. The kiss turns frantic, until Damar can’t tell which of them wants it more, and they end up back on the bed.
Weyoun is holding a tube in one hand—“Did you search my quarters?” The words come out belligerent, like everything else he says these days.
“Of course,” Weyoun says. “Roll over.”
Damar’s entire body tenses. Everything in him tells him not to turn his back on a Vorta, let alone Weyoun—not to make himself as vulnerable as Weyoun wants him to. “I don’t—” he starts.
Weyoun cocks his head. “Do you not enjoy it?”
“I don’t trust you not to knife me in the back,” Damar says, to avoid answering the question.
That prompts a laugh from Weyoun. “Damar, the state you’re in, I could have done that when you walked in.” He slips two hot fingers into the waist of Damar’s pants and tugs at it. “If you don’t want to do this, you’ll need to tell me that.”
Damar stares up into those eerie eyes. Weyoun’s pupils look even larger than usual and he looks hungry. “No,” Damar says, hoarse. “No, I want to.”
“Roll over, then.”
Damar ends up on his knees, bracing himself on his forearms. He couldn’t coherently explain Cardassian attitudes about men who fuck and get fucked to Weyoun right now, even if he felt like trying, even if his entire body weren’t alight with anticipation. Weyoun’s slick finger slides in as he asks, “When was the last time you did this?”
“Months,” Damar manages to say. His entire focus has narrowed to the slow in-and-out drag of Weyoun’s finger. “Before the war.” As though there has ever been a definite time without war.
“With who?” When Damar doesn’t answer, Weyoun adds another finger and it forces a breath out of him. “Dukat, I assume.” The room is silent for a long moment, the only sounds Damar’s harsh breaths and the slick noise of Weyoun’s fingers moving slowly in and out. Damar is moving with them now and he wants to tell Weyoun to stop talking and fuck him already, but that would give Weyoun even more power than he already holds. “Is that a common arrangement in the Cardassian military structure?”
As Damar opens his mouth to answer, Weyoun puts a third finger in him and flexes his fingers experimentally, and it drags a long, unwilling noise out of Damar. He gasps in another breath and manages the best answer he can think of: “Not—uncommon in—Dukat’s military structure.” He shouldn’t admit that, shouldn’t be saying any of this—but then, he shouldn’t be letting any of this happen and instead he’s easing his legs a little further apart, blood pounding through his body. “That’s—you can fuck me now.”
“Thank you for the permission,” Weyoun says, but he doesn’t remove his fingers, only slows down his movements a little, and it’s worse, it’s so much worse, he’s going to make Damar ask him—“You’re quite an interesting race, Cardassians. And what a specimen you are.” He drags the fingernails on his free hand down the ridge of Damar’s spine, still slowly pushing his fingers in and out.
Damar is dizzy with it, the world tilting around him as he clenches around Weyoun’s fingers. “If you’re going to fuck me, do it already.” He’s hard, tries to support himself with one hand so he can get the other on his cock, and somehow it’s both better and worse that way.
“Does this not count?” Weyoun sounds disappointed.
“Weyoun—just—”
“What were you hoping for?”
He can barely get the words out. “Your cock,” he manages.
“How delightfully vulgar,” Weyoun says, and then withdraws his fingers and thrusts his cock into Damar at almost the same time. It punches all the air out of Damar’s lungs and Weyoun doesn’t give him a moment to recover. The heat of his body against Damar’s is searing, the shape of his hand on Damar’s hip to hold him in place, the sharp points where his fingernails dig into the ridge of Damar’s spine. The sensation is building through his entire body with the rhythm of Weyoun’s thrusts, and just when it’s about to crest, Weyoun pulls out and rolls Damar onto his back. Damar lies there flat on his back, chest heaving, and stares up at Weyoun. The violet of his eyes has almost disappeared, swallowed by the inky black of his pupils, and there’s something viciously joyful in the corners of his mouth. He scans Damar for…something? and then grips his hips and pushes back inside. Damar tries to swallow a yell, but Weyoun hears it and speeds up. He can’t look Weyoun in the eyes—it’s too much—but closes his eyes and lets the pleasure wash through him. Then Weyoun says, “Open your eyes, Damar,” and Damar does, just in time to see Weyoun’s face as he comes inside Damar with a stunned kind of gasp. Damar can feel him pulsing inside and shudders, just barely on the edge of coming—
Weyoun pulls out and knocks him away from that edge, his entire body still drawn tight. He reaches for his cock, but Weyoun takes a firm hold of the base and says, “Wait.”
“Wait for what.” Damar struggles against his hand, almost frantic. He just sees Weyoun’s face fall back into that curious, almost puzzled expression, looking at his own come trickling out of Damar, and then Weyoun is putting four fingers inside his ass without releasing his cock. If Damar had gods he would be yelling their names now as he tries to thrust up into Weyoun’s firm hand, as he feels Weyoun begin that slow pace with his fingers that he’d used before. “You can’t—”
“Can’t what?” Weyoun looks honestly uncertain, but he doesn’t stop.
“Please—” There’s that word again.
Weyoun speeds up a little and his clever fingers are spreading Damar further, to match the way his face must be open now. “What do you want me to do?”
“Let me come,” and the words are garbled but Weyoun understands. He loosens his hold on Damar’s cock a little, enough that Damar can thrust up through the circle of his fingers. It only takes a few thrusts before Damar cries out and comes, clenching tight around Weyoun’s fingers and then collapsing, almost insensate.
He’s barely aware of Weyoun moving to sprawl next to him. “That was,” Weyoun starts. “Unexpected.” Damar is not capable of speech. “I suppose a shower would be the standard next step.” When he moves to stand, Damar catches him with a clumsy hand and pulls him back into a semi-conscious kiss. Weyoun peers into his eyes. “Are you—” He looks mildly concerned. “All right?”
“All right,” Damar repeats, because the soft warm lassitude swamping him is impossible to articulate.
Weyoun leaves the bed and then returns with a cup of water. He looks messy in the best way, slow instability in the line of his shoulders and his pattern of steps. Damar has left a dark purple bruise high on his neck, and the look of it against that pale skin makes Damar shiver a little. “I believe you should drink water.”
Damar has at least enough energy to snort at that. “What, no kanar? Taking care of me, Weyoun?”
“It would be tedious if you drank yourself to death,” Weyoun says. “I’ve grown accustomed to your particular type of irritation.”
Against his better judgment, Damar accepts the water and props himself up enough to drink it. It’s almost bitter after the sweetness of kanar. Then he drops the cup on the floor and collapses back onto the bed. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“Are you not already ruined?” Weyoun isn’t wrong—Damar isn’t blind, he knows what has been happening to him over these last months—but it still hurts as badly as if he’d stabbed Damar.
“Are you done here?” If they were in Weyoun’s quarters, Damar would stagger out now.
Weyoun stares at him with that particular blank look he favors when he’s acting as though Damar is the strange one. “Wouldn’t it be appropriate for me to spend the night here?”
The thought is gutting. Whether he answers yes or no, it will tell Weyoun that he attaches some kind of—emotion to Weyoun’s presence. “I don’t care,” he says, a refrain that’s less convincing every time he says it. He thinks his legs might support him, and rolls off the bed to test them. He’s unsteady, but at least he can stagger to the bathroom and the sonic shower. Weyoun will leave, of course.
The sonic shower drives the filth from his body. In the few minutes after a sonic shower, he always imagines that this must be what it feels like to have skin so unprotected, skin as delicate as Weyoun’s. It also always seems to sober him a little, so he grabs a bottle as he leaves the bathroom.
To his surprise, Weyoun is still there, sprawled atop the covers across more than half of the bed. He smiles—always a bizarre expression on his face—and then frowns. “You’re drinking more.”
To spite Weyoun and his false concern, Damar takes a swig of kanar directly from the bottle and then holds it out. “Here, drink some. It’s swill, but it’s not as though you can tell the difference.”
Weyoun grimaces. “Do you ever consume anything else? Your blood must be half kanar. Is that not harmful?”
“No.” Damar doesn’t feel like arguing. “It keeps me warm.” Ever since the damn Federation occupation of the station, the heating controls don’t seem to work as well. He takes another long swig and puts the bottle down. “Move over. Computer, lights.”
Weyoun is almost comfortingly warm against his back. Then he places a hand on Damar’s hip and Damar startles badly at the feeling. Weyoun waits until he’s calmed and then slides his hand down to where Damar is tender and still slick. Damar hisses at the feeling. “Fascinating. Can you take me again?” he asks, in that disinterested tone. Two of his fingers play at the rim.
Damar doesn’t answer in words, but he pushes his hips back toward Weyoun’s fingers. What’s one more time, when Weyoun has already cemented his hold over Damar? When Weyoun is sleeping here in his bed, something that Damar rarely allows anyway? He can feel the head of Weyoun’s cock bumping against his hole, where Weyoun is holding him open, and then Weyoun is pushing inside him again, agonizingly slowly. Somehow this time it’s more intoxicating than any kanar, the gradual drag in and out, the way Weyoun’s entire body is pressed against his like a lover—the way that Weyoun kisses the skin over his shoulder ridge, and it should be too light but he’s still sensitive from the sonic shower.
Time loses meaning. It could be five minutes, it could be an hour that Weyoun keeps him like this, wrapping one arm around him to put a searing hand over his pounding heart, sliding in and out with long, slow strokes. When Weyoun comes at last, he breathes out long and hot on Damar’s neck and tightens his arm across Damar’s chest. He stays inside Damar until he’s completely soft and slips out gently, and then says, “Thank you,” into Damar’s ear. Somehow that’s the worst thing of all, and yet Damar can’t make himself try to escape Weyoun’s arm.