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Sometimes, the Vorta terrify Damar. There is something deeply unsettling about them, the emptiness of their smiles, their blind religious devotion to the Changelings and the Dominion by extension, their casual cruelty. He’d once seen Weyoun bought to near hysterics in laughter when one of his Jem’Hadar had an arm blown off during a failed assassination attempt.
“But you don’t understand, Damar,” he’d said, almost crying, as the Jem’Hadar groaned in a pool of his own blood, “He was the Fourth, and now there’s a fourth less of him!”
Other times, they make him think of those teacup wompats, the kinds that are so inbred from generations of trying to make them smaller and fluffier, that if they get hit too hard on the back of the head their oversized eyeballs just pop right out.
Today is a wompat day, but it’s early yet.
He can see Weyoun torn between trying to listen to the negotiations between his Founder and Thot Gor and some strange toy one of the Breen offsiders has in his (her? their?) hand. Damar didn’t even notice it at first, until he saw Weyoun’s eyes flicking back to it over and over. Now he can’t stop looking at it either.
It is, as best as he can tell, a silvery green pyramid, made up of lots of smaller shapes, each with a different symbol of Breen text on them, all designed to move and be spun around independently from each other by the movement of fingers. He watches as the Breen’s gloved fingers spin and fiddle pieces until the pyramid becomes a cube, then a rough sphere, then a cone, then a pyramid again.
Thot Gor’s abrasive electronic buzzing breaks through Damar’s distraction, drawing him back to the negotiating table. Things are apparently wrapping up, all of the major decisions having been made, and now moving onto that final stage where the parties try to pretend they like each other. Thor Gor points at Weyoun and makes more buzzing noises.
The Founder gives a short laugh (she’s looking worse today, the peeling and flaking reaching further up her face than he’s seen before), “Of course. A Vorta of your own will be no trouble. I’m sure something can be arranged…”
She turns her chair slightly towards Weyoun, who knows his cue and gives one of his obsequious smiles, completely unaffected by one of his own people being bought and sold right in front of him.
“I’ll organise a tour of one of our cloning facilities immediately. You can pick out a Vorta from any line you like, Thot Gor.”
A short buzz this time, a questioning gesture.
Weyoun laughs, almost preening, “Oh I’m sure my line wouldn’t be of any use to you.”
Damar’s hand under the desk clenches, his mouth opens of its own volition, words dripping with sarcasm.
“Come on Weyoun, surely there’s a catalogue he can look through.”
Every eye (or visor) snaps to him. He can feel them burning into the side of his face. He keeps his eyes trained on Weyoun, staring him down as those pale purple eyes narrow, pure loathing written all over his features.
A crackling noise from Thot Gor (one Damar suspects is Breenish laughter) breaks the tension. He says something which no-body bothers to translate for Damar, then smacks his underling on the shoulder holding out his hand. The pyramid toy is deposited (slightly reluctantly) into his open palm.
He walks around the table, making sure to ‘accidentally’ elbow Damar in the back of the head as he passes, and places the toy down on the table in front of Weyoun, other hand gripping the back of his chair.
Wide eyes light up, Weyoun picking up the toy and holding it close to his face, already spinning and fiddling with the moveable pieces.
“Thank you, Thot Gor. How kind.”
The Thot leans in and buzzes one more line to Weyoun, before straightening up and making a single hand gesture to the other Breen and walking out. The meeting is apparently over.
“Finally…” the Founder says, suddenly looking very tired, “Don’t forget to organise that tour of the cloning facility for Gor. I trust you can take care of everything else as well?”
“Yes Founder, I live to serve your will,” Weyoun stands to bow, toy already tucked into his palm as he makes the movement.
“Very good.”
Damar doesn’t even get an acknowledgment as she glides out of the room. Weyoun sneers at him as he follows his god out.
He suddenly feels far too sober…
A bottle and a half of kanar later, that situation is remedied, and Damar finds himself outside of Weyoun’s quarters, leaning against the frame and using the half full bottle of kanar in his hand to bang on the door.
Weyoun opens the door eventually, eyes hard and arms crossed. An intimidating effect slightly undermined by his long night shirt, the same abstract pattern as the shirts he wears under his jacket.
“What are you doing here?”
“I…w-as wondering if you knew where Thot Gor was,” Damar pushes past him into the room, looking around as if he was half expecting to see the Breen in question leaning against a wall or draped over the couch, “You two seemed so-o friendly.”
“You’re pathetic.”
Weyoun doesn’t tell him to leave, so Damar stays, sitting (falling) down on the couch and taking a swig from the bottle. He spies the silver pyramid on the table and picks it up, but finds his fingers aren’t dextrous enough to make the pieces move as he wants them to. He settles for tossing it in the air and catching it.
“Come and sit down Weyoun, show me how this works.”
Weyoun makes a grab for the toy, Damar snatching it out of the air before his hands can even get close. He still has better hand eye coordination, even in his current state.
“Give it to me,” Weyoun snaps.
“Sit down…and y-ou can have it.”
Weyoun makes an annoyed noise but slides down onto the couch, he holds a hand out expectantly. Damar drops the pyramid into his open palm. Instantly the Vorta starts to move the pieces, clever little hands working.
“You were pushing too hard, it doesn’t respond to force.”
“A u-seful lesson…” Damar takes another swig from his bottle, then offers it to Weyoun. He’s surprised when Weyoun actually takes the bottle, looking at it curiously before taking an experimental swig and handing it back. Maybe it’s a peace offering, an apology, a passing fancy, a challenge, it’s impossible to tell with him.
Damar stretches his arm over the back of the couch, moving closer, presumably to look closer at the silver pyramid (now halfway to a cube), “So…what line of Vorta do you think Gor will pick out for himself?”
Weyoun shrugs, having reached an impasse the puzzle and rotating some of the pieces backward in an attempt to see where he went wrong, “I couldn’t possibly speculate as to the Thot’s preferences.”
“It seemed like you had a pretty good idea this afternoon,” he prods the toy with his finger, “Try moving that one upside-down then leftwise…no leftwise.”
Weyoun turns to give him an exasperated look, notices for the first time how close Damar is to him on the couch. He blinks once, then twice.
Damar takes that as an opportunity, holding the bottle of kanar up to Weyoun’s bloodless lips for him to drink again.
“You never come see me anymore,” he swipes a finger over Weyoun’s bottom lip, wiping away the kanar that’s spilled there.
Weyoun’s eyes harden but he doesn’t push Damar away, flicking out his tongue out to shadow where he’d been touched.
“I no longer require your…services.”
“Really?” Damar puts the bottle down, placing his hand on Weyoun’s knee, “Then ask me to leave. I’ll go…”
There seems to be a moment of uncertainty in Weyoun’s eyes. Damar takes the opportunity and kisses him on the neck, right under the ear. A whine comes from somewhere in the back of Weyoun’s throat and his knees, so tightly pressed together part slightly. Damar slides his hand up from a knee to under the nightshirt, Weyoun’s eye’s close and he gives a soft exhale, legs spreading apart. Damar licks his lips, fingers meeting soft, wet flesh.
“Did you really think you could give this up? That you could just pray your desires away?”
“You know nothing about my desires.”
Damar’s finger slides inside him, already slick, “I think I have some idea.”
“Shut up, before I change my mind about this.”
The couch isn’t wide enough for what Damar wants to do but he doesn’t want to break their momentum by moving them to the bed. There’s a whisper of zippers and rustling of fabric as he frees himself from his clothes, leaning over Weyoun and pushing the nightshirt up. His torso is unmarked, no nipples, no scar of a mammalian umbilicus like a Vulcan or human would have, all things no doubt removed by the Founders for lack of utility. Damar even suspects the nub that crowns Weyoun’s many-lipped ajan is the vestigial remains of a penis.
He’s moving to push Weyoun back onto his back, pulling his thighs further apart when he meets resistance, Weyoun bracing himself with one arm behind him. He smiles, meting Damar’s eyes, then pushes back, hard.
Damar finds himself upended, banging his head on the arm of couch. Between that and the drink he’s disoriented for a moment, vision swirling as Weyoun clambers on top of him. This is new…unexpected. All of their previous couplings, going back to Weyoun 5, had ended with Weyoun flat on his back or with his face pushed down onto the bed, hips canted up to meet him.
Weyoun grabs his jaw, fingers digging into his skin, “What Damar? Thought you could just barge in here and bend me over again?”
Damar tries to shrug, a difficult thing to do while he’s trying to divest Weyoun of his night shirt, hands sliding up his sides and gathering the fabric. “You never complained.” Weyoun grinds down against him and he grunts. “In fact, as I recall you were rather enthusiastic about the whole thing.”
The only response he gets is a stinging slap across the face.
“I told you to shut up,” Weyoun bends over and kisses him, ending it with his teeth closing around Damar’s bottom lip.
Damar gives a strangled groan, tasting metal before he manages to shove Weyoun back. He pants, wiping a hand over his lower lip and looking at the blood.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“You, if you do as you’re told.”
Weyoun finally pulls the nightshirt off and throws it on the ground, sitting up straight, pale and luminous in the low light. Damar runs a hand up his chest, but doesn’t speak. Whatever this new game is, he wants to play it. His prUt twitches where it’s trapped under Weyoun’s hips. He hasn’t been this hard in years.
Weyoun reaches beneath him, grabbing Damar in his hand and sliding on to him in one swift move, hot and tight and wet. Damar groans, trying to grab at hips only to have his hands slapped away. Weyoun braces himself with one hand gripping into the back of the couch, the other one on the armrest beside Damar’s head and starts to rock his hips.
He’s being used, Damar realises, and the thought sends a spike of further arousal straight into his gut. He suddenly feels almost needy, putting his hands on either side of Weyoun’s head and pulling him down to kiss him.
Weyoun pulls away, mouth open and panting, but maintains eye contact. He keeps rocking his hips, faster now, essentially using Damar to masturbate, little ‘ah, ah’ noises coming out of his mouth. Inside him, Damar can feel Weyoun clench and almost vibrate around him. Is that something common to all warm blooded creatures or a quirk of the Vorta? Something left by the Changelings to make them more sexually enticing or perhaps just overlooked?Another of their quirks is what messy little creatures they are. Damar can feel Weyoun’s wetness seeping into the fabric of his pants, warm and slick.
Weyoun’s hips start to lose rhythm, his eyes rolling. Damar feels the ajan start to clench around him and he takes Weyoun’s distracted state to properly grab him, one hand grabbing a hip, the other his soft waist, digging his fingers in and suspecting (hoping) he’ll leave some nice purple bruises for Weyoun to remember him by in the coming days. It only takes a few sharp thrusts for Damar to finish, spilling inside him with a low moan.
Weyoun collapses on him, suddenly soft and pliant. Damar runs a hand over the back of his head, enjoying the feel of hair much softer than a Cardassian’s. They’re pressed so close he can feel the low pulse of Weyoun’s blood pumping through his veins.
A few moments pass before Weyoun pushes himself up and off Damar, standing on slightly wobbly legs as he walks away, grabbing the bottle of kanar to drink out of. Damar watches, still a little dazed, until he sees Weyoun upend the bottle and almost finish it in several greedy gulps.
“Hey…Hey! That’s mine! You don’t even like it.”
A sly grin, teeth and tongue now stained black, “I like you not having it more.”
Damar growls, “Can you at least throw me a towel?” He gestures to his crotch, the fabric visibly wet. “I look like I’ve pissed myself.”
Weyoun gives a dismissive shrug, “There’s some in the bathroom.”
Damar gets up, grumbling as he shoves past Weyoun into the bathroom, trying his best to clean himself up with limited success.
When he comes back out Weyoun is pulling his night shirt over his head, arms up and trying to find the right holes. Damar takes the opportunity to dig his index fingers in on each side of Weyoun’s ribcage with a laugh, an admittedly juvenile move, and earns an annoyed squeal for his trouble.
Weyoun’s head finds the neck hole of the garment, and pokes through with a particularly sour look on it.
“You can leave now.” Weyoun crosses his arms over his chest, “I have things to do tonight.”
“Such as?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you to your very important work.” No goodnight kiss then.
Damar walks towards the door and spies the Breenish puzzle glinting out from between the couch cushions where it had been abandoned. He leans down and snaps it up, Weyoun one step behind him and just not quite fast enough to beat him to it.
Damar holds his prize aloft, out of the reach of pale grabby little hands as he backs towards the door.
“Give it back! That was a gift!”
He switches it from one hand to the other as Weyoun manages to get a good grip on his wrist.
“Now now,” Damar presses the button to open the door and steps over the threshold, Weyoun’s attack stopping as soon as it’s possible they could be seen, “we wouldn’t want you distracted from your important work.”
He smiles, “You can come get it back from me, once you’re done.”
Weyoun’s face is thunder, he leans in close, voice hissing, “I loathe you.”
“The feeling is mutual. Sweet dreams.”
With automatic doors, it’s not really possible to slam them, but Weyoun makes a good effort, punching at the door button several times with the heel of his hand as if that will make a difference in how quickly it closes.
Damar turns to walk away, tossing the toy up in and air and catching it as he goes.