Work Text:
"Well," the mechanic says, "that's busted, all right. What happened to it? You lose a fight with an asteroid?"
Weyoun's throat is dry. He's forgotten every language he ever spoke. This clone's eyesight is good, and right now he wishes it wasn't. Maybe if he couldn't see, he wouldn't be suffering these symptoms.
The mechanic is sturdily built, Weyoun can see muscle displayed obscenely as he leans against the hull of Weyoun's ship. His sleek black hair is held back in a ponytail, his lips are full, and his eyes glitter. His facial ridges are well-defined and symmetrical, and the oil-stained white tank top he's wearing is just low enough in the neckline to show off a tantalizing hint of another scale there that matches the one on his forehead--is that attractive? For Cardassians?
It's attractive to Weyoun.
He thought he'd lacked a sense of aesthetics. Maybe that had been thrown in with this clone along with 20/20 vision.
You know, to add some spice.
Weyoun is sweating. His heart is pounding. His blood pressure is through the roof, and he thinks half his face is going numb.
Weyoun thinks he's going to die.
Miraculously somehow he remembers how to speak. "Yes? No! There was a storm. I had a bad landing."
"I'd say so." When the Cardassian chuckles it sounds as smooth and rich as kava nut butter. Weyoun wants to roll in it. "Your landing gear is shot."
"Can you fix it?"
"Of course I can fix it. I can fix anything. We'll get you up and running in fifty-two hours."
"Thank you, Mr...?"
"Damar. Just Damar." The man holds out a hand and flashes a smile that makes Weyoun lose about 78% of his higher brain functioning for a hot second. "It's written on the door."
Damar's Shuttle Repair and Mechanical Services. He owns the garage. Weyoun reaches out and takes Damar's hand, shakes it. It's cool to the touch, scaled. Strong hands. Muscular. A firm grip. Blunt, short claws scrape lightly against Weyoun's skin.
"Weyoun," Weyoun says. "I'm Weyoun. I-- how much? Money. For the shuttle."
Weyoun feels 8 past selves groaning in pain at him.
"I'll call you with an estimate tonight." Damar pats the hull of the little ship. "She'll be alright."
I'm glad someone will, Weyoun thinks.
-
When Weyoun pokes his way into the hangar the next morning, Damar is halfway under the nose of Weyoun's shuttle. On his back, on some kind of rolling platform.
His legs - and in between them - are plainly visible.
Is it even legal to have thighs that thick?
"How are things going?" Weyoun asks. Damar hums.
"Superbly. I said fifty-two hours but turns out I had some parts lying around that fit this shuttle. Didn't have to order 'em in. I should be done by the end of the day."
"Then you won't mind if I loiter around the garage while you work?"
"I didn't say that." Damar slides out from beneath the shuttle and wipes grease off his hands, sitting up and regarding Weyoun with amusement. "You know the difference between a wrench and a hyper spanner?"
"I have over a hundred and fifty years of lived experience. I know more than you think."
"Really? You don't look it.”
“A hundred and fifty years old?”
“Knowledgeable."
"Pardon?"
Damar gives a lopsided smile, and Weyoun remembers the Cardassian tendency to tease and argue as flirtation.
Is he...?!
"I'll knock fifteen percent off your bill if you help out. If you insist on sticking around, anyway, you might as well make yourself useful."
"You're too kind, Mr. Damar."
"Just Damar." Damar leans back on his rolling platform and slides back under the shuttle. "So what brings a little Vorta like you out here?"
"I'm almost as tall as you are, Damar."
"Almost."
Weyoun ignores him. "I'm a--a social worker, of sorts. I help other Vorta settle into their new lives, now that we're... freed."
"Good for you. Government work, then? Hand me that microspanner, would you?"
"I suppose you could call it that. A lot of us have moved to this area of the quadrant." Weyoun crouches comfortably on the balls of his feet, grabs the microspanner and hands it to Damar. "I've done much work arranging work placements and education and living situations."
"Noble work. Your people have gotten a raw deal."
"Mm. What brings a Cardassian to settle in Federation space?"
"Now, now. I'm not quite in Federation space." He chuckles. "The truth is, I'm a mechanic. I wanted to set up shop in an accessible, central location. It's as simple as that."
-
As it turns out, Damar is a charming conversationalist. Weyoun hates it. It's disgusting that he's both incredibly handsome as well as alarmingly bright.
His shuttle is repaired within a few hours and Weyoun pays him, then he leaves in his shuttle and tries not to think about Damar.
Except he does, late that night, as he slides three fingers into himself and digs his teeth into the palm of his other hand to keep from shouting loud enough to embarrass himself in the quiet bunk as he comes.
-
He does the same thing the next night. And the night after. He's pretty sure he's going to rub his clit raw if he keeps going like this.
He needs to see Damar again.
-
"What seems to be the problem?" Damar asks. There's a dark smudge of oil on his cheek and he's still wearing a damned tank top.
"The inertial dampers are off," Weyoun says. "I'm getting odd rough patches."
"Huh," Damar says, "let's take a look." He jimmies a side panel of the shuttle open and stares at what he finds. "It looks like someone kicked the shit out of this," he says after a low whistle.
"How odd," Weyoun says, his foot sore. "Can you fix it?"
"Of course I can fix it. I've never met a ship I couldn't repair." He tilts his head and looks a little closer at the machinery. "She needs realignment at the very least."
I want you to realign my internal organs, Weyoun thinks. "When can it be done by?"
"I have an opening for you tomorrow at 1300 hours. We can get her fixed before 1700."
I have an opening for you whenever you want. Three, in fact.
-
Since the repair is on the shuttle's flank, Weyoun can see Damar working up close.
His hands are nimble. Dexterous. Weyoun tries not to be too terribly mesmerized.
"How'd you become a mechanic?" Weyoun is sitting on the cool concrete floor cross legged in a perfect rippleblossom position.
"I was a mechanical engineer for the State." Damar pauses his work to push a strand of hair out of his face. As he talks, he unties his hair and redoes his loosened ponytail. Weyoun is awestruck. "I was discharged after my wife left me. Bad optics, you see. For a family-oriented State."
Your ex-wife is an idiot. "Why did she leave?"
"You don't pull your punches, do you?" Damar sounds amused, not annoyed. "Are all Vorta so nosy?"
"I was engineered to be a diplomat. It's in my very DNA to be nosy, just as it's apparently in yours to leave smears of engine grease everywhere."
Damar casts a grin his direction. Cardassian flirtation is bizarre but Weyoun hopes he's doing a good job. "She left me for her best friend. Lovely woman." He shrugs and returns to the panel. "She offered to stay with me. See her lady love on the side, stay with me for the sake of my military career."
Maybe not an idiot, then. Just a lesbian. "You told her no."
"I told her no. It gave me an out. I was sick of dealing with warships and cruisers. Same shit day in and day out. It was all drafting and computer-aided design and--"
"You like to get your hands dirty."
"Mm. And I needed something less stressful than State work." He shrugs. "The pressure was killing me. Or, more accurately..." Weyoun watches as Damar screws a part into place.
"...The laughably pathetic amount of kanar I was drinking to try and cope with the pressure was killing me."
"Less pressure here?"
"If I make a mistake here, if I work slowly here and miss a deadline, all I get is an annoyed customer. I don't risk the lives of an entire squadron of good men."
"I can see how you were driven to drink," Weyoun murmurs. "Though I'm sure you could have found something less vile than kanar."
Damar chuckles. "So what about you, Weyoun?" There's a creaking noise as he bends a piece of thin metal into place. "Engineered to be a diplomat, huh? What's got you into social work?"
Somehow he hadn't expected Damar to ask about him. He's a tiny bit taken aback, but he recovers quickly, blinking. "It seemed natural. Helping my people join society is... well, I suppose it's still service to the Dominion, in a way. To its citizens, at least."
"You wanted to help people."
"I did."
"I've heard rumors about a Vorta being admitted to Starfleet Academy. You heard anything about that?"
Weyoun straightens, a smile curving his lips unbidden. "That's something of a point of pride. I did assist Eris fourth of her line, yes. She is set to graduate next year."
"Huh. Who'd have thought. I suppose you needed all the diplomacy you could muster in order to get a Vorta accepted."
"And to secure her Federation citizenship."
"Wow. Y'know," Damar says, "you'd be scary if you set your mind to something, Weyoun. I just know it."
"Why, Damar. Is that a compliment?"
"What do you think?"
Damar is smiling at him, and Weyoun feels filled with helium.
-
He manages to stay away for an entire week, this time.
-
"Something got caught in the impulse nacelle."
"You just have the worst luck," Damar laughs. "Let's take a look."
"I brought you coffee for your trouble. I hope you like rippleberry scones."
"Bribing me with food, you little jackal. I'll have you know you still have to pay for the repairs."
"I'm insulted that you think I'm intending to cheat you. If you don't want the scones and coffee--"
"No, no! I want them!"
Damar reaches for the basket containing the food and Weyoun yanks it out of his range. "Wash your hands first. And you call me an animal," he sniffs.
"Yes, dear," Damar rolls his eyes but does cross the shop to wash his hands in the large work sink.
-
One week and he's missing Damar again.
-
"The life support keeps throwing errors at me," Weyoun sighs.
"Huh," Damar says. "Let's take a look."
He steps into the shuttle and Weyoun follows. He slips a data rod into the center console and frowns at the readouts he gets.
"What is it?" Weyoun prompts.
"I'm not sure," Damar says. He walks to the back of the shuttle and uses his multitool to pry a panel off the wall. "Huh."
"Did you find the problem?"
"Uh-huh," Damar says, slowly. "Soup. Someone poured some kind of soup in the life support processor."
Weyoun does his best to gasp convincingly. "Soup?!"
"Or--these are beans. Baked beans. You've got beans in here." Damar's nose wrinkles and he looks over his shoulder at Weyoun. "You got any idea who put beans in your computer, Weyoun?"
I did it because I can't stop thinking about you, I want you to pile-drive me into the middle of next century, and I'm too much of a coward to just say it.
"No! I--perhaps this is my friend Keevan's idea of a practical joke. Transporting soup into my computer."
It's not the first time he's thrown Keevan into the proverbial warp drive and it won't be the last.
"You need to get better friends."
"You're right on that one."
Damar grimaces as he inspects the damage. "This whole thing needs replacing. You're getting errors because the system's working off its backup processor. This is the main one and it's..." He groans. "It's shot."
"How quickly can it be done?"
"I'm going to have to order several parts. It's going to be at least four days. Maybe more."
"Well, that's inconvenient. Ah, well, I suppose it can't be helped."
He hopes he doesn't sound too cheerful about it.
-
"It's only been a day," Damar calls across the garage when he sees Weyoun walk in, "your beaned life support isn't fixed yet."
"I assumed as much. Unfortunately I have little else to do and thought I'd drop by." He holds out an iced latte in a to-go cup. "For you."
"Still with the bribery? I won't say no." Damar takes the cup and drinks from it.
"I was at Spacebucks anyway, thought I might as well bring something for my favorite mechanic."
"Your favorite, huh? You know a lot of mechanics?" He sets the latte down and returns to what he'd been doing--apparently replacing the engine on some kind of overland hovercraft.
"Dozens. Hundreds, even."
"Now now, Weyoun. You're making me jealous."
"Good. That means you'll work harder to please me."
Damar's brow ridges jump upward just a touch, but he doesn't react otherwise. "So tell me about the Jem'hadar, now that they're freed. Do they have social workers too?"
"Oh, yes. The Jem'hadar have actually been quite varied in what they've each chosen to do. I spoke to one recently who has taken a job as a Dabo boy on a Bajoran space station."
"A Dabo boy?"
"He's quite happy! There's others who have gone into..."
-
"...and that's how Keevan lost his twelfth clone."
Damar is cackling. "Did nobody tell him that Klingons were rough?"
"I believe that was part of the appeal for him," Weyoun sighs. "His first words upon the activation of his ninth clone were 'worth it.'"
Damar laughs louder. "You Vorta have such an odd view on life. I wouldn't wanna die even if I had a clone waiting for me."
"Every cell in your body is replaced roughly every seven years," Weyoun says with a shrug. "You're already a clone of yourself. We Vorta just sped the process considerably."
"Hm. Still." Damar is still working on the engine he was fixing earlier. "I'm getting hungry," he grumbles. "I could use that scone you brought right about now."
"Then eat it."
"I can't. This engine lube is toxic."
Weyoun's brain briefly short-circuits at hearing Damar say the word 'lube.' "So take a break and wash your hands."
"No, I'm almost done. I'll eat it in... uh. An hour."
"You're ridiculous," Weyoun sighs, standing up from the floor and crossing the garage to take the paper bag containing the two large scones.
"What are you doing?" Damar watches as Weyoun removes one from the bag and breaks off a bite-sized chunk.
"Earning my fifteen percent discount. Open up."
Damar's pupils dilate to the size of small moons; his hands, indeed covered in toxic lube, are still touching the engine. But he obeys and opens his mouth.
His fingers flex as Weyoun drops the morsel on his tongue. He chews and swallows. "Thanks," he says, a little strained.
"Mm."
Weyoun feeds him the entire scone bite by bite as he works.
If he accidentally touches Damar's plush lips once or twice, well, that's nobody's business but his own.
-
In his dreams that night Damar sucks rippleberry jam off his fingers and then eats him out like a starving man at a Wadi buffet.
Then he turns into a Karemman tiger and flies away, but that's just how dreams are.
He suffers for exactly two and a half weeks, longing for the fun conversation, soft eyes, and enormous dick of the playful engineer-turned-mechanic.
Not that Weyoun has seen his dick, but he knows in his heart of hearts that it's huge.
-
"What the hell happened?!"
Damar is staring, arms akimbo, at the bedraggled shuttle before him.
Weyoun's poor little ship has seen a lot of abuse recently, but it's all for the greater good. The entire outside is pockmarked with little dents, awful little scrapes all over it. One of the engines is hanging loosely off the back of it. To top it all off, the transperisteel windshield has, concerningly, buckled inward.
"I flew through some kind of ion storm," Weyoun says. "It was terrible."
Damar stares some more. "What the fuck."
"I said I flew through some kind of storm and--"
Damar fixes him with a look that says no fucking way. "Either you have the worst luck in history," he says, "or someone's out to get you."
"Oh, no, I assure you--it's mere bad luck. Who would be out to get me?"
"Maybe that friend of yours that beaned your life support? Kevin?"
"Keevan. No, no, he's just mischievous, he'd never try to kill me. Honestly, Damar, I just made a mistake."
"It seems strange of you to make a mistake this severe." Damar looks at him askance. "You're smarter than that."
Weyoun tries not to preen too much at the indirect compliment; Damar thinks I'm smart?! "If you think you're not proficient enough to handle the job, just say so. I'm sure I can find another mechanic to fill my needs."
Confrontational. Rude. Flirty.
Damar's eyes burn and the scale on his forehead seems to flush the lightest shade of blue. Weyoun's words seem to be having the desired effect. "Of course I can fix it, you conniving little hound. But it's not gonna be cheap." He runs a hand through his hair. "I can tell you that right now."
"How much?"
He doesn't care if it's the most money anyone's ever spent on a lay. Unfortunately for Weyoun, he wants more from Damar than that, at this point. He doesn't just want to be fucked to within an inch of his numerous lives, he wants to take him out for dinner. To holofilms. He wants to learn how best to cuddle with an overgrown lizard.
He's seen romance done. He's even performed it a few times, gone through the motions for the Founders' will. More recently he's watched his Vorta peers find love, sometimes with each other, sometimes with members of another species.
He sees how happy they are, and he's never been jealous, never wanted it for his own.
At least not until this stupid damned grease lemur ruined his life just by being handsome and clever and thoughtful--
"I don't know exactly how much. That depends on how much is busted internally."
With me you can bust internally all you want, Weyoun thinks, unhelpfully. What he says instead is "Will the estimate be ready by tomorrow?"
"For you? Absolutely," Damar assures him, and he even has the audacity to risk sending Weyoun to the damned hospital by winking. "Actually. Come by around six."
"You close at five-thirty."
He shrugs. "I keep longer hours for Vorta who bring me coffee."
-
Weyoun rolls in at six on the dot, and he is dressed to kill. He's layered himself in gauzy fabrics that float just a little as he moves, his neckline very low to show off his neck and collar (the sexiest areas, by Cardassian standards, so Keevan assures him). The colors play off his lavender and purple coloring nicely - misty shades of blue that evoke the shade he saw coloring Damar's scales.
His sense of aesthetics is new, but he thinks he looks very nice, if a little overdressed for a trip to the mechanic.
Well, maybe underdressed.
The garage is still lit up when Weyoun steps through the doors, but Damar is nowhere to be seen. His ship is in the center of the workspace, wrecked as it is. "Damar?" Weyoun ventures, stepping further into the garage.
A back door opens up and Damar steps out. "So, there's good news and there's--" He pauses abruptly as he claps eyes on Weyoun, eyes flicking fast over his body before he coughs lightly and raises his gaze back up to Weyoun's. Weyoun is just about to ask about the good and bad news when Damar asks "Are you cold?"
"What?" Weyoun blinks several times. "Cold? Why--"
"I'd be freezing to death wearing something like that," Damar explains. "Do you need a jacket?"
Weyoun wants to scream. "No, thank you. I'm fine."
"Suit yourself." Damar moves across the floor to Weyoun's ship, leans against it. They're maybe two meters apart from each other now. "The good news is everything is fixable."
"And the bad news?"
"It won't be cheap. To fix everything and get her fully spaceworthy again..." Damar grimaces. "It's damn near half a brick of latinum. Ten bars for parts alone, unless something unexpected comes up and it's more. Throw on a bar and a half for labor and..."
Weyoun had known it would be expensive but he hadn't realized quite how much. He winces. "What about my discount?"
"That's already including your discount," Damar says, apologetic.
"I..."
Well, perhaps this can work in his favor.
"Damar..." He steps forward slowly. "I'm sure you can imagine that a social worker's salary is rather modest." Another measured step.
"I see," Damar replies, evenly, but the light-blue flush to his scales betrays his tone. "You deserve a raise."
"Yes, well. Whether or not I deserve it..." Closing the distance to half a meter now. "I just don't have half a brick of latinum, Damar."
"That's... a shame."
Weyoun goes in for the kill. He flutters his eyelashes and reaches out to trail his index finger along the neckline of Damar's tank top. "I'm sure there's... other ways I can pay for your services, mm?"
Without missing a beat, Damar says "We offer payment plans."
Eight lives. Eight lives of restraint. Eight lives of never showing his hand, of keeping his own thoughts tightly controlled. Eight lifetimes, and it all goes straight out the proverbial airlock.
Weyoun's coy, flirtatious manner drops like a rock on a Class-T planet. Frustration flashes like fire in his chest and he grips the front of Damar's tank top, shakes it.
"I want to have sex with you," he says, as plainly as he can because nothing else has worked, "what isn't clicking here?"
And then Damar has the audacity to grin. "Yeah," he says, "I know."
Weyoun's freighter of thought screams to full stop. "You know?"
"Yeah," Damar replies, tilting his head cockily, "I'm not stupid."
"H--" Weyoun splutters. "How long?!"
"Your second repair. Inertial dampers don't suffer damage like that unless it's on purpose, Weyoun. It looked like you took a hammer to it."
"A boot," his voice wavers. "Why--if you knew, why--why did you let me keep breaking my ship?"
He pulls his hand back from Damar's chest, but Damar catches his wrist, encircles it with strong, work-roughened fingers. Maintains eye contact as he lifts it to his lips and presses a sweet, small kiss to the soft inner wrist where purple veins are closest to the skin. Weyoun gasps sharply, rooted to the spot, transfixed; Damar keeps his wrist near his mouth while he speaks.
"I guess I wanted an excuse to keep seeing you as much as you wanted to keep seeing me." Weyoun can feel his breath on his inner wrist. It sends gooseflesh down his whole body.
Damar could have fucked him from the drop, and he knew it. He knew it the whole time. But he wanted to get to know him, wanted to spend time with him. Damar doesn't just want a one-night stand, he wants...
He wants what Weyoun wants.
"Oh," Weyoun breathes. His heart is pounding; he lays his palm on Damar's jaw, cradles it. Tips his face up, leans in, presses his lips to Damar's.
He's kissed people before, acted out romance in the name of the Dominion, but it's never felt like this. Damar's mouth is soft and yielding and Weyoun can feel him smiling. Damar's hands alight at Weyoun's waist, pulling him closer. He can't get drunk, but he wonders if it feels like this; like oxygen leaving his brain, like bright electrical impulses firing through each nerve, like he can't think, like he's a creature of instinct searching helplessly for more of what makes him feel good.
The kiss ends and Weyoun is breathing hard and blinking, dazed, and Damar smiles at him in the most smug, pleased way imaginable. "You want to come back to my place?" Weyoun asks.
"Your place?"
Weyoun slams on the panel outside the shuttle and the door slides open. "My place is right here." He walks backward to step inside the shuttle, pulling Damar in by the hands.
"You don't have a home?"
"I have a bed, isn't that enough?"
Damar visibly rolls the thought around his brain. "It's enough for now, but we're gonna circle back around to--"
"Later. Later, Damar."
"I can't help wanting to take care of you," he replies, a little indignant and a little breathless as he watches Weyoun slide the first of the silks off his shoulders.
"Then take care of me," Weyoun purrs.
Damar's hands smooth across Weyoun's bare collarbones and shoulders, eyes roving over them. "You planned for this," he accuses, dipping down to kiss Weyoun's neck as he backs him closer to the bed in the back of the shuttle. He nibbles just a little at the crook of his neck and shoulder, where his neck ridges would be if he was a Cardassian, and Weyoun smiles and trails his fingers over the exact same spot on Damar. It gets the correct response, Damar shivering and moaning low in his throat.
"Of course I planned for this. I don't normally dress like a harlot." His other hand tugs at the hem of Damar's tank top, pushing it upward. Damar obediently raises his arms so Weyoun can tug the offending garment over his head and throw it aside.
"Did you really think I'd take your body as payment?"
His eyes rove over Damar's body. He's--oh, he's lovely. Muscular and strong but not overly defined. Soft around the edges. Sturdy and just a little plush. He watches his own fingers sink into Damar's waist. "Of course not. I thought maybe if I was obvious enough you'd catch on."
"Because beans in your computer wasn't obvious enough." Damar unties more of Weyoun's silks, lets them fall away.
"Desperate times, desperate measures," Weyoun gasps as one of Damar's thumbs swipes across a nipple, retaliates by dipping his head down to suck at that sensitive, slowly bluing scale at Damar's neck. "Take off your pants, Damar."
"Corat," Damar says, "my first name is Corat, and I'll take off my pants when I feel like it."
Weyoun squeaks as Damar pushes him onto the bed and knocks his knees apart and then he's settled between his legs and pressing kisses to Weyoun's inner thighs. "Corat," Weyoun repeats, propping himself up on one of his elbows to watch, his other hand sliding down to Damar's hair, working his fingers through the strands held into a ponytail. "You don't need to fool around with this. Haven't we waited enough? Fuck me, Corat, I want your cock."
"My cock?" Damar chuckles, easing down Weyoun's underwear and tossing them aside. "As if I only have the one?"
"You what?! Damar--!"
Damar winks and instead of explaining he slides his tongue firmly between the folds of Weyoun's pussy. It's so warm and wet and Weyoun gasps, legs tensing. He feels Damar chuckle and push his knees further apart, licking up him over and over from his hole up to his clit. "You're so soft," Damar groans against his cunt, "you taste so good."
"Nghk," Weyoun replies, and frankly he deserves an award for managing even that much articulation. Damar seals his lips over the swollen bud of his clit and works his tongue rhythmically across it again and again and Weyoun falls back against the bed, bites the meat of his palm to keep from shouting.
And then it turns out that Damar is exactly as good with his hands as it looks while he's working, because two fingers are sliding up into him and he isn't thrusting, just stroking inside, curling and uncurling over and over, and Weyoun helplessly grabs at Damar's hair, at the sheets; his legs tremble, he squirms up against Damar's mouth, down against his hand. "Corat," he moans, "I--I--"
Damar lifts his head, fingers still working inside him. He looks so pleased, his cheeks and forehead scale flushed blue. "Yes?"
"I--I'm going to come if you keep going." He swallows. "I want to come on your cock."
"You will," Damar assures him. "Why not like this, too?"
"Damar. Corat, please."
Damar sighs, pulls his fingers away, leans back down to give one last lingering kiss to Weyoun's pussy, affectionate. Weyoun whimpers with it, then Damar is withdrawing and Weyoun sits up to watch as Damar undoes his work pants.
"Do you really have more than one?" Weyoun asks, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.
"See for yourself," Damar chuckles, sliding his trousers down. The front of his underwear strains and Weyoun scrambles gracelessly closer to hook his fingers in the waistband and tug them down.
Oh, Founders and all their glory, he really does have two. Blue, slick, tapered and curved, stacked atop each other. The upper one is larger, almost unmanageable, and the lower seems to be just the right size. They emerge from his body, from what looks like a wet cunt similar to Weyoun's but scaled; he reaches out to touch, to feel the edges of it where it stretches around Damar's cocks. Damar hisses, and Weyoun smiles, feels the scales with his fingertips. They're incredibly smooth and warm, like river rocks polished by time and warmed by the sun.
Experimentally he wraps a hand around each cock and strokes, lightly. Damar's hips twitch and he moans. "Which one do you want to fuck me with?" Weyoun asks, damn near eye level with them.
"The--the lower one is more sensitive," he says, and Weyoun hums.
"Is that so?" He leans closer to examine them and flicks his tongue across the tip of Damar's lower cock.
"Weyoun!"
Weyoun smirks and pulls back to lie against the bed, beckoning Damar to follow. He does, of course, crawling up Weyoun's body to kiss him firmly.
Weyoun's sense of taste is as new as his eyesight and his sense of aesthetics. There's a sweet, earthy flavor on Damar's tongue. Is that... is that him? He doesn't know why that should be hot, but it is, and Weyoun groans. "Enough waiting. Fuck me, Damar."
"Yes, dear," Damar replies, a mirror of the sarcastic way he'd said it several weeks back but this time it seems a little more genuine, a little more sincere. Weyoun wraps his legs around Damar's waist, cants his hips up, reaches down to grasp Damar's lower cock and guide it to rest against his hole.
"Fuck me," Weyoun urges, and Damar kisses him again as he pushes forward, sliding inside Weyoun's cunt and stretching him. It makes him feel full, he can feel his body wrapped around Damar, can feel the hot length of his cock all the way up to his heart. It's so slick as to be near frictionless when Damar starts to move, gently forcing him open again and again, pressing and rubbing against places inside him that he hardly knew existed. He clings to Damar, claws at his back.
"So soft," Damar manages, looking down at Weyoun in something approaching shock or wonder, like he can't believe what he's feeling. "So good, Weyoun."
"T-the feeling," Weyoun gasps out, rocking to meet Damar's motions, "is mutual."
Damar smiles, open-mouthed and delighted and Weyoun can't keep from smiling back; Damar drops lower, pressing their bodies together from hips to chest and resting his forehead against Weyoun's. He can feel that scale pressing into him and he nuzzles against it; Damar moans, starts rocking into him again.
This time his upper cock is sliding up against the outside of Weyoun's cunt, pressed between Weyoun and his own stomach. It's unyielding as it grinds and slips against Weyoun's hard clit every time Damar's hips shove his cock inside.
Weyoun wraps his arms around Damar, clings to him like a lemur, quakes like a leaf. "I really like you," he manages between moans, craning his neck up to press a kiss to the center of Damar's forehead, right in that blue, blue, blue scale.
Damar lets out a shuddering breath, moving against him in little grinding motions. "I really like you too," he rasps, just above a whisper. He takes hold of one of Weyoun's knees, pushes it upward and he can push even deeper, and fire builds in Weyoun's stomach, delicious smoke curling through his whole body, every one of his muscles is coiling up and tensing.
"I'm going to come," he moans, "Corat, faster, please, I'm gonna come--"
Damar obeys him and Weyoun howls, struggles to breathe, digs his nails into Damar's back; his entire body tenses with orgasm, making Damar feel even bigger inside him. The clenching of him brings Damar over as well; Weyoun can feel his upper cock jerking and twitching and spilling hot liquid across his stomach as he comes inside him as well.
He's pretty sure he loses consciousness for a split second, or maybe he astrally projects to a different dimension, or maybe he dies, like other species are allowed to do, and witnesses the beautiful, beautiful afterlife.
Damar collapses onto him.
In the past, the few times Weyoun has done this kind of thing, this has been his least favorite part. He never understood what lovers meant when they talked about 'afterglow.' He always fought back disgust at being part of a sweaty, quivering pile of flesh.
But as Damar nestles into his neck and kisses his jaw, noses against the ridges of his ear, he decides that being part of a sweaty, quivering pile of flesh is good sometimes, actually.
-
Damar has a shower in the back of the garage.
"I don't want to drive home covered in grease," he says by way of explanation as he leads Weyoun, stark naked and covered in jizz, through the garage toward the back room.
"Understandable," Weyoun replies.
The shower is almost more intimate than the actual sex was. He only realizes he's shaking when Damar asks if he's all right. He has to reply that nobody's ever washed his hair before, and the look Damar gives him makes him think that maybe, just maybe, he's had a difficult life.
"I don't want to send you back to your motel tonight," Damar says as they towel off.
"It's quite all right. Don't feel obligated to--"
"I didn't say I feel obligated to be with you tonight, I said I don't want to send you back to your motel."
"I... don't want that, either."
"Good." Damar tosses Weyoun a change of clothes; drawstring pajama pants and a t-shirt emblazoned with Damar's Garage. "You want to order dinner?"
"Dinner?"
"It's only--what, seven?" Damar raises his brow ridges. "C'mon. I'll buy."
Weyoun has a soft spot for pizza, which he discovered on Earth while helping Eris fourth of her line with her Starfleet application. "You don't need to buy. I've got it." He reaches for the nearest PADD. "I hope you like pineapple."
"What the hell is a pineapple?"
Weyoun smiles.
-
They end up at Damar's apartment that night.
"I meant what I said," Weyoun says, curled up into Damar's side. "I do really like you. Romantically," he clarifies.
"I like you romantically too," Damar chuckles.
A long moment passes in the dark, comfortable and warm.
"You know," Damar says, "I'm still going to make you pay for the repairs."
"Don't bother. I'll buy a new shuttle."
"I thought you didn't have any money," Damar accuses.
"Of course I have money," Weyoun huffs. "I'm a social worker, not a pauper."
"You manipulative little jackal!"
"At your service," Weyoun purrs. A pause. "I admit, I know precious little about purchasing shuttles. Would you be willing to help?"
"Perhaps if you find some way to pay me for my services." Weyoun can hear the teasing in Damar's tone. "No, of course I'm willing. After all, I'm your boyfriend," the teasing turns to uncertainty, "aren't I?"
The word makes Weyoun feel warm. "I've never had one of those before. But--yes. Yes, I believe you are."