RESIST TODAY. RESIST TOMORROW.

affiliated with @constablegoo & @tongowheel​

[ option 1: time travel? ] becos this happens all the effing time in star trek with barely any explanation haha some sort of. wormhole time anomaly bajoran orb what have you. drops a nondescript cardassian freighter called groumall (the one dukat and damar are on) back in time circa 2250s and the enterprise is first on da scene. interesting idea because then damar is familiar with humans at this point + the federation but the fed would have no idea what he is 

[ option 2: wormhole? ] au where damar is just born way earlier, enough to be an adult in 2250, and whatever ship he’s on just fucks through a wormhole and drops him into federation space in the alpha quadrant. contact with enterprise. then it’s really first contact because it’s the first time the federation and cardassians encounter each other. Im sure damar will say something mean 

Odo whips the arm down to plant a concrete palm on Damar’s chest. “Not. so. fast,” he growls through grit teeth. Now, unmistakably, the changeling was not this tall yesterday. “If you want to continue to play at this venue, then I suggest you listen very carefully, because I have had just about enough of your inane bullshit,” he continues, pressing the current crown prince hopeful of Dominion Records squarely back into the room. “Quark has put his neck out for you here on more than one occasion, hell, dozens of times you aren’t even aware of, and the very least you could do is try to act like you appreciate it. I saw you last night…” he pulls his hand away, but remains looming at large. “Drinking,” he spits the word, “getting wasted on a day already wasted away; it’s whatever you can do just to get through, isn’t it? Shut the shades on anything else.” Odo finally cuts the restraints on condescension, soaking each word in it as he goes on, nearly laughing, “you don’t really care about the music, or maybe you think you do, but you can’t pull it together long enough to see what’s around you– funny, really,” he jabs Damar in the chest with a finger like a metal rod, “you should have the nerve to say anything when you expect the world to serve a miserable, self-pitying has-been who can’t even begin to handle a second shot, and believe me, I have seen your kind before. You’re just another dried-up leech on a hot dock, and if you so much as put another sneeze on my carpet… I will make you pay.”

He stands unnaturally still and silent, a glaring wall. “Are we understood?”

     HE’S INITIALLY humiliated that his first instinct is to tattle to a higher power -- wait ‘til I tell my manager almost ekes past his clenched teeth, but luckily, nothing makes it through that venomous scowl. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to handle someone playing the tough guy -- it’s moreso that he doesn’t know how to handle these things while maintaining his reputation, since his usual tactic of swinging first and hoping he punches hard enough likely won’t work. 

     AND FOR all Odo might think that life’s a gas down on Planet Corat, he’s off-kilter enough for the words weigh heavy on his conscience, an added layer of doom and gloom to his already rather bitter outlook on his “success,” or lack thereof. He simmers -- that scowl pulls back further, the barest hint of teeth like he’s right on the precipice, a final straw atop a pile of broken guitars, nagging managers, obsessive fans and venue security.

AN IRON ARM blocks his way; Odo has decided at the last moment to grip the edge of the doorframe. He draws himself up in the same movement, looking down his nose at the rockstar with clear and icy contempt. “I am not,” he enunciates roughly, “your chaperone. You’ll clean it up, or you’ll pay for damages. Those are your options.”

The changeling is never the face of Quark’s, preferring to vanish instead into the woodwork of the place until trouble arises. It’s no wonder they’ve exchanged so few words, and it’s no wonder, really, when Odo is assumed the custodian when the crowds have gone – he has managed, even after so many years, to remain something of an unturned stone, silent but watching.

He smiles, patronizing. “Where was it you were planning to go, exactly?”

     ❝ THINK YOU’RE really something, don’t you, man ? ❞ it comes out with the kind of conceited, bitter vanity that Damar only exhibits when he’s forced to use it as a last resort. But he’d much rather be remembered as a uniquely selfish asshole than stoop to cleaning his mess by himself. His yellow eyes narrow -- he swears Odo wasn’t this tall yesterday. The Cardassian straightens to his full height, giving a disinterested, harsh sniff as he stares back with equal contempt, a persistent lock of dark hair falling in his face. 

     ❝ FINE THEN. I’ll pay up. Yeah, okay, I’ll pay up. You can make the bill out to Mister Weyoun, and you be sure to add a nice tip on it for yourself and your troubles. That’s W - E - Y - O - something, something, whatever. ❞ He can’t recall how Weyoun spells his foul little name nor does he care to.

     ❝ SO THIS is it ? ❞

     IT’S THE natural cadence of his voice that makes him sound so outright annoyed. He doesn’t mean to insinuate that his quarters are, in any way, subpar, nor is he trying to insult the condition of Nog’s ship. 

     DAMAR’S HAD his fair share of lackluster accommodations on the Groumall, where he had the pleasure of sleeping -- for months on end -- in a miserable Klingon bunk stacked four to the wall with other equally uncomfortable soldiers. And he’s whet his tongue on just enough luxury to grow weary of excess, shuddering at the over-indulgent, pathetically lavish private quarters that the Dominion so often tried to tempt him with when he’d first taken Dukat’s position. Somehow, the quaint comforts afforded by the Federation paired with the utilitarian simplicity of it all makes these quarters impeccably well suited to him. 

     HE HEARS the door chime, and he makes a conscious decision to ignore it.

     CARDASSIAN AUDITORY abilities cannot contend with a Vorta’s, or a Bajoran’s, or even a human’s -- but even with his limited hearing, it is very loud, and it’s been ringing nonstop for the better part of the last ten minutes. But with enough persistence, Damar maintains his stiff, brooding stoicism and ignores it, just like he manages to ignore almost everything else. 

     THIS IS a skill he’s cultivated over time, and despite that rebellious streak everyone seems desperate to imbue him with, the Legate is actually remarkably talented at keeping his head down and maintaining the status quo whenever possible. His jaw tightens; the tendons arch from his hand -- a brief lapse in his composure, and he continues to pour his evening cup of tea.

     RED LEAF tea is his drink of choice now that he’s well on his way to cultivating healthier habits. Halfway down the path of being a somewhat decent man, opening that door and cutting the sutures of his past mistakes would only re-open old wounds that he’s content to let scar over. He has to look forward; Cardassia needs him at the helm. He can’t afford to look back, to undo his progress -- more than that, he can’t bear to have difficult conversations without some liquid courage, and he can’t return to the temptation of old habits now. 

     ❝ SOMEONE NEEDS to clean this up. ❞

     THE UNSPOKEN last part of the phrase is: and that someone, obviously, isn’t going to be me. 

☆ FREAK OUT / FAR OUT !     70s AU -> [ dominion records ]  tl;dr : late 60s + early 70s rockstar AU with d.amar as an up and coming rockstar working under the label dominion records 

if you want to goof off in this AU with me, feel free. im cringe.

more under cut

A LAUGH dances from the Vorta’s throat, and his eyes shine with it.  “ Oh, this is what I find so fascinating about you, Corat Damar! ”  He curls his hands into the Legate’s, frail, sly things slipping unafraid under the power of a leader of Cardassia.  “ Always the pessimist! And such blind confidence! How gratifying it is to know that in your final hours, it will be me comforting your thoughts by taking the blame. ”

Weyoun knows his own power; it was divined to him. It’s the reason he can look so fond and feel so insidious, the reason he can slide his hand from the Legate’s now, and smooth it up to direct Damar’s gaze with no more than the lightest touch.

“ But I’m afraid I can’t afford you that comfort, as my information is sound, ”  he continues, equally light,  “ and you will see me again. Whatever faith in me you lack, this time I will prevail. We both will. There is no acceptable alternative, not for the Dominion, not for Cardassia… ”

Weyoun’s smile turns bright, formal.  “ And not for you. ”

     ❝ IT’S ‘CAUSE it’s always your fault these things happen in the first place, ❞ he says gruffly, the words abrasive in his low, hoarse baritone. But despite his brute stoicism, the powdery remnants of that blue-gray flush along his cheekbones persists, flinching at the sound of his given name in Weyoun’s posh, plastic little voice. Weyoun has always had a way with words, both sharp and silver tongued -- they get to him, perplex and captivate and infuriate him, flaying under his skin and scales with an almost surgical precision. In this way, with that serpentine, insidious charisma, Weyoun has always seemed almost more Cardassian than he is ( the thought is banished as soon as it’s entertained -- Weyoun might be a good talker, but he’s still a sniveling Vorta coward through and through ). 

     DAMAR STRUGGLES to look him in the eye as if forcing himself to stare into the blinding sun. Their pupils meet, repellant like magnets, before he feels his own constrict into needle-thin slits and the ex-Legate snatches his gaze back, lips thinning.