TITLE: "Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind" AUTHOR: Sarah Rasher (mosca6@mailcity.com) SERIES: DS9 SECTION: 1/1 RATING: NC-17 CODES: G/B, PWP SUMMARY: Zeborah and I were speculating a few months ago about how the residents of DS9 would react to a power failure. This is what I came up with. DISCLAIMER: Paramount still owns them, unfortunately. I just allow them to realize their full potential. ARCHIVING: ASC/EM archive, please. Others should ask permission, which I'm very unlikely to refuse if you ask nice. Feedback: Please, especially if it's constructive. Much love to the Fitchett sisters, Zeborah and Sasscat, for making me write this, then making me post it. You're the best beta readers a kid could have. ****** Garak sat in his tailor shop on a Tuesday morning, hemming trousers and thinking about how good Julian Bashir would look in them. Come to think of it, Julian would look good in just about anything... Garak eyed the velvet minidress hanging on one of his mannequins, imagining the way the narrow straps would rest on the doctor's well-developed shoulders. But Julian was involved with some girl from the Bajoran militia, and Garak was losing hope. So Garak was duly surprised when he saw Julian, arms crossed, smiling and self-satisfied, standing over the sewing table, a pair of dark-green casual pants draped over one muscular shoulder. Seeing Garak look up, the doctor said, "I'd like a pair of pants shortened and hemmed, please." Garak eyed the tall man quizzically. "Shortened?" "I bought them on a Klingon space station while the Defiant was getting repaired, two weeks ago. They seemed fine in the store, but I put them on this morning, and they're comfortable at the waist, but the legs are long enough to trip over." "Certainly," Garak replied, looking down so as to avoid gazing. "They ought to be ready by--" The station gave a terrific lurch, followed by the portentous whine of a power drain. The lights flickered out, and the station quaked again; the next think Garak knew, Julian was flying across the sewing table, knocking him out of his chair and landing them both in a bruised heap on the floor. The tailor shop had no windows, and lacking even starlight, it was completely dark. "Are you all right?" Julian and Garak asked one another, nearly in unison, laughing. "Fine." They tried to peel themselves off of the floor, but without the benefit of light, and with the furniture and fabric strewn everywhere, they just kept falling down again, tangling themselves further and further. Finally, caught one on top of the other in the middle of a pile of clothing, they gave up. The station lurched again, shoving Julian's face forward into Garak's. "Sometimes I wonder," he mused. "What?" "If the Prophets are trying to tell us something." The station seemed to nod in encouragement. "Tell us what, dear doctor?" Julian answered him with a kiss, and as they groped blindly for each other's mouths, they began to rise from the floor. "Gravity's off-line," Julian muttered, throwing Garak's shirt into the blackness. The rest of their clothing, with some awkwardness, followed, floating away like ashes. Garak found Julian's shoulders, caressed them with his hands and his mouth: deltoids, trapezius, then pectorals. He discovered with his tongue that human males had nipples and that Julian's were now hard and tender. Julian moaned when he bit one gently, pressing his knuckles into the sweet nerves at the bases of Garak's neck ridges hard enough to send the Cardassian reeling across the room. As Garak lowered his head to taste Julian's navel, and the trickle of hair that connected it to his groin, Julian yelped and bucked backward, squeezing his knees hard around Garak. "Sorry," he said, "I think I hit my head against a mannequin." "You... all right?" Garak sputtered, a little dizzy with arousal. "Sure... you know, I've never seen you this quiet." "I'm concentrating." And with that, he took Julian's penis into his mouth, slightly at first, but pushing back and forth with tongue and lips to take more and more in until he found himself-- Crashing to the wrecked floor of his tailor shop, with the lights flickering on. He pulled away from his lover just long enough to moan "computer, lock doors," and carried on. The End *** Mosca "People are not going to dream of baboons and periwinkles." -- Wallace Stevens