Genesislash

So the book is a baby book I picked up at Goodwill to repurpose for all my wonderful mpreg/omegaverse goodness. I ripped out some pages, glued them, then printed the fic to go along with my collages for them. SO time consuming, this took me days. I left some pages I found interesting/relevant from the original book. Some collages go with the fic (if they're directly before the words), the rest are just baby/pregnancy themed.

The challenge was given to me by my bff. I included the bingo board she made me inside, and I *did* complete the challenge (whooo!), getting a diagonal bingo using the free space. I wrote and created everything in the month of May.

Anywayyyyy, this was fun! Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to be my weird self and see this through. 💗💗💗 I know omegaverse and lactation and pregnancy aren't everyone's cup of tea, but this brought me great joy.

Here's the collage stills:

I’m in town.

Hurriedly hissed into the phone. No hello, no goodbye. I’m in town. Implication clear. Steve was to meet him in his hotel room, wait for him, at his leisure, like a prostitute. On call lover. All he’d have to do, really, was give his name to the front desk attendant and he’d be given a key. Steve would wait on the bed for some quick, dirty fuck, undoubtedly aggressive from pent up stress, then be sent on his merry way. Worse than a prostitute, he wouldn’t be paid anything. 

Should he debase himself so blatantly? It’s been nearly eight months since he last saw Tony (he’s kept count). What good would come from this indulgence? Steve isn’t wanting for sex. Steve has his own lovers, girls, he’s not in need of some empty fuck. Contrary to his opinion, Steve does not live to serve Tony. Having severed ties with the band, he freed himself from that life and those commitments. So why is he considering going?

His fingers twitch as his sides. He paces the hallway of his flat, restlessly. Pros: updated gossip on the band, mini bar liquor, good sex. Cons: losing his self-respect and months of carefully reinforced will. 

Steve snatches his keys from the hook and shoulders out the door.

It’s drizzly outside in the frigid night air. Steve pulls his coat tighter around himself and trudges through puddles to the tube. It’s a quick ride to the district the venue is in. He half runs to the hotel, past a sea of faces on the busy street, hoping not to be recognized, feeling stupid he considered it. He keeps his voice low when speaking with the desk person. “Steve Hackett” gets him a brass key with the tag 1601. He rides the lift to the sixteenth floor in silence. Halfway up, the initial adrenaline wears off and regret begins to seep into his bloodstream, replacing it. But no turning back now. Right?

Steve helps himself to the vodka in the minibar. He charges dinner service to the room. Fuck Tony. One hour passes, two, three. Sleep must have taken him, because Steve abruptly wakes to the sound of the door unlocking. Groggy, he sits up and checks the bedside clock: 12:34. 

He rubs his eyes. Something off about sleeping under bright, fluorescent light. His dreaminess helps cushion the shock of seeing Tony, though. His former– current– forever lover. Steve wets his lips and stares. 

Tony’s as beautiful as he remembers. Dark curls spilling onto his shoulders, expression pinched, lips a firm line. No smile, no cheery “hello, thank you for coming (and waiting) so last minute.” He stares right back, his eyes so cool, darting in miniscule movements, reading Steve like a book. Makes him squirm. He’s already semi-erect.

“Hi,” Steve murmurs. 

“You came.” So obvious, so impersonal, but Steve shivers with the recognition of Tony’s voice, as if he lit a match and set Steve’s veins on fire. Better in person than through a telephone line. 

“Yeah. You called.” A bit of satisfaction at managing to tease him in return. 

Tony doesn’t answer. Tony strides across the room, cups Steve’s jaw in his hands (warm hands) and kisses him deeply. Steve gasps against Tony’s lips, which allows Tony to take advantage and slip inside. His hands fly up to hook fingers in Tony’s beltloops. He allows himself to be pulled into each heated kiss, for his hair to be fisted, and for Tony to shove apart and stand between his knees. 

It feels like home, like slipping into bed after a long day, achingly familiar. Steve cannot deny that no one has ever made him feel so energized, so lusty. He can’t help his touch drifting to Tony’s hips, squeezing, and travelling lower, down to grope his ass. A surprise to hear Tony’s sharp moan, when usually he’s so reserved. And does Steve taste bitter alcohol? When Tony pushes him back and crawls in his lap, his question is answered. 

“You’ve been drinking,” Steve breathes when Tony kisses along his throat. 

“So have you.”

Hardly comparable, but Steve doesn’t correct. He feels lively, he feels buzzed, and he’s bold enough to slip hands past Tony’s waistband. Tony grinds onto him. He suctions his mouth on Steve’s neck and suckles a mark (on a very conspicuous place).

They undress in a flurry of limbs and huffed breaths. Pale flesh exposed inch by inch, chests heaving, kisses leaving them breathless. Tony thrusts a tube of lubricant in Steve’s hands and watches him coat his fingers liberally. His eyebrows are furrowed together, looking like an instructor ready to give bad marks. Steve’s hand definitely doesn't tremble when he lowers it between his own legs. But he’s stopped. Tony’s fingers circle his wrist, then he’s dragged lower and pressed against Tony’s hole. 

“What?” Steve blinks. He doesn’t dare move.

“Need this,” the first real dip into raw emotion. Tony’s voice cracks, the ‘s’ sound trails off, but he rapidly schools himself again with straightened posture and a delicate sniff. “Just do it.”

Obedient, Steve nods, once, and gently pushes a slick index finger inside. They both groan, both shiver in place when Steve starts a rhythm. Tony’s hair falls forward and obscures his face when he drops to watch (judge) Steve penetrating him. Such a rare treat, Steve feels out of depth. He wonders what’s affected Tony to the point of allowing such a breach to his hard shell, but resigns himself to the fact he’ll never know. 

They switch positions on the springy hotel mattress. Tony nestles into the warm sheets, his naked skin so human so alive against the stark white of the sheets, and he closes his eyes when Steve spreads his thighs apart. When Steve enters him, nice and slow, Tony’s eyes squeeze, little lines crease his clear skin, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

“Fuck,” he curses, “Steve.”

So wonderful to hear his name from Tony’s lips. Combined with the heat pressing down around him, Steve might be finished before he really started. Still, he thrusts deep, careful at first, but quickening when Tony claws at his back. 

“Faster,” he commands, “harder, harder.”

Their hips slam, and it would be uncomfortable if he weren’t so aroused. He drives into Tony. He pants, and fists the sheets, and groans. “Tony.”

Only here, in his embrace, can he admit how much he misses Tony. The only connection that’s ever felt right, that fuels such molten passion inside him. Steve’s so taken, so wrapped in emotion, he doesn’t realize that he’s sniffling– crying? Only… he’s not. 

Ice flushes the fire from his blood when he sees it’s Tony gently weeping beneath him. His glossy eyes and wobbly mouth. What is happening?

“Tony–”

“Don’t,” he snaps, “keep going.”

Steve fucks, but with a new sense of trepidation curbing the intensity of his movements. He desperately wants to comfort Tony, but knows he’ll be rebuffed. His heart pumps painfully. His testicles ache. He’s somehow closer to orgasm, just at the precipice. Tony must sense it, because he begins to jerk himself with careful flicks of his wrist. Like every other time, they spill together. Mutual disintegration. Falling to pieces in each other's arms. And Steve feels the weight of it all press down upon his back. What have they reopened? What wounds made fresh?

Tony allows Steve to wipe his warm-cold cheeks. Salty wetness has leaked past his temples. The curls there are damp when Steve strokes (reverent) fingers through the strands. He’d come to this hotel room with the intention of being haughty and judgemental, “need a lazy fuck?”, “couldn’t get anyone else?”, but Tony’s tenderness stripped his defenses. He’s flayed raw and weak. 

Instead he asks, “wanna cigarette?”

Tony shakes his head. “Quit.”

“Yeah.” Steve knew this, but offered anyway. He pulls up trousers over his naked and soiled lower half, then cracks a window. Thick, cold air pulls him, somewhat, from his apprehension. 

He watches Tony watch him. Figures he won’t say anything about the tears. Were they for love? For guilt? Something in between? Maybe ignorance would be bliss. 

“I missed you,” they suddenly say, perfectly in sync. And that’s all Steve needed. His throat tightens. He gives a hesitant smile.