By Wolf

Disclaimer: The auther does not own the characters from Hercules: the Legendary Journeys. Those characters belong to MCA/Universal and were used without permission. No copyright infringement intended and no money was made.

I don't think answers to list challenges have dedications, by rule. But, I need to do so here. Though I eagerly responded affirmatively to Valentin and Nephele's first gambit, I did so with enormous trepidations.

A prose writer, I am not.

But, with more love and support than I deserve from two writers whose work I admire passionately, I present 'Genesis' for your perusal.

It is dedicated with all the love and respect I possess to Rudy and Valentin.

All Hercules wanted was to exhaust Iolaus. For in that exhaustion he could savor his lover's delight, could relish Iolaus' unfettered release of passion as if from Olympus or the banks of some river, dimly remembered. Hercules wanted nothing more than to gift the hunter with wild sensation and satiation, and kerneled in that gift would be the deepest satisfaction the demigod had ever known.

As Iolaus writhed beneath his rough attentions, the hunter's legs a vise of agony, of ecstasy about his waist, his lover's tangle of gilded hair, dampened and curling with his body's salty anoitments, Hercules' carnal-heightened senses transfixed on the mystery of Iolaus' face.

Not that he didn't know every line, every pore, every dip and satin curve, but that was not the face his lover wore now. Now, Iolaus' face was more impenetrable than the face of any stranger, withholding a multitude of blessed secrets.

Strangers faces held no secrets for Hercules, as he had no emotional investment in them. But the face of his love, his life, this face, would now and forever be a constant landscape of surprise precisely because in Iolaus, Hercules invested all that he was. All that he'd ever be.

Glistening and ripe, Hercules thrust his thickened sex deeper into its burning sanctuary, his own hands steepled firmly about the hunter's rigid, throbbing penis, like a requiem. Like a prayer. Pumping. Milking. Divinations of rapture.

Iolaus' body undulated and arched as a distant void expanded and roiled toward them both. Its silky, black emptiness calling to them in a language unknown, unknowable, until now.

The hunter moaned and Hercules answered with his own grating, primal sound, his hand relishing the steely weight of Iolaus' cock until tiny pearly droplets kissed his skin; tears of his lover's joy.

Iolaus was open to him as never before and Hercules felt stirrings new and terrifying. It was as if, with each constricting slide in and driving withdrawal out of his lover's darkened portal, Hercules was traveling some new and savage terrain, looking for danger's source hidden just beyond the golden, dripping, foliage.

The hunter's hand unexpectedly joined Hercules' in the rhythm of his own release. Flesh on flesh like fire. Like ice. And Iolaus didn't know whether his body was moving or not; Hercules' body was so nearly his. No beginnings or endings. No boundaries of flesh or of souls.

Iolaus tightened his thighs about his lover's waist, trying to bring Hercules closer, but also trying to push him away, to forever suspend this moment in time.

Thunder resounded through Hercules' body as he coveted Iolaus' juice-slicked cock, like coveting his own heart, and knew the tide was upon them. With greedy wanting, Iolaus unexpectedly opened his legs, spreading them wide as Hercules grasped the perfect, hardened orbs of his ass in one grateful hand, lifting him, the other still possessing, stroking the hunter's heavy sex, hot and weeping, then finally bursting, baptizing his lover, anointing his own skin.

Spurred by Iolaus' release, Hercules' cock thrust hard, trying desperately to reach the heart of the hunter and bath it with his own offering.

Their bodies shuddered, their souls permanently worn each by the other now...

... and Cupid knew he'd been right.

The air shimmered and glowed, light unfolding in a surreal haze, and suddenly, Hercules and Iolaus vanished to lie where their night had begun; in a satiated tangle, slumbering within the hunter's forge, atop his lust-ravaged bedding.

Cupid approached the now empty foundation of their union, an altar really, in this his most sacred temple, and dipped a finger in the tiny luminescent, pool of milky liquid there; a combining of the lovers' seed.

At his touch the altar transformed into a tub of gold and deeply burnished bronze. Cupid held his finger within the satiny liquid, undisturbed by the bed's metamorphosis.

Once completed, the gilded, elegant basin multiplied the small pool, slowly filling itself with the precious fluid until it brimmed with pearly essence. Extracting his finger, Cupid unsheathed an arrow from his quiver, coating it with the translucent droplets.

One down, several thousand to go. Cupid smiled. Oh, if mortals only knew that the romantic influence of his arrows had no godly source; for it was only the truth of a perfect, limitless love which empowered his shafts to ignite mortal passion.

Cupid's powers lie only in recognizing such a perfect love. Well, that, and being a damned good archer.

Oh, poor, deluded mortals with their myths and legends.

If only they knew.

THE END