Pride and Mephisto
Mephisto stepped out from the waterfall, his unruly dark hair trailing glistening streaks across his bulging shoulders. As if they were the stallions of nightmare from the seventh plane of Hell, nothing could tame his wild locks. He settled for shaking them out like an untame hound, and in that moment he could have given Cerberus himself pause for awe.
It was as the thick drops fell that he realised he was no longer alone. A dark and brooding presence watched from down the rocks, one that was at once an acquaintance and something much more. He froze, though he felt no fear. This was two predators silently measuring the other, two armies poised before the arrows fell, two lovers embraced against the night.
The tension built throughout him, across the tight cords of muscle abound his broad shoulders, down past his glistening manhood and into his trunk-like legs that burned with desire to pounce. Like a coiled spring crying for release, the pressure surged and swelled until he could take it no longer. But when he went to speak it was instead the sibylline stranger that broke the silence.
“I’m the boss of this waterfall,” he said, at the same time striking a powerful pose with his thick arms and impossibly arched back, a challenge enough to shame even the most prideful lion in the pack. The thin fabric of his low-cut shirt rippled pleasantly across his sun-bronzed abs, and Mephisto’s eyes lingered longer than was decent.
It was Mephisto’s turn to move, and he would not be outdone. He pivoted his hips and flared his legs, his torso leant off to one side as if against a wall whose sole purpose was fulfilled in that moment. His arms came together, one held straight across his body and the other wrapped down then up in front of it. He leaned his head down into his open hand and the message was complete; an utter rejection of Pride’s challenge.
He huffed deeply with the effort of the pose, but his body knew its victory. His member stood to rapturous attention, the soft caress of the waterfall reduced to steam across its breadth by the furnace of his passion. Now it was Pride’s turn to stare, and in that gaze Mephisto saw the budding of a rose long jealous for the touch of the sun.