Mephistopheles Is
Mephistopheles wears a leather corset and blonde hair this time around. His curved smirking lips are delicately painted in pink lipstick, his body wrapped in delicate flesh, feminine wiles, gentle touches and sweet kisses.
Mephistopheles sings and performs and raises children that will be the next generation of trouble. Their wire-thin bodies and huge eyes devour everything in their path. They dance and sing and show their skin for a few dollars and a few smiles.
Mephistopheles flashes her eyes backstage, smiling at her two cold gold decadent children, wearing white and looking virginal, bridal, beautiful. Mephistopheles wears black, skintight, shapely, mannish and it reminds him of when he was a man-shaped beast versus this feminine creature he now resided in. His sloe eyes catch both of them, and focuses on the one with the blonde hair and the still-vaguely-innocent eyes, where she holds the universe and death and destruction.
Mephistopheles knows she's had a bad year. Mephistopheles likes it that way.
They talk and plan and move and choreograph and dance dance dance. They slip and slide and come on stage, purring out one of the songs everyone always remembers.
Mephistopheles comes, and kisses the blonde, whispering tales of revenge and destruction and power, and, suddenly, with the flick of a tongue, she agreed, barely vocalizing the affirmation under her tongue that was sliding into his mouth, and she's signed away everything, there's nothing left to call her own, but the faint delicate trace of her tears.
Mephistopheles tastes her tears and sings the melody and smiles.