#mephonic

The wound on his back is small, easy to overlook without prior knowledge of its existence. There is no blood visible, the wound cauterized by the heat of the beam that caused it. Mephiles pulls it open further, studying the push and pull of the blackened flesh.

The exit wound on his chest is much larger, about the size of this hedgehog body's fist. Here there is blood, seeping sluggishly out of the spaces where Sonic's burnt skin has cracked and split apart. Mephiles can see inside of him, the crushed pulp of his rib cage, heart, and lungs. A perfect carnage, beautiful and eternal.

Mephiles should leave it untouched, unchanged. He'll want to admire it later, he knows—yet he feels drawn to the wound. It calls to him, urging him to touch, to take what is his.

There is nobody to tell him to stop—nobody who could stop him, even if they wanted to—so Mephiles does as he pleases. He presses two fingers into the hole and rubs them along the edge. Sonic's burnt skin flakes away, revealing more raw red flesh below. It's soft and tender. Slightly warm, still, but cooling rapidly under the god's touch.

Mephiles releases something like a sigh. His body doesn't move, but reality trembles around him, a shudder passing through the air on multiple planes of existence. He becomes aware of people screaming in terror and in pain. Sonic, the hero, does not—cannot—move to help them, so the screaming continues.

Pleased, Mephiles claims more of his prize. He lets the fingers of this hedgehog form melt into something more resembling his true form, tendrils of darkness that expand to fill the wound—and then further still, pushing against the edges of Sonic's hole to stretch it to its limits and beyond.

For the first time since his victory, the body below Mephiles makes noise. A wheezing release of air, what little remained in Sonic's damaged lungs being pushed out of him. Like a little, second death.

Mephiles hums in pleasure. At the edge of his awareness, the screaming increases. The fleeting thought crosses his mind that he would perhaps prefer it if Sonic screamed as well, if he cried and begged for mercy—but this is good as well. Sonic as his prized possession, his piece of art to display, his toy to do with as he wishes.

Mephiles withdraws with a soft sucking noise and watches as the wound regains some of its original shape. It doesn't go entirely back to the way it was. Mephiles would mourn the loss—except that it's almost more beautiful now, shaped not just by his actions but his hands.