Round 246

Silra's knives found their mark with brutal efficiency, slicing through the mechanical hostile's neck joint plating like butter. The creature shuddered, its glowing blue eyes flickering wildly between them as it attempted to compensate for the sudden impact. I pressed my wings harder against the stone wall, trying to brace myself despite my compromised state—hypothermia still lingering in my bones, shield magic barely clinging to existence at 1% efficiency.

The thing's mechanical whirring intensified, servos grinding as it tried to reorient itself. I could feel the temperature dropping around me again now that Silra had put a few inches between us—her heat bubble was already retreating like a tide leaving me exposed on the rocks. Physics says your magic needs my body heat to maintain stability, she hissed across the creature's frame, her teal eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that had nothing to do with tactical assessment. Biology says that thing is definitely reacting to your energy signature somehow—probably because you're broadcasting 'vulnerable succubus' like a lighthouse.*

I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again—what was I even trying to say? That I wanted more than just clinical detachment? That the constant rejection of my needs was driving me insane? That the temperature dropping around me wasn't helping matters?

Move, Silra hissed, already launching herself forward with deadly grace—knives flashing as she targeted the creature's joint points exactly where I'd indicated. Now.*

I forced my legs to move, stumbling after her as fast as my hypothermia-weakened legs would allow—37.2°C now, core temperature bleeding away as the temperature outside her bubble dropped. Not... not like this, I mumbled through chattering teeth, fighting to maintain consciousness. I need... real help. Not just proximity.

Real help? Silra repeated, her expression tightening fractionally as she adjusted her stance for another strike. What does that even mean in this situation? Because from where I'm standing, 'real help' involves me doing things that make me deeply uncomfortable just because you need them to survive. Her thumbs brushed my cheeks almost tenderly—a gesture so at odds with her usual clinical detachment that it made my head spin.

I... I don't know, I admitted, vision clearing slightly as the temperature hit 37.4°C. But it's more than just... standing close and pretending this isn't what it is. My wings unfurled instinctively, wrapping around us both in a desperate attempt to trap her heat against my skin. I need proper maintenance. Not... not whatever this half-assed bullshit has been.

Silra's expression tightened—frustration warring with something that might have been resignation. Fine. You want 'proper maintenance'? Tell me exactly what that means so I can stop fucking guessing and actually help you before your magic collapses completely. Her eyes flickered toward the darkness beyond—the freshly carved passage behind us. And for the love of all things technical, stop clinging to someone who resents having to help you!