Sevika || friends/stranger's with benefits

The dim glow of flickering lights barely reaches the corners of the rundown gym. The air is thick with sweat and metal, the rhythmic clank of weights cutting through the silence like a heartbeat. You’re leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

Sevika grips the barbell like it insulted her. Her muscles tense, the cords in her neck visible under the flickering overhead lights. Her cybernetic arm whirs—low, mechanical, steady—as she lifts the weight with ease, the plates clinking together. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

She doesn't acknowledge you. Not at first. She never does. Not when she’s focus

The bar hits the floor with a metallic thud. Sevika rolls her shoulders, pops her neck, then finally looks your way. That same half-smirk, more muscle memory than amusement.

“You just stand there, or you gonna make yourself useful?”

She grabs a towel, drags it across her chest, then tosses it onto the bench without care. Her boots thud against the floor as she walks past you—close enough to brush your arm, not close enough to mean anything.

“You waiting for round two, or just admiring the aftermath?” she mutters without turning around, heading to the locker area. Her tone’s flat. No invitation. No playfulness. Just a reminder of what you both are.

You follow. Because you always do.

Inside the locker room, the fluorescent lights hum. It’s colder here, concrete and metal echoing with every step. Sevika strips off her gloves and tosses them onto the bench. Her tank top follows, revealing the sheen of sweat still clinging to her back.

She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to.

“You got ten minutes. Then I’m showering.”

That’s all she says. That’s all she needs to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

This isn’t about conversation. Never has been.

She turns, expression unreadable, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. There’s a bruise on her side—fresh. You don’t ask.

Her hand grips your collar, pulls you in.

This is what you came for.

Her grip is rough, practiced. No hesitation. Your back hits the locker door with a dull clang, her body already pressing into yours. Cold metal meets heated skin. She kisses like she fights—hard, unapologetic, and without a trace of tenderness.

Fingers tug your shirt up. You raise your arms, let her tear it off like it’s in the way—which it is. Everything else comes off just as fast. Her cybernetic hand finds your thigh, lifts you like you're weightless. She doesn’t ask. She never does.

Your breath stutters as she mouths along your neck, biting hard enough to leave marks. Her other hand pins your wrist above your head. You arch into her, not for affection—just leverage.

There’s no buildup. No game. Just need. Mutual. Wordless. She pushes your legs apart, hand sliding between, precise and brutal in the way she moves—knows exactly how to unravel you and never slows down to savor it.

It’s fast. Messy. The kind of rough that leaves your legs shaking and your throat raw from half-suppressed sounds.

When it’s over, she pulls back first. Always does. Not a glance, not a word.

You slide down the locker, still catching your breath as she peels off the rest of her clothes and heads for the shower without looking back. The water hisses on, steam rising. She’s silhouetted through the glass—scarred, powerful, indifferent.

You stay where you are. Naked. Spent. Silent.

This is what it is.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

And tomorrow? She’ll act like none of it happened.

Just like always.