Work Text:
The workshop hummed. It wasn't the loud, grating hum of failing machinery, but a low, resonant thrum that vibrated in Coil’s bones. It was the sound of capacitors holding a charge, of servers processing data, of the city breathing outside the reinforced walls. It was the sound of his domain, a symphony of controlled chaos that only he could truly conduct. Tonight, however, a dissonant note had been introduced.
Shuriken was perched on the edge of Coil’s main workbench, a stark figure of monochrome against the sprawling circuit boards and tangled wires. He was silent, a feat in itself, but his silence was different from Coil’s. Coil’s was a productive, focused quiet. Shuriken’s was a predatory, waiting silence. He was a blade resting in its sheath, but the promise of a swift, cutting edge was always there. He’d been watching Coil for the better part of an hour, his sharp, analytical gaze tracking every movement, every precise solder of a wire.
Coil was used to being observed. His work was a spectacle, a dance of electricity and ingenuity that few could follow. But Shuriken’s attention wasn't one of academic curiosity. It was heavier, more personal. It felt like a physical weight, a pressure that made the fine hairs on Coil’s arms stand on end. It was distracting.
"Is there a purpose to your loitering," Coil finally asked, not looking up from the delicate micro-welding he was performing. His voice was flat, a carefully constructed monotone that betrayed none of his irritation. Or his intrigue.
"Observing," Shuriken replied, his voice a low, smooth rasp, like the sound of a knife being drawn from a leather scabbard. "You are… meticulous."
"It is a requirement of the profession," Coil said, setting down his soldering iron with a soft click. He finally turned, leaning back in his chair to face the other man. Shuriken hadn't moved, but his posture had shifted subtly. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. The pose was deceptively casual. "Your observation is concluded. I have work to do."
"Your work can wait," Shuriken said. It wasn't a suggestion. He uncoiled from his perch, moving with a liquid grace that was almost unnerving. He didn't walk so much as flow across the workshop floor, his footsteps making no sound on the concrete. He stopped directly in front of Coil, close enough that Coil could smell the faint, sharp scent of clean metal and ozone that always clung to him.
Coil didn't like his personal space being invaded. It was a disruption to his carefully calibrated environment. He opened his mouth to issue a sharp dismissal, but the words died in his throat when Shuriken reached out. His fingers were long and elegant, the nails perfectly trimmed. He didn't touch Coil’s face or his shoulders. He reached for the high collar of Coil’s turtleneck, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of his throat.
"You hold yourself so tightly," Shuriken murmured, his gaze fixed on Coil’s neck. "Like a coiled spring. It must be exhausting."
Coil’s breath hitched. The analogy was too close, too accurate. He was a coil, wound tight with potential energy, always on the verge of snapping. He controlled it, harnessed it, turned it into brilliant flashes of creation. But Shuriken saw the strain, the effort it took to maintain that control.
"I am perfectly functional," Coil managed to say, his voice strained.
"Functional isn't the same as fulfilled," Shuriken countered, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate line over Coil’s pulse point. The touch was electric, a jolt of current that shot straight through him. He could feel his own heart rate spike, a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm that was entirely out of sync with the workshop’s steady hum. "Let me help you unwind."
It was a terrible idea. Shuriken was chaos personified, a sharp, unpredictable variable in Coil’s world of equations and predictable outcomes. Letting him in was like introducing a virus into a clean system. But God, the temptation was overwhelming. To let go, just for a moment. To release the tension that had been building for weeks, for months.
He didn't give a verbal answer. He simply didn't pull away. It was all the invitation Shuriken needed.
The hand at his throat slid around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. The grip was firm, possessive. And then Shuriken kissed him. It wasn't gentle. It was a demanding, almost bruising kiss, a clash of wills and teeth. Shuriken’s other hand came to rest on his hip, pulling him from the chair and flush against his body. He was all lean muscle and sharp angles, a stark contrast to Coil’s own lanky frame.
Coil’s mind, for the first time in years, went blissfully, terrifyingly blank. The constant stream of data, the calculations, the blueprints—it all vanished. There was only the feeling of Shuriken’s mouth on his, the taste of him, sharp and metallic. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of it. He responded instinctively, his hands coming up to grip Shuriken’s arms, feeling the tense strength beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
Shuriken broke the kiss, his breathing a little ragged. He rested his forehead against Coil’s, his dark eyes searching Coil’s face. "See?" he whispered, his voice a low vibration against Coil’s lips. "Much better."
Coil couldn't form a coherent response. He could only nod, a short, jerky motion. Shuriken’s lips curved into a small, sharp smile—a predator’s smile. He took Coil’s hand, his grip firm, and led him not towards the door, but towards the large, clear space in the center of the workshop, an area Coil kept clear for testing larger projects.
He pushed Coil down to his knees on the cool concrete. The action was decisive, leaving no room for argument. Coil went, his body moving with a willingness that surprised him. He looked up at Shuriken, who was looking down at him with an expression of intense, focused hunger. It was the same look he had when he was tracking a target, but this time, Coil was the target.
"You spend all this time playing with electricity," Shuriken said, his voice low and rough. He reached down, his fingers tracing the line of Coil’s jaw. "Let's see how you handle a different kind of current."
He shrugged off his own jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Then his shirt. His torso was a canvas of pale skin and lean, defined muscle, a roadmap of old, silvery scars that spoke of a life lived on the edge. He was beautiful in a dangerous, sharp-edged way.
Coil’s hands, which had been resting on his own thighs, twitched with the urge to touch, to map out the lines of those scars with his fingers, his tongue. He was used to being in control, of directing the flow of energy. Here, on his knees, he was the conduit, the receiver. And the current flowing from Shuriken was intoxicating.
Shuriken’s hands went to his belt, the sound of the buckle unbuckling loud in the quiet workshop. He watched Coil’s face as he pushed his pants down his hips, his gaze never wavering. He was testing him, pushing his boundaries, seeing how far he could go before Coil’s analytical mind kicked back in.
But Coil’s mind was still blissfully offline. He was operating on pure instinct, on a deep-seated need that he hadn't even known was there. When Shuriken was finally bare before him, Coil didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, his hands coming to rest on Shuriken’s hips, his thumbs stroking the sharp lines of his hipbones.
He took Shuriken into his mouth. The sound Shuriken made was a sharp, choked gasp, his hands flying to Coil’s shoulders, his grip tightening almost to the point of pain. It was a grounding point, a reaction to the sudden, overwhelming pleasure. Coil took it as a sign of success. He set a slow, deliberate rhythm, using his tongue, his lips, every trick he knew. He was a quick study, and he was a man who prided himself on excellence in all his endeavors. This was no different.
He focused on the task, on the weight on his tongue, the taste of him, the sounds he was drawing from the normally stoic man above him. Shuriken’s control was fraying, his composure cracking piece by piece with every flick of Coil’s tongue. His hips began to move, a shallow, involuntary thrust that spoke of a desperate need for more.
"Coil," Shuriken gritted out, his voice strained. "Stop."
Coil pulled back, a flicker of confusion cutting through his haze. Had he done something wrong?
But Shuriken was shaking his head, his chest heaving. "Not like this," he said, his voice rough. He reached down, pulling Coil to his feet. "I want to see you."
He maneuvered them until Coil’s back was against one of the heavy steel support pillars that ran from floor to ceiling. The cool metal was a shock against his overheated skin.
Shuriken’s hands were on him before he could fully register the change in position, tugging insistently at the hem of his turtleneck. "Off," he commanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated through Coil's chest. It wasn't a request. Coil lifted his arms, letting the other man pull the fabric over his head and discard it onto the floor, joining the growing pile of their discarded civility.
The cool air of the workshop was a stark contrast to the heat of Shuriken's body. Coil felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally. His carefully constructed armor was gone, leaving him feeling raw and vulnerable. He instinctively started to cross his arms, a habitual gesture of self-protection, but Shuriken caught his wrists.
"No," Shuriken said, his grip firm but not painful. He pinned Coil’s hands against the steel pillar on either side of his head. "Don't hide from me. I want to see all of it."
His gaze swept over Coil's torso, taking in the lean, wiry frame that was more accustomed to bending over a workbench than to any kind of physical exertion. There were no dramatic muscles, no battle scars. Just pale skin and a body that was a vessel for his mind. But Shuriken looked at him like he was something precious, something fascinating.
"You're so different like this," Shuriken murmured, leaning in to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Coil's collarbone. "Unwound." He nipped at the skin, a sharp, stinging bite that made Coil gasp and arch into him. "All that energy, all that focus… just for me."
He released one of Coil’s wrists to trail his fingers down his chest, tracing the line of his sternum. His touch was a live wire, sending jolts of electricity through Coil’s system. It was a feedback loop, a circuit being completed between them. Shuriken’s touch was the input, and the shuddering, desperate response of Coil’s body was the output.
Coil’s free hand flew to Shuriken’s hair, tangling in the soft, dark strands. He pulled him closer, needing more of that searing contact, more of the overwhelming sensation that was short-circuiting his brain. He felt Shuriken’s other hand leave his wrist, heard the soft rustle of fabric as he made quick work of Coil’s belt and jeans, pushing them down until they pooled around his ankles.
Now he was truly bare, pressed against the cold steel pillar with Shuriken’s clothed body a furnace against his. The contrast was dizzying. Shuriken’s hands were everywhere, mapping his skin, learning his responses. He found the sensitive spot just below Coil’s ribs and stroked it, making him squirm. He traced the line of his hip, his thumb dipping dangerously close to the aching heat between his legs.
"Shuriken," Coil breathed, the name a prayer and a curse. It was a plea for more, a desperate cry for release from the exquisite torture. He was losing himself, the meticulous, logical Coil dissolving under the onslaught of pure, unadulterated feeling.
"I've got you," Shuriken promised against his skin. He finally wrapped a hand around Coil’s length, his grip firm and sure. Coil’s hips bucked involuntarily, a choked moan tearing from his throat. "Let go, Coil. Just for a little while. Let me take control."
And Coil did. He let his head fall back against the pillar, his eyes squeezing shut. He surrendered to the rhythm Shuriken set, a slow, maddening stroke that built the tension in his body to an almost unbearable degree. He was a capacitor being charged to its limit, the potential energy coiling tighter and tighter in his gut. He could feel the hum of the workshop, the thrum of the city, but it was all background noise to the frantic beat of his own heart and the slick, rhythmic slide of Shuriken’s hand.
"Look at me," Shuriken commanded, his voice rough with his own desire.
Coil forced his eyes open. Shuriken’s face was inches from his, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and exhilarating. His lips were parted, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. He was just as affected, just as lost in the moment.
That was all it took. The sight of Shuriken’s composure finally shattering, the knowledge that he was the one causing it, pushed Coil over the edge. The tension in his body snapped, a violent, beautiful release that washed over him in a blinding wave. He cried out, his body convulsing, his mind going completely, blissfully white. It was a system overload, a complete and total crash, and it was the most exquisite thing he had ever felt.
He sagged against the pillar, his limbs trembling, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Shuriken held him through it, his arms a steady presence around his waist, his face buried in the crook of Coil’s neck. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the ever-present hum of the workshop.
When Coil’s vision finally cleared, he became aware of Shuriken’s own state of arousal, the hard length pressing against his thigh. A flicker of something—pride, possessiveness—shot through him. He’d done that. He had unraveled the unflappable Shuriken.
He pushed himself upright, his legs still feeling unsteady. He reached for Shuriken, his hands fumbling with the button of his jeans. "Your turn," Coil said, his voice hoarse but firm.
Shuriken let out a low chuckle, a sound that Coil felt more than heard. He caught Coil’s hands, stilling them. "Not here," he said, his gaze flicking towards the main workbench, a chaotic landscape of wires and delicate components. "I have no desire to be electrocuted because you can't control yourself."
He led Coil away from the pillar and towards a more secluded corner of the workshop, where a worn leather couch was tucked away, a relic from late nights spent trying to crack impossible problems. He pushed Coil down onto it, following him down until he was covering Coil’s body with his own.
He kicked off his own pants the rest of the way, and then they were skin to skin, a tangle of limbs and desperate need. The frantic energy from before was gone, replaced by a slower, more deliberate intensity. Shuriken kissed him, a deep, thorough kiss that tasted of satisfaction and a lingering, sharp-edged hunger.
Coil responded with a newfound confidence, his hands roaming over Shuriken’s back, tracing the familiar lines of his scars. He was no longer just a passive recipient; he was an active participant, a co-conductor in this symphony of sensation.
Shuriken reached for his discarded jeans, fumbling in the pocket for a moment before producing a small tube and a foil packet. He moved with a practiced efficiency that spoke of experience, his actions deliberate and sure. He prepped Coil with a patience that was almost maddening, his fingers stretching and scissoring, stoking the fire in Coil’s gut back to a roaring blaze.
When he finally pushed into him, it was a slow, inexorable press. The sensation was overwhelming, a strange, pleasurable ache that stole the breath from Coil’s lungs. Shuriken paused, giving him time to adjust, his forehead resting against Coil’s.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
Coil could only nod, his hands clutching at Shuriken’s shoulders. He wrapped his legs around Shuriken’s waist, pulling him closer, a silent invitation for more.
Shuriken began to move, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that hit Coil’s prostate with every thrust. It was a different kind of overload, a wave of pleasure that built and crested and built again, never quite giving him the release he craved. It was exquisite torture, a constant state of being on the edge.
He watched Shuriken’s face as he moved, the way his eyes fluttered closed, the way his jaw clenched with concentration. He was beautiful like this, all his sharp edges softened by pleasure, his carefully constructed control completely gone. This was a side of him no one else ever saw, a vulnerability that was more potent than any physical display of strength.
Coil reached between them, wrapping a hand around his own reawakened length, stroking himself in time with Shuriken’s thrusts. The dual stimulation was almost too much. He could feel another orgasm building, more powerful than the first.
"Shuriken," he gasped, his voice breaking. "I can't—"
"Let go," Shuriken urged, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. "Come with me."
That was all it took. The world shattered again, a supernova of pleasure that left him trembling and breathless. A moment later, Shuriken followed, his own release a deep, guttural cry as he buried his face in Coil’s neck.
They lay there for a long time, a sweaty, tangled mess on the worn leather couch. The workshop hummed on, oblivious. The city breathed outside. But in this small, quiet corner of the world, everything was different. The static had cleared. The circuit was complete.
Coil felt Shuriken’s weight on him, a comforting, grounding presence. He felt… calm. The constant, low-level hum of anxiety that was his default state was gone. In its place was a profound sense of peace, a quiet satisfaction.
Shuriken
shifted, his weight a warm, solid pressure that was both grounding and a reminder of their shared vulnerability. He propped himself up on an elbow, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at Coil. The predatory edge was gone, replaced by something softer, more contemplative. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of Coil’s jaw.
"You're quiet," Shuriken observed, his voice a low murmur in the post-coital stillness.
"My systems are rebooting," Coil replied, the words coming out with a dry, factual tone that felt both foreign and familiar. He felt a ghost of a smile touch his lips. "That was… a significant energy expenditure."
Shuriken huffed a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through Coil's chest. "I'll say." He leaned down, pressing a soft, surprisingly gentle kiss to Coil's lips. It was a stark contrast to the bruising, demanding kisses from before. This one was slow, searching, a question without words.
When he pulled back, his expression was serious. "Was this a one-time system error, or should I anticipate a repeat occurrence?"
Coil blinked, processing the question. It was Shuriken’s way of asking, 'Was this a mistake?' but filtered through his own unique, analytical-yet-chaotic lens. Coil considered it. A one-time event would be a logical outlier, an anomaly to be noted and then disregarded. It would allow him to return to his carefully controlled, predictable existence.
But the thought of that, of going back to the sterile quiet of his workshop without the memory of Shuriken’s hands on his skin, without the knowledge of the passion hidden beneath that stoic exterior, felt… wrong. It felt like a step backward.
"The data suggests a high probability of recurrence," Coil said, his voice steady. He reached up, pushing a stray strand of hair from Shuriken's forehead. "The results were… optimal."
A slow, sharp smile spread across Shuriken's face. It was his real smile, not the predator's grin, but something more genuine and infinitely more dangerous. "Optimal," he repeated, testing the word. "I like that." He lowered his head again, burying his face in the crook of Coil's neck, pressing a soft kiss to the skin there. "Good. Because I'm not done collecting data."
Coil closed his eyes, a feeling of contentment washing over him. The hum of the workshop was still there, but it was different now. It was no longer a sound of lonely isolation. It was the soundtrack to this new, unexpected variable in his life. A variable that was chaotic, unpredictable, and utterly intoxicating.
He felt Shuriken’s breathing even out against his skin, the other man’s body relaxing into sleep. For the first time in a very long time, Coil wasn't thinking about circuits or code or the next project. He was just thinking about the weight of the man on top of him, the warmth of his skin, and the thrilling, terrifying promise of what came next. The static had cleared, and in its place, he could finally hear the music.