Date: Fri, 4 Apr 2025 11:06:37 +1300 From: till we have faces Subject: Surface of the Sun This is a slash fanfiction story based on the 2007 movie Sunshine featuring the characters Capa and Mace. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3AmwsES9DG7aDBlg3jQmbS?si=35f7683a3dad4e85 The problem is Capa's face is just too pretty not to fuck. To fuck, to slap, to spit in, to piss on, to cum all over. Over and over again, till the precious little bitch of a physicist can't even see himself in the mirror, eyelashes glued shut with Mace's gooey pungent sperm. Can't remember what he looked like not drenched in Mace's bodily fluids. His beauty beams brighter than the dying sun they're crossing space to save, and never brighter than when he's squirming on Mace's cock. And they weren't even six months out before Mace learned that wiping that perennial half-sleepy smirk off his face is so much more satisfying to do with his dick than with his fist. It's incredible and sometimes kind of scary how quickly their fighting can turn into fucking. Inside eight minutes and Mace is inside him eight inches and still coming. The noises, the grunts and groans and hissed `shit's and muffled `fuck's, are the same, so the rest of the crew (who can always hear, as everyone on this ship always can) think they're still at it. Which they are, just in a slightly different way. The transition is seamless: hands fisted in shirts to draw him closer, not shove him away; fists bunching on hips and staying there; fingers scrambling at drawstrings and zippers (thank fuck the regulation all-day PJs slip off like silk. And thank fuck for their tendency to go translucent at the slightest lick of moisture. Many a time they've had to excuse themselves in a hurry just because the sight of Capa's sweaty ass through wet clinging fabric has made Mace soak the front of his sweats with precum from his suddenly bone-hard cock). Mouths meeting in a clash of tongue and teeth-- though they never stay at head-height for long, the burning need too urgent for a rougher, wetter, deeper meeting below the belt. Making out is for little kids and they both are grown men, as Mace can't help but be reminded as he bears down with both hands on the taut wiry muscles of Capa's back to keep him from writhing away as he sticks his cock into him; the way the blond bristles that coat his thighs tangle with the dark ones that cover Capa's ass as, with a feeling like ecstasy, like terror, like awe and like drowning, he dips his dick into that singular point of clutching shivery heat buried beneath his balls. A miracle every time. Capa's ass is good--Capa's ass is fucking amazing, especially when clenched like a velvet vice around the full pulsating length of Mace's dick, relentlessly rolling up the ropes of cum from the base of his groin. A sense of conquest and claiming, delving deep in virgin territory, every time, since Capa, as he told him when Mace first flipped him in his head and ripped his pants apart at the seams, had never done that before. Never let another guy in there, though Mace knows there must have been many who'd tried or at least yearned to. And, Mace swears, he never will. But nothing compares to smacking his big, hairy, sweaty blond balls against that bony dimpled chin, stuffing him full till he's choking on cockflesh, pushing to the back of his throat then deeper, till he can barely breathe, making that face that always looks on the verge of tears really weep, clear froth seeping out under the hermetic seal of Capa's chapped lips around his cock, running from eyes and nose, making it all so ungodly wet, like Mace's turned his face into a woman's cunt. He loves to rub his dick over literally every inch of Capa's perfect pretty face, every strand of his perpetually luscious hair, kiss each and every freckle with the pisshole of his cock. Marking and defiling. This is the only time Mace's ever preferred oral to anal; the only time a blowjob hasn't felt like a warm-up to or a let-down from the real thing, proper full-force balls-to-the-butt penetration. Capa's just too damn beautiful not to ruin. His sad cold eyes never bluer than when swimming with tears, never more alluring than when angrily blinking away claggy wads of Mace's sperm. Even when Mace fucks his ass he likes to do it missionary, not doggy-style, so he can savour every wince and suppressed scream that shudders through that ice-perfect visage as he prods and thrusts this way and that, marking every inward inch of the bitch with the imprint of his prick, mapping out the contours of his inner continent with the ridges of his cock. Punishing, pleasuring and claiming. With men, before, he'd only ever done it from behind so he could kid himself it was a chick he was breeding, back in those long cold months locked down at base where the only pussy on offer came with a set of balls attached. But no girl ever had a face prettier than Capa. His body, too is a thing of beauty of its own. Mace isn't normally drawn to the stick-figure type; he likes the fullness and softness of a woman's figure, and even when he slipped his dick into a dude the meaty muscularity of his barrack buddies gave a guilty pleasure of its own. But the leanness of Capa's pale form, like a ghost just barely made flesh, makes it so easy to pick up and swing around, to twist and bend and fold into whatever position he pleases, whatever makes it easier to stab his dick into all his pink, plug all his slippery red holes and dump in load after thick wet load. Neither shower drain nor sheets have caught his cum in ages. He has Capa for that now, Capa who no matter what he says, what names or epithets Mace calls, no matter where or how hard he hits, no matter how hatefully Capa glares, can never say no to his cock. His prick is addicted to Capa's holes; it itches and aches when it's not inside them. Masturbation now only brings frustration rather than relief. A cumload he doesn't hear Capa quietly coughing up into his cornflakes at breakfast, doesn't see sliding out of his bruised-blue sphincter, is a load wasted. He's never sleepwalked before he left earth but now he sometimes wakes up in the middle of his off-shift with his dick out and hard in hand, halfway to Capa's berth. That's made for some awkward encounters in a crew of overworked semi-insomniacs. And at the end, once the orgasm, or several, has been had, as frantically and wordlessly as they first got undressed, they're mopping themselves up, tucking themselves in, averting eye contact and quickly shoving off, before someone finds them panting on their backs in pools of sweat and cum rather than blood. The sex is invariably the sloppy dirty nasty rough kind and, infuriatingly, the best Mace has ever had with man or bitch. He hasn't been this infinitely, incessantly horny since he first discovered what his dick was for at the age of twelve. Capa and the melancholy limpidity of his eyes beneath those long lowered lashes put something in him that hasn't been there since long before he signed up for this doomsday mission. The first time really was like being a teenager again. A good ten strokes, tops and woo boy, thar he blows. Lucky for both of them Mace was good for ten more rounds after that, each one longer, rougher, meaner than the last. Even now though the crushing heat of Capa's mancunt gets him there in thirty seconds, max. It's kind of embarrassing, how easy Mace is for him. Or it would be if his brain could hold anything in these moments except how fucking good it feels to be bouncing the pretty bitch's pretty pink guts on his cockhead. Mace is rough, sometimes downright cruel; their mutual animosity is very real after all, as real and intense as their mutual lust. But he has to grudgingly admit it's to the prissy little physics pussy's credit that he never backs out, no matter with what near-homicidal mania Mace rapes his ass raw. Not even the very first time, when consent hadn't even been as much as implied, and Mace was shaky with the extra nerve of thinking for the first time in his far from chaste life he was about to become an actual honest-to-god rapist. And the thought almost made him cum before he got it in. But the way Capa was hard even before Mace wrestled his pants all the way off--the way he's always hard sometimes before Mace even touches him and definitely before Mace stops hitting him--that erases any doubt--and any inhibition--from his mind. Who cares what comes out of that pretty mouth? The drool that leaks out of that equally pretty cock is eloquent enough. Unlike lips, dicks never lie. He sometimes bites Mace's neck hard enough to bleed, deep enough to make marks the other crew awkwardly ignore, but Capa never asks him to stop, never even asks him to slow down. Though maybe that's just because he knows Mace wouldn't even if he did. He doesn't think it's possible for such ferociously consensual sex to feel more like rape. Maybe that's what makes it so fucking good. Sometimes even in the middle of a fuck mouths mouth off and fists fly. Capa doesn't cry, just punches back. And never stops riding him, and Mace never stops thrusting. And somehow always arriving sooner than expected, there's a big bang behind his balls and just like that a star is born, a full galaxy of them, making its milky way deep into Capa's blazing sun-hot heart. Then they pause and pant and cuss each other out, and sometimes, grudgingly, angrily, kiss. Then Mace gets hard again and Capa gets hard again watching him get hard, or the other way round, and then they're both hard and they do it again. Mace fucks like he talks, like he works, like he walks: brutal but methodical, utterly unsparing. A universe of tension and pent-up rage and lust compressed into a neutron star of undiluted sexual energy, exploding into Capa's deepest core over and over with the depth and force of a tsunami every time. What he feels, good or bad, he feels through his whole body, till he worries the ship itself is shaking apart, blasted to shreds by the silent rising solar winds. No words, Mace isn't verbal in the sack, not like Capa. Just a quiet harsh intensity that unnerves Capa as Mace is hunched over him, humping the punishing length of his cock up and down his anal canal, scraping it raw, sluicing it with his seed, so he's shitting white for days after. And Mace with his shaggy hobo hair and stupid scruffy beard is somehow even hotter than his normal clean-cut Captain America look, even though Capa doesn't normally go for facial hair, didn't go for men at all, actually, until this whole thing and how wack was it that it took literally being launched into the sun for him to find out that apparently what really did it for him it was uptight ex-military assholes with zero anger management skills, a serious control fetish and an ego matched only by the size of his dick, (which is a thing it frankly ought to be illegal to wield in the tight quarters of a spaceship. He doesn't know what it takes to keep the blood pumping into that thing or how much of their finite oxygen Mace is sucking up every time he gets a hard-on, but fuck if it doesn't damn near have an atmosphere and gravitational field of its own), to make him come faster and harder than at any point in the last twenty years. Capa is Icarus and Mace is the sun and just like in his dreams he's falling, fallen, gone. In the earth room they can conjure all manner of romantic locations for their trysts: beaches, forests, waterfalls, meadows, lover's lanes, fairytale kingdoms--the variety is endless. Though the shameless exhibitionist in Mace and the secret dirty slut in Capa prefer public settings like churches, museums, malls, train carriages, bus stops, parks, weddings, funerals, airports, airplanes--not even in the bathroom, right out in the aisles; concerts, in the middle of the mosh pit or even up on stage, so Mace can pretend he's grunting, huffing, spraying sweat and sperm atop his ass like a hog on a sow, railing Capa in front of a crowd of strangers. Sometimes when they're craving something more real than mere simulations of trees, they sneak into the oxygen garden to do it there, on the floor or up against a wall, with ferns for a canopy and real honest-to-dog dirt for a bed. God knows what Corazon would do if she knew they were getting cum all over her precious plants. Hey, it's extra fertiliser, right? And sometimes when they're too horny not to fuck on the job, Mace has him on the cold metal deck next to the mainframe, multiple times, once with Mace trying to give a coherent report to Kaneda on the other side, Capa shaking on top of him with his teeth clenched in his shirt, trying not to whimper as Mace's thick-veined shaft pulses against his prostate, making his overtender cock spit out so much cum it's like he's wetting himself, so much he soaks through both their shirts. The sense of a kind of sacrilege to be doing it next to the metaphorical heart of the ship. Mace hasn't yet cajoled Capa to let him do it down in his domain, down in the eerie endless dimensional warehouse of the payload, but one day he will. What a triumph that would be, to make him squirt all over his belly in the hard-headed scientist's sanctuary, his most sacred place. But the best of all is in the observation room, or, as they usually call it, the sun room. The glare, the heat on their bodies as they fuck fully naked in the light of the sun, save only the necessary eyeshades, seeing each other dim and strange through the darkling glass. It gives a kind of cosmic significance to their coupling, like they're breeding the universe into being. That's the only time they're gentle with each other, there where they're most exposed and most alone, swimming weightless in the light. No one's outright caught them at it yet, having learnt early on in the mission to give the two of them a wide berth when the fists start flying. And what if they did know? What are they gonna do, send them home? Shouldn't have picked two professionals so cocky in their own competence if they didn't want them to fight. Shouldn't have made them so goddamn gorgeous if they didn't want them to fuck. Shouldn't have picked a physicist with a face like a grieving angel if they didn't want Mace to shove his dick in it every chance he got. And, oh yeah, Mace likes when Cassie hears, likes knowing she can't help hearing him reaming out her wannabe boyfriend's tight little asshole, making him moan and scream in a way she never could. Even if she doesn't (yet) realise that's what she's hearing. Someday she'll catch them on camera and Mace personally can't fucking wait. Some days when Capa irks him beyond the usual he hopes for it. Entertains vengeful fantasies of public rape, humiliation. Can't wait to put on a little show for her, and show her with nothing but his two hands and ten-inch dick just who and what her would-be boyfriend is. How do you go back to breeding bitches after that? Getting your guts sunk and sumped with a ten-inch deep-drilling pole. God he wishes he could breed him in both ends right in front of her face, make her not just hear but see and smell it. See Capa helplessly drooling his jizz from every orifice and pore. See what her precious crush looks like as his broken-in bitch. So day after artificial day, amid the endless night, they carry on, like this, laying into one another with their tongues, then their fists, then their whole and naked bodies, their stiff and throbbing pricks, hands now slapping, now choking, now caressing, now groping, flesh straining unto flesh, assholes and pissholes loosening and giving way, messily making amends in the wordless way that is the only one they know. They still can't carry a civil conversation without bitching at each other. Snide barbs is as passive as their aggression ever gets. Capa told him once it's just cause Mace is mad that his dick wants to go inside another man. Mace pinned him down and fucked him till he bled for that. Not exactly disproving his point. But anyhow, with their clothes off there's no need for niceties. They avoid/antagonise/tolerate each other until the mounting pressure becomes unbearable, then they fight until the irresistible alchemy of their intertwined bodies transmutes rage into lust, then they fuck till they literally can't any more, till the limited oxygen forces them to a wheezing halt, sticky and sated, at least for the day. Before the urgent undeniable need finds them again and they find themselves colliding like twinned comets, hurtling like asteroids into each other's arms. All the way to the sun and back, it seems, if there is a way back after all. Even if there is a way back to the earth they both know there isn't from this, from this mutually-manifesting black hole of obsession and loathing, lust and disgust they can't seem to keep from plunging into again and again and again. The sun is dying, the world is ending, and all they can think and care about, hate and love, is each other. Mace, when he's not either dicking Capa or dreaming vividly about it, still thinks at least once a day about shooting Capa out an airlock and seeing how much his physics degree helps him out there in the neverending dark. Maybe fill him up with one last load, or one at each end, before blasting him off. Almost as often Capa wants to dunk Mace face-first into the coolant and hold him there. One of these days he just might do it, dying Earth be damned. If only his dick didn't taste and feel too fucking good to be frostbitten off. If only his mouth and ass hadn't come to feel so hollow without it stretching them to the point of pain. Till then, Capa's bent over a stack of medical supplies, letting Mace burrow a wormy hole into his pink perfect pristine guts, dribbling Mace's white hot babies from his slack and broken mouth, staining the paper covers of his old college Physics 101 textbooks, kept for sentimental reasons, now wickedly ruined. Till then, Mace is here, exhausted but alive, frozen but on fire, enraged but so in love, feeding his fading life into the coldest son of a bitch ever to roam the verse with every bloodbeat of his pulse, buried in the heart of the sun.