Work Text:
The morning is lovely. Soft shades of pink blend into an orange-ish yellow glow. The colorful light filters through the curtains across from your bed, and you can’t help but smile. For all its faults, New York has a beautiful sunrise. Especially in a multimillion-dollar mansion. High-rise, of course. Cappy himself had told you how he oh so hated being on the same level of the “improvised”.
Cappy. His name itself is enough to make your inner morality swirl. He’s, well, a lot. He’s a greedy pig, classist, and tries to be horribly manipulative. The way he treats others perceived to be below him (typically decided by wealth) was sickening. However, Capitalism could be tender. He made it seem like he could fix any problem, and if he couldn’t, it wasn’t worth any time. He was clever, occasionally kind, and by God, he was fucking hot.
Standing tall at 6’3, Cappy towered over most. Even at 5’10, you felt small. Height wasn’t the only thing you found appealing. His light hair meticulously combed back and obnoxiously expensive man perfume, combined with that whiney little voice hooked you immediately. He was used to women throwing themselves at him, but he never had someone so… intoxicating as you. Or so he said. You weren’t sure if that meant you had a nice ass, or you just didn’t want his money.
You had been raised to be a good girl. Go to college, find a nice man to be subordinate to, and eventually have a nice little family in a nice little home. At the ripe age of 16, you had decided “fuck that”. Somehow your denouncing of tradition had led to you having relations with Capitalism himself. Though, after a few date nights, he preferred to be called Cappy. Privately, obviously. Despite this, you found yourself whispering his little nickname during work events. His flush was always satisfactory.
This morning was a different type of satisfaction, however. A sweeter, more wholesome one. Cappy laid next to you, content in sleep. His breathing was even. You found yourself matching the breaths. He looked so calm. Part of it was his lack of wrinkles, the other being your festering feelings.
You’d admit it only to the mirror; you were growing fond of the bastard. It took one hell of a person to even consider kissing him, yet here you were. Ethical ambiguity was too light to describe you, but the admission you were a bad person didn’t seem right. Morally grey? It didn’t matter right now.
What did matter is that the fucker’s leg jerked and kicked you straight in the shin.
“Cappy!” His name came out in a hiss. The sound (and you kicking him back) startled him awake. With a soft gasp, he looked up to you. “What?” He’s clearly pissed and groggy. At the sight of his reddened cheeks, you giggle.
“What’s funny? You just kicked the shit out of my leg.”
He let out a huff before beginning to groan and stretch. You watched as his muscular arms reach for oblivion and grasped at air. A small noise- perhaps a whine- escapes him. Your eyes fixate on his pale skin. At the beginning of your rendezvous, he wouldn’t have been so vulnerable. Hell, you wouldn’t have stayed the night, let alone in his bed. Trust, you suppose, is growing. You’re not sure how you’ve planted the seed.
He looks so breedable…
Seeming to sense your thoughts, the man laying next to you sits up. The sheets drape over his chiseled form. The realization that’s all that covers him is quick. The same can be said for you, but you pay no mind. There’s no point in being bashful, not after months of whatever this was.
You begin to smile, “Good morning, Princess.” Cappy immediately groans again, this time from disgust.
“Get out of my house,” His tone is stern. His smile gives him away. White teeth, pink lips. Something flutters in your chest. That something is despairingly warm and fuzzy and soft, and you’re made very aware you don’t stand a chance. It’s like Aphrodite herself has possessed you and you’re leaning in.
Cappy always seems surprised when you kiss him like this. When there’s no heat, no burning desire for some facade of connection. When it’s just you and him alone in a bed that suddenly feels far too big.
His large hand reaches and intertwines with yours. You cup his cheek and guide your lips together. Cappy’s are smooth and delicate from the Brazilian exfoliating scrub on the bathroom counter. Yours aren’t nearly as sweet, but he kisses you just as desperately. His free hand lifts up to pull you closer. You happily oblige, letting as much skin touch as you can. There’s no lust behind your shared movements. Rather, a need for closeness.
Even when your lips part, you and Cappy hold each other tightly. He rests his head in the crook of your neck. His breath tickles, but you wouldn’t move for the world.
“Hey, Y/n?” he all but whispers. You let yourself fall into him. Your bodies support each other, holding another up while being dependent.
“Hm?”
Cappy’s body tenses against yours. A slight panic bubbles in your chest. Is something wrong? Does he want you to leave?
Before you can pull away, he swallows, “Will you be my partner? Officially? I’m tired of pretending you’re just another fling, I want you to be mine.”
There should be hesitation. You should pause, pull back, and tell him no. You can’t be his anything. You can’t lower yourself to such an inhuman standard.
“I’d love to.”
And oh, maybe a bad person would be the right label. But so would Capitalism’s partner.