enemies to lovers with cameron winter lowkey untapped market
jerk with benefits (cameron winter x reader)
˚ 𝜗𝜚 summary: you work for cameron, helping him draft promo materials for his band, you think he's pretentious, he thinks you're a little irritating. after a long afternoon of aggravating each other while working on press releases and digital flyers, he overhears you touching yourself in the bedroom of your apartment and mild annoyance becomes a disgusting curiosity.
⋆ warnings: noncon, unprotected sex, rough sex, degradation, humiliation, condescension, overstimulation, mouth fingering, voyeurism, slapping, spit kink, cum in mouth, not proofread sorry again lmao
author's note: i know this isn't necessarily enemies to lovers, but i'm gonna COOK in part 2 just wait
the apartment is too warm for late afternoon. the air conditioner’s been broken for a week and the only relief is the box fan in the corner that mostly just moves the heat around. you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor with your laptop balanced on a stack of unopened mail, thin white shirt sticking faintly to your lower back. no bra.
you hadn’t planned on company lasting this long. cameron’s on the couch behind you, and he’s been backseat driving for hours, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, shifting every time he reaches for his cigarette. he hasn’t offered you one. he rarely does.
“the kerning on the second flyer is still so off,” he says, not looking up from his own screen.
“and the colour grade makes the logo look awful.” he chuckles
“it’s the same grade you approved last week.” you say, too tired to laugh at his stubbornness.
“i was probably being polite last week, then.”
"cus, wow, that looks like a fucking mess.” he murmurs
“thanks, cam.” a short breath that might have been a laugh.
“yea, go ahead and fix that,”
you roll your eyes and continue working. you also change the header because the one he wrote sounds truly dismal, and you tell him as much.
“you’re such a whiny bitch about promo,” you sigh
he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares at your back for a long second.
“you might as well just send it to me at this point”
“actually it’s easier it’s easier if i just-”
“i’ll send it in a second” you cut him off.
you angle the laptop toward him without getting up. he makes a low sound of irritation as he puts out his cigarette in the ashtray, stands, and comes to crouch beside you on the floor. the shift in air is immediate. bare arm brushing yours. the faint smell of smoke and clean sweat and whatever cologne he uses that always smells slightly expensive.
he reaches across you to the trackpad. his forearm presses, just once, against the soft outer curve of your chest through the thin shirt. he doesn’t apologise. his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly and he keeps typing.
“i was gonna leave that,” you begin
“i wanna move that line up slightly and then readjust the ones below it”
you feel the heat of his skin against yours and hate how aware of it you suddenly are. the hair at the nape of your neck is damp. his tank top has shifted slightly at the side; you can see the line of his ribs when he breathes. you look away first.
“there,” he mutters, correcting three things you had already corrected and one you hadn’t.
“i’m coming for your job” he scoffs softly.
“yours is easier, i could just moan all day.”
he tries to stifle his laugh and fails, which makes you smile a little.
“we’re basically done, you won’t have to deal with me much longer.”
he stays crouched a moment longer than necessary, still looking at the screen, the side of his body a solid line of warmth against yours. then he stands, returns to the couch, and opens a new document. he doesn’t leave, still drafting a few things to send out that you’ll need to proofread once he’s done.
you close your laptop with more force than required and stretch, the shirt lifting just enough to show a strip of stomach. his eyes flick there and away so quickly you almost miss it.
“i’m lowkey gonna lay down for a few, i’m exhausted”
he gives you a noncommittal murmur of acknowledgement, brow furrowed as he pretends to concentrate as he types something up on his laptop.
“text me or call me or whatever once you’re done with that so i can kick you out, please” you yawn, getting up.
you walk down the hall to your bedroom, ready to go unwind the only way you know how.
cameron watches as you turn and shut the door behind you and goes back to finishing his work, or trying to.
you’ve been getting nitpicked by cameron all day and want desperately to unwind the only way you know how. you close the bedroom door behind you and lean against it for a second, eyes shut.
the residual heat of his arm is still under your skin. the way he had shushed you, the quiet arrogance in every correction, the brief flash of his ribs when the tank top shifted, none of it should still be living in your body like this.
you cross to the bed, sit on the edge, and shove your hand straight into your underwear without ceremony.you’re already wet. irritatingly, humiliatingly wet. you bite the side of your hand and start rubbing tight, angry circles over your clit, hips shifting against your own palm. fingers dipping into your warm entrance.
the fan in the living room is still going. you think about the press of his forearm against your chest, the way his jaw had tightened, the low sound he made when he leaned in. your fingers move faster. a small, broken noise slips out before you can catch it.
in the living room cameron’s hands go still. he’d only stood up to stretch and get water. the hallway is short. the bedroom door is thinner than it should be. he hears the shift of fabric, the uneven breath, the unmistakable wet sound of fingers working. he freezes in the middle of the hall, listening to the frustrated, private rhythm of someone who clearly thinks she’s alone.
something ugly and immediate coils low in his stomach. he stands there longer than is decent, long enough to hear another soft, stifled sound, which makes the front of his jeans embarrassingly tight, then forces himself to walk back to the couch. he sits.
opens the laptop again. stares at the half-finished draft and sees none of it.
the sounds continue for another couple of minutes, quiet, intermittent, increasingly unsteady. he runs his hand over his damp face.
“fuck” he mutters to himself, involuntarily imagining you with your fingers dipped between your thighs, head tipped back, straining to hear the noises he’s hearing coming from your lips, savoring them like a pervert.
he hears the bed creak, the faint rustle of someone putting themselves back together. when your door finally opens he’s already typing again, expression carefully blank.you walk out looking flushed and carefully composed, hair a little messier than before. you don’t look at him directly. you go to the kitchen, fill a glass of water, and drink half of it standing at the counter with your back to him.
“you done with that yet?” you ask, voice almost normal, still slightly out of breath.
“almost.” his voice is lower than it was earlier. he doesn’t look up.
“you were gone a while.” he comments pointedly
“bet you are now,” he murmurs.
the words land in the warm air between you. you go still at the counter. when you finally turn, he’s watching you over the top of the screen, the same faintly disgusted curiosity he gets when something interests him against his will.
you set the glass down harder than necessary.
“what's that supposed to mean?” you scoff
he closes the laptop with a soft click and sets it aside.
“you know what it means.” the silence stretches. the fan keeps turning. neither of you looks away first.
“you’re so gross,” you say eventually. it isn’t a question.
“the door’s pretty thin.” he says. he stands, walks toward the kitchen, and stops a few feet away. close enough that you can smell the smoke and clean sweat on him again.
“and you weren’t exactly quiet.” heat floods your face so fast it stings.
“shut your mouth, seriously, there’s no way you accidentally heard me.” you sneer at him.
“sorry,” his mouth curves, not quite a smile.
you make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a gag.
you shove past him to get back to the living room. he catches your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you. his thumb presses into the soft underside of your pulse point. you can feel how fast it’s jumping.
“in a second.” he looks down at your fingers, then back at your face.
“you should probably wash your hands at least.” he laughs
you try to pull free. he doesn’t let you. the earlier irritation that has been simmering all afternoon finally cracks open in both of you at once.
“you’re such a fucking creep,” you say, your face feeling hot.
something in his expression shifts; annoyance and arousal tangled so tightly they’re almost the same thing. he laughs again softly, short and mean, and drops your wrist like it’s filthy.
“you do this on fucking purpose,” he answers.
“you’re so self-important, seriously.” you scoff.
“yea? i can see through your shirt, by the way.”
open-palmed, hard enough that the sound cracks through the warm room. when he looks back at you the mark is already blooming faintly on his cheek and his mouth begins to tug into a smile.
he laughs softly. it makes you angry, even more than before, he knew it would.
then he kisses you like he’s starving, mouth rough, teeth catching your lower lip, one hand in your hair and the other still around your wrist. you kiss him back the same way, biting hard enough to make him whine.
“i knew you’d be easy,” you whisper into his mouth. his brow is furrowed as you pull your mouth off his, his lips still wet and parted, his expression almost remiss. how pathetic.
“now get off me,” you mutter, pushing his chest.
“we’re wrapping this up and you’re leaving.”
you run your hand over your face and walk over to the couch, opening his laptop like nothing just happened. you can feel his eyes on you.
cameron stays where he is for a second, lips still wet, cheek still faintly red from your hand. then he follows. he doesn’t sit. he stands behind the couch and looks down at the screen over your shoulder.
“you’re really gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?”
“actually, yea.” you laugh humorlessly
“i’m gonna finish proofreading your shitty draft so you can leave, you don’t deserve anything more than that.”
he leans down, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other reaching past you to scroll. his chest brushes your shoulder.
“start from here, the first few lines are fine,”
“will you get off me? thanks.” you murmur.
you can smell the smoke and sweat on him again. he walks around the couch to sit next to you and watch you edit his work.
he manages to be quiet and behave himself until you finish.
you send the finished draft to yourself and get up. cameron watches you for a second, then stands as well. he doesn’t say anything right away. he just follows you down the short hall when you head toward your room, close enough that you can feel him behind you.
you stop in the doorway and turn.
“nothing.” he shrugs, but he doesn’t leave.
“just… thank you for helping me get this done.” what an easy surrender, what a bore.
“i’m tired.” you say dismissively.
“yeah. me too.” he leans against the doorframe, looking at you. the red mark from your earlier slap is still faintly visible on his cheek.
you exhale through your nose.
“not sure what you want me to say, cam.”
“i don’t either.” he almost smiles, small and tired. “i like you, genuinely.”
he says it all like it’s charity, everything that comes out of his mouth just seems so deliberately needling.
“just fuck off, cameron.”
he steps into the room anyway. you don’t stop him. the door clicks shut behind him. for a moment the two of you just stand there in the warm dark, the only light coming from the small lamp in the corner, the street outside and the mirror opposite the bed.
you sit down on the bed, leaning back on your arms, and he begins to tug his shirt over his head. you watch, the muscles in his sides tensing as he lifts his arms over his head, the faint line of hair below his navel trailing down below his jeans. your expression softens unintentionally. he’s so beautiful to you. you avert your eyes and run your hand over your face.
“cameron,” you say, softly.
“yea?” he drops his shirt and sits next to you on the edge of your bed. you study his face, his harsh brow, his nose, his mouth that’s set into an tired line. you nearly feel guilt seeing the soft pink mark on his cheek, penance for his arrogance.
you touch it, his skin soft and damp with sweat.
his eyes flick from yours to your mouth, his lips parted like he’s about to speak, so you fill them with a kiss instead.
“you’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your lips. he kisses you back more roughly, nipping at your lips with his teeth, one hand sliding up the side of your neck. the other finds your wrist.
he pulls your hand up between the two of you, the same hand you’d used earlier and never washed. for a second he just holds it there, then he draws two of your fingers into his mouth and looks you straight in the eyes while he does it.
he sucks them slowly, tongue dragging over the tips, tasting whatever’s still left on your skin. his eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, dark, steady, a little disgusted with both of you. the wet heat of his mouth makes your stomach twist. when he finally lets your fingers slip free they’re shiny with his spit.
“you didn’t even fuckin wash them,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“just sat out there editing my draft with the same fingers you had inside yourself.”
“i’m sorry” you whisper, almost imperceptibly.
the residual heat of the afternoon still clung to the room. cameron’s fingers are wet from your skin as he pushes you flat onto the mattress, one knee braced between your thighs, the other pinning your hip.
"tell me what you want,” he mutters, voice low and gentle.
“i need to hear it come out of your filthy little mouth”
you part your lips slightly to snap something back. he doesn’t give you the chance. two spit-slick fingers shoved past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, sliding over your teeth until they hit the back of your throat.
you gag around them. he smirks cruelly at the way your brows press together, your lips so soft and slick around his fingers.
he holds his fingers there, watching your eyes water, feeling the slick, deep inside of your mouth twitch.
his brows mirror your own, his pressed together in ecstasy and yours in discomfort. a small groan falls out of his mouth at the way your tongue feels against his fingers. he fucks your mouth with his fingers like you belong to him, like he’s entitled to your body. spit runs down your chin in thick strings. when he finally pulls free he drags the mess across your cheek and down to your collarbone.
you do. he spits directly into your mouth. you swallow the warm thickness, a disgusting and pathetic surrender.
“wow,” he laughs shaking his head softly. your face heats in shame, tears still prickling your eyes from how roughly he’d fingered your mouth.
“stop it,” you murmur, trying to prop yourself up on your elbows.
cameron’s mouth curves.
he presses you down, knee grinding between your thighs. his hand stays on your jaw, thumb smearing the spit across your cheek. he holds your face, turning it to look at you.
“you’re so beautiful” he whispers.
“you’ve got such a pretty fuckin’ mouth when you’re not using it to be a little bitch.”
his hand is gripping your face so roughly and his weight feels suffocating pressed down on you.
“please” you whine again.
you try to shove at his chest. he grabs your wrists, and pins one down roughly. the other hand yanks your shirt up under your arms, leaving your chest bare. he already saw your nipples poking through your shirt, the faint color of them apparent through the damp fabric, but the sight of your naked body still makes him stifle a groan.
he scoffs instead, mouth barely over your neck, leaning in to and kiss the sensitive skin just above your collarbone.
“cameron, please, you’re being too rough.”
he doesn’t. he just presses harder into the spot under your jaw, teeth scraping, and laughs against your skin when a little moan slips out from between your lips.
“yeah? then stop making those noises.”
his free hand shoves your pants down your thighs, not even bothering to take them all the way off. they tangle around one knee. he doesn’t care. he slides his hand beneath your underwear just enough to get two fingers back inside you, rougher this time, less careful, and curls them hard enough that your back arches off the mattress.
your mouth falls open, and a groan spills out.
“you’re so wet it’s fucking disgusting.”
“fuck,” you gasp, hips still lifting off the mattress to chase his fingers as her pulls them out slightly.
he adds a third finger without warning. the stretch burns. you try to close your legs and he just forces his knee between them again, pinning you open.
“fuck, cameron,” you moan.
“y’know how much i’ve thought about this?” he asks softly, concentrating on the mess you’re making around his fingers.
you shake your head, your mouth agape at the sight between your thighs, the way you’re clenched around his fingers, your cum slick around them.
you moan again softly, hips lifting slightly to meet his fingers more quickly, further evidence of your desperation.
you look at him, your eyes meeting his briefly,
he watches the movement in silence for a moment, then curls his fingers deeper, the stretch still sharp.
his voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.
“i’ve been thinking about doing this for so long.”
“so fucking long” he says, barely a whisper.
you look at him. your breath is uneven.
“don’t say things like that, cam” you whisper. because you know this is a mistake, a lapse in judgement, a culmination of the tension from work, nothing more.
“why not?” he does not stop the slow, insistent rhythm.
you turn your face away, but he follows with his free hand, not forcing, only resting his fingers along your jaw. the spit from earlier has dried in faint streaks across your cheek. his eyes stay on yours, his expression unreadable
"you’re always so careful,” he says.
“even when you’re angry at me. even when you’re touching yourself in the next room and trying your best not to make a sound.”
you open your mouth to speak and he cuts you off.
“i listened to you on purpose,” the admission is simple, almost unintentionally so. “i stood there and listened. i fucking hate that i did,”
“i’m sorry,” you whine softly, eyes flicking back to the sight of his fingers disappearing between your things.
“you don’t understand what you do, you really don’t.” he whispers.
“i had no idea you’d be like this,” you murmur
“had no idea you’d wanna do this to me,” the admission is so pathetic.
his fingers curl deeper inside you, the stretch still sharp. he watches your face with something close to resentment.
“neither did i.” his voice is quiet, almost a whisper.
"that’s the problem.” he leans down and kisses you again, rougher this time, teeth catching your lower lip while his hand keeps working you open. the wet sound of it is unmistakable in the warm room. you make a small, broken noise against his mouth. he swallows it, then pulls back just far enough to speak.
“you’re supposed to be more responsible than this,” he mutters.
“y’know, get the work done and then send me home. instead you’re like this. so fucking easy. same as me.” the last words come out edged with self-disgust.
his fingers keep moving inside you, rougher than the pace would suggest.
“then why don’t you stop?”
“because i can’t.” the admission is low, almost resentful. he curls his fingers harder, thumb pressing firm circles against your clit.
“i’ve been trying all afternoon. every time i look at you i end up wanting the most disgusting things from you.”
his hand continues its insistent rhythm. both of you are breathing too fast. the spit from earlier has dried in faint streaks across your cheek; his thumb traces one of them, almost irritated by the evidence.
“you’re so impossible,” you whisper, even as your body keeps answering him.
“i know.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, then the hinge of your jaw, teeth scraping lightly.
“doesn’t change anything.”
he doesn’t slow the rhythm of his hand he leans down and kisses you again while his fingers keep moving deeper, rougher, the wet sound of it filling the space between your bodies. his teeth nip at your bottom lip. you bite back. when he finally pulls away both of you are breathing hard. he withdraws his hand slowly.
the absence is sharp enough that your hips lift after him without permission. his fingers are shiny, dripping. he looks at them for a second with that same faintly disgusted fascination, then wipes them across the soft skin of your inner thigh, leaving a wet trail. he does it again, lower, almost marking you with the evidence of how ready you already are. he undresses the rest of the way without hurry, eyes never leaving you.
the mirror opposite the bed catches everything: the line of his back as he pushes his jeans down, the way your shirt is still pushed up under your arms, the flush across your chest, the wetness already darkening the sheets between your legs. when he settles between your thighs there is a longer, charged pause. he looks down at the place where he is about to enter you, then back at your face. something almost pained crosses his expression.then he pushes into you in one long, continuous thrust. nothing between the two of you.
the fullness is sudden and deep. your breath leaves you in a quiet, startled sound.he starts moving immediately, hard, the rhythm carrying every ounce of residual irritation and self-loathing from the afternoon. one hand braces beside your head. the other slides under your knee and opens you further. every stroke is deliberate, deep, the kind of pace that leaves little room to think.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs against your neck, almost accusing.
“so are you.” he almost laughs, but the sound is closer to a moan. he fucks you deeper. your hands find his back. your nails dig in. the mattress shifts under his weight. he keeps the same relentless rhythm for a long time, deep, punishing strokes that force the air out of your lungs every time his hips snap forward.
the wet slap of skin against skin fills the quiet room. the headboard begins to knock softly against the wall. you try to push at his chest. he grabs your wrist and pins it beside your head. tears start to gather at the corners of your eyes from the intensity, sharp, overwhelming, almost too much.
one slips free and tracks down your temple.he sees it. he doesn’t stop. he just leans down and wipes the tear away with his thumb, the gesture almost gentle, while his hips keep slamming into you hard enough that the bedframe creaks.
“you’re being so rough, cam” you practically whimper
“i know, i’m sorry.” he mutters against your cheek, voice rough.
another tear follows. he wipes that one too, still pounding into you with the same brutal focus, like if he just fucks you hard enough it might burn the need out of both of you. it doesn’t. the need only seems to grow. every thrust is like a fucking punishment, the stretch constant, the wet sound of it filthy and continuous. your body takes it even as the tears keep coming, quiet, helpless, from how much it is and how little either of you seems able to stop.
“you’re crying,” he says, almost accusing, still moving, still wiping the tears as they fall with the same hand that’s holding your wrist down.
“and you’re still so fucking wet for it.” you make a broken sound. your legs are trembling around him. he shifts the angle, driving even deeper, and the new pressure forces another soft sob out of you. he kisses the wet track on your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, never slowing the hard, relentless rhythm.
“i hate this,” he breathes against your skin. “i hate how much i want this” he keeps fucking you like that, rough, deep, almost frantic with the need that nothing seems to satisfy while the tears keep slipping out and he keeps wiping them away with his thumb, the contrast between the gentle touch and the brutal pace almost more overwhelming than either one alone.
the mirror opposite the bed catches all of it: the way his body moves over yours, the flush on both your faces, the wetness of your cheeks, the marks already forming on your wrists and thighs, the place where he disappears into you over and over.you lose track of how long it lasts. the intensity doesn’t ease. it only builds.
every thrust punches another small, involuntary sound out of you. he adjusts his grip on your wrists, leans more of his weight onto you, and drives in even harder, the headboard knocking steadily now. another tear slides down. he wipes it without missing a stroke.
“look at me,” he says, voice frayed. you do. his eyes are low, locked on yours.
“you’re taking it so fuckin’ well. even while you’re crying.”
"it’s disgusting how much i need this, how much i need to see you fall apart for me” he whispers
he fucks you through it, the rhythm never truly faltering, only growing more desperate the longer it goes on. the wetness between you is pornographic now, his release mixed with how soaked you already were, the sound of it loud and continuous. your thighs are trembling hard.
your wrists ache under his grip. the tears keep coming, quiet and steady, and he keeps wiping them away with that same strange, almost tender motion while his hips never stop their punishing pace.
when he finally finishes, it’s with a low, almost pained groan, buried as deep as he can get, pulsing hot inside you in long, heavy spurts while he keeps his forehead pressed to yours and his thumb still resting against the damp skin of your cheek.
he stays inside you for several seconds afterward, breathing hard, still holding your wrist, still looking at the tears on your face like they both satisfy and torment him.then he slowly pulls out. the sudden emptiness makes you flinch.
cum and your own wetness spill onto the sheets in a slow, thick ooze. neither of you speaks for a long moment. the room is still too warm. he finally releases your wrist and brushes another tear away with the back of his fingers, the gesture almost careful now that the worst of the need has burned through him, though it clearly hasn’t fixed anything. nothing has.he looks at you in the low light, eyes still dark, still a little resentful of how much he wanted this and how much you took.
“i’m not done,” he says quietly. you don’t tell him to leave.
