FANTASIZE
pairing: Mike Wheeler x Fem! Hellfire club! reader
summary: After everything that happened at the Starcourt Mall, Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and you started a new year and joined the Hellfire Club. As Mike's best friend, you went to his house often and sometimes stayed over to write D&D campaign ideas; one day you were hanging out with him when you discovered something that would change your friendship completely.
warnings: smut, mdni, +18
You and Mike were, as always, best friends. He was your safe haven after the chaos of the past few years. You went to his house almost every day, and you often stayed late devising campaigns, drawing maps, and creating characters. It was your ritual.
That October afternoon, with sheets of paper taped to the basement window and the distant sound of Karen Wheeler washing dishes upstairs, you were working on a new mission. Mike, deep in thought, chewed on the end of his pencil.
“We need a new spell,” he said, flipping through the Player’s Handbook. “Something that isn’t just damage, something that… attacks the senses.”
“Like a confusion spell?” you asked, leaning back on the old sofa.
“More intimate,” he replied, without looking at you. There was something strange about his tone, a new vibration. Suddenly, he stood up. “I’ve got an idea. I have some old scrolls in my room, from the winter campaign. I’ll be down in a minute.”
He took the stairs two at a time. You were left alone in the basement, surrounded by posters, jumbled comics, and Mike's belongings.
To pass the time, you went over to his work table, covered in loose sheets of paper. There were exquisitely detailed maps, monster statistics… and then, a thick, black sketchbook, unlike anything you'd seen before.
Curious, you opened it. The first few pages were sketches of dragons, warriors, castles. But as you flipped through the pages, your pulse quickened. The drawings changed.
They were human figures, two of them.
One, slender, with curly hair and an intense expression—clearly Mike. The other… was you.
You recognized your hairstyle, your favorite Def Leppard t-shirt. At first, they were just embracing, then kissing with an urgency that made the paper seem to burn. And then… the scenes became explicit.
Damn, very explicit.
Mike had you against the basement wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, your head thrown back. In another, you were on top of him on the sofa, your blouse open, his mouth on your breast.
The strokes were passionate, desperate, full of intimate details: the bites on his shoulder, his hands on your thighs, the expression of ecstasy on both of your faces.
They weren't just drawings; they were fantasies captured with obsessive precision.
And there was text. Fragments of narrative, like scenes from D&D but starring you.
“Mike finally confesses his loyalty to the warrior (Y/N). She pushes him against the altar of the ancient gods and tears off his robes. Her skin is hot like battle fire. He kisses her as if extracting poison, and she moans his name, not his class title, but his true name…”
An instant, wet heat spread between your legs. Shame should have set in, but it was overcome by a surge of pure desire. Mike… fantasized about you like this? With this intensity? You remembered his lingering gazes, the way he touched your shoulder and wouldn't pull his hand away, how he always found excuses to be alone with you.
You heard his footsteps on the stairs. You quickly closed the notebook, but you didn't let go.
Your breathing was ragged. He appeared, holding some papers. His smile faded when he saw your face, and then when he saw the black notebook between your fingers. He paled.
"What are you…?" His voice cracked.
"Mike," you said. "Is this… about me?"
He froze, like a deer caught in headlights. His pride, his deepest secret, was exposed. He swallowed.
"I… can explain."
"Explain this," you said, opening the notebook to a particularly graphic page where you, in a drawing, had your lips around his—
“Shut that up!” he practically shouted, leaping closer.
But when he reached you, he didn’t snatch it. They just stared at each other, the air crackling with electricity.
“For how long?” you whispered.
“Forever,” he confessed, breathless. “I couldn’t stop. I tried, I swear. But every time we were here, alone…”
Your eyes dropped to his pants. A noticeable bulge was forming in his jeans. That shattered any remaining barriers.
You put down your notebook and grabbed his face, pulling him closer. Your first real kiss wasn’t tender. It was ravenous, wet, a clash of teeth and tongues that tasted of Coca-Cola and years of pent-up desire.
He groaned against your mouth, his hands gripping your waist as if he feared you were a mirage.
“Are you sure?” he gasped, parting his lips just an inch.
“I’ve seen what you want to do to me,” you breathed, guiding his hand to your breast. “Do it.”
That was the spark. Mike pushed you against the table, sweeping the dice and figures away with one arm. The sound of the plastic falling to the floor was drowned out by his mouth on your neck, biting, sucking. His fingers found the hem of your sweatshirt and lifted it, tossing it aside. Your bra met the same fate with a swift movement of his hands.
“God, I always imagined you like this,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts. “But you’re more… real.”
He lowered his head and took one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and licking with a skill you'd never known you possessed. A jolt of pleasure shot down your spine. You moaned, tangling your fingers in his hair. With your other hand, you clumsily unbuttoned his jeans, slipping your hand inside to find his erection, hot and hard. He arched his back with a grunt.
"I won't last long if you touch me like that," he warned, his voice husky.
"Then don't wait," you ordered. You moved toward the sofa, falling on top of him in a flurry of flying clothes. His pants and boxers were around his ankles; your jeans and panties were pushed aside, not quite off, in your urgency. He positioned himself between your legs, and for a second you stared at each other. Your lifelong friend, now trembling with need on top of you.
“I’ve loved you all this time,” he confessed, his voice fragile and vulnerable.
“Show me,” you pleaded.
And he did. He thrust into you all at once, filling you completely. You both sighed, muffling your sounds against each other's shoulders. He began to move, his rhythm erratic at first, then steady, deep. Each thrust was a promise, each withdrawal a delicious torture. The sofa creaked against the wall in time with your bodies. You adjusted to his every movement, digging your nails into his back, feeling the sweat stick to your skin. His lips found yours again and again, chaotic, breathless kisses.
"Just like that," he gasped, looking at you with glazed eyes. "Like in my fantasies, but better, because you're here, moaning my name..."
"Mike... Mike..." you cried, as an unbearable tension built in your belly.
His hands slid between you, finding your swollen clitoris and rubbing it in precise circles. That's what made you fall. The orgasm hit you like a wave, making your body arch and convulse beneath him, a muffled cry against his shoulder. The spasm inside you brought him to the edge, and with one last deep thrust, he too fell, spilling inside you with a long, shuddering groan. Time stood still. Only the sound of his ragged breathing filled the basement. He collapsed beside you, not quite pulling away, keeping you connected. His hand found yours, intertwining your fingers.
“The notebook…” he began, embarrassed.
“Keep it,” you interrupted, turning your head to kiss him gently. “But from now on, we do the actual scenes first. Then we write them down.” A slow, relieved smile spread across his face.
“That… is the best campaign idea we’ve ever had.”
