Mike Wheeler x bimbo!Henderson!reader
Warnings : MDNI ! 18+ , p in v, unprotected sex, crampie, mild degradation (use of terms like "stupid girl" and "bimbo"), semi-public risk
The digital clock on your bedside table read 11:47pm. The red numbers glowed ominously in the otherwise pitch-black room, taunting you. He was late.
You sighed, loudly, dramatically, throwing your head back against a mountain of pastel-colored pillows. The movement caused a cascade of meticulously teased, crimped blonde hair to fan out around you like a halo. You blew a stray strand out of your face, the scent of strawberry chewing gum and excessive amounts of Aqua Net hairspray filling your nose.
Your room was a sanctuary dedicated to the cult of late-80s teenage girlhood. It was an explosion of pink, lace, and tiger-beat magazine cutouts taped to every available surface. It smelled like Debbie Gibson’s ‘Electric Youth’ perfume and contraband clove cigarettes you sometimes stole from Steve Harrington’s car.
It was, unapologetically, the room of a "bimbo."
That’s what people called you, anyway. You knew they did. You heard the whispers in the halls of Hawkins High. They saw the frosted pink lipstick, the acid-washed mini-skirts, the way you twirled your hair when you didn't want to answer a hard question in Mr. Clarke’s class. They saw you as the polar opposite of your twin brother, Dustin.
Dustin, with his nerdy t-shirts, his obsession with D&D, and his teeth that were still figuring themselves out. You loved him, he was literally the other half of your DNA, but God, you two couldn't be more different. He was brains and dorky charm while you were aesthetics and vibes.
And nobody, absolutely nobody, could ever know that the Queen of the Airheads was secretly hooking up with the Dungeon Master himself, Mike Wheeler.
The thought made you giggle. It was absurd. It was a scandal waiting to happen. If Dustin found out, his head would literally explode. Like, Scanners style.
You shifted on the bed, smoothing down the silk robe you’d stolen from your mother’s closet. You’d spent the last hour preparing. Shaving your legs until they were dolphin-smooth, applying a fresh coat of ‘Bubblegum Pop’ nail polish, and meticulously arranging your lingerie under the robe so it looked effortlessly sexy when he arrived.
You checked the window again. You’d unlatched it an hour ago, sliding it up just an inch so he could get his fingers under it.
Suddenly, there was a thud against the siding of the house.
You sat bolt upright, heart hammering against your ribs. A scrabbling sound followed, like a raccoon trying to climb a drainpipe. Then, fingers appeared under the sash, pushing the window up with a groan of protest from the old wood.
A gangly leg clad in dark denim swung over the sill, followed by the rest of Mike Wheeler, who tumbled onto your plush cream carpet with the grace of a newborn giraffe.
He landed in a heap, knocking over a stack of fashion magazines.
"Shhh!" you hissed, leaping off the bed. You slammed the window shut and locked it, then whirled on him, hands on your hips. "Mike! You’re going to wake up the whole house. Do you want Dustin to come in here with a baseball bat?"
Mike scrambled to his feet, dusting off his knees. He looked flustered, his dark hair a messy mop from the wind outside, his cheeks flushed pink. He was wearing that same old beige jacket and a striped polo, looking utterly out of place surrounded by your stuffed animals and lace curtains.
"Sorry," he whispered intensely, his eyes wide. "The trellis is slippery."
He looked around the room nervously, as if expecting Dustin to pop out of your closet shouting ‘Aha!’
"Relax," you murmured, stepping into his space. The anger melted away instantly. He was here. He made it. "Dustin’s snoring like a chainsaw. I checked."
Mike’s eyes finally landed on you, and his nervous energy seemed to hit a brick wall. His gaze raked over you, taking in the silk robe, the perfectly styled hair, the glossy lips. He swallowed hard.
You saw that look in his eyes, that mixture of confusion, awe, and absolute desperation that you lived for. It was the look that said, I don't understand your world at all, but I want to drown in it.
"Hi," he breathed out, his voice cracking slightly.
"Hi yourself, loser," you teased, reaching out and hooking a finger into the belt loop of his jeans, tugging him forward.
He stumbled into you, his hands automatically going to your waist. He smelled like the outdoors, cheap deodorant, and that underlying scent of anxiety that seemed to follow him everywhere these days. It was intoxicating.
"God, you smell like a strawberry patch," he mumbled, burying his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "It’s ridiculous."
"It’s expensive," you corrected, tilting your head back to give him better access. "And you love it."
"Yeah," he admitted against your skin, his lips grazing your pulse point. "Yeah, I really do."
He pulled back just enough to look at your face. He always looked so intense, like everything was life or death. You supposed, for him, a lot of things were. But that’s why you worked. You were his break from reality. You were soft places and mindless pop music and things that didn’t involve alternate dimensions.
"You’re late," you pouted, sticking out your bottom lip. The lip gloss glistened in the moonlight.
Mike's eyes zeroed in on your mouth. "I had to wait for Nancy to get off the phone. Then my mom was prowling around the kitchen..."
"Excuses, excuses, Mikey." You tapped a manicured nail against his chest. "You're lucky I waited up. I was about to get my beauty sleep."
"You don't need it," he said quickly, earnestly. It was adorable how bad he was at flirting, how totally sincere his compliments were.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," you smirked.
You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his.
Kissing Mike was always an event. He kissed like he was afraid you were going to disappear if he stopped. It was hungry and a little clumsy, his teeth sometimes clicking against yours, but the sheer enthusiasm made up for the lack of finesse.
He groaned low in his throat, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you until there was zero space left between you. You could feel the hard line of his hip bones, the rapid thud of his heart against your chest.
You threaded your fingers through the thick hair at the nape of his neck, messing up his attempt at styling it. He tasted like mint toothpaste and soda.
"Come on," you whispered against his lips, pulling away reluctantly. "Not here. The floor is uncomfortable."
You led him by the hand toward your bed. It was a massive, fluffy confection covered in at least ten decorative pillows that you had to shove onto the floor to make room.
Mike sat on the edge of the mattress, looking strangely small surrounded by so much pink. He kicked off his sneakers, his eyes never leaving you as you stood between his knees.
You loved the power dynamic shift that happened in this room. Outside, Mike was the leader, the strategist, the one calling the shots. In here, he was just a boy obsessed with a girl way out of his league, totally at your mercy.
Your hands went to the sash of your silk robe. Mike’s breath hitched.
You untied it slowly, maintaining eye contact, letting the silk pool at your feet.
You’d chosen a matching baby-blue lace bra and panty set that you’d shoplifted from the mall three towns over so nobody would recognize you. It pushed your boobs up perfectly and made your waist look tiny.
Mike’s mouth actually fell open slightly. His eyes grew impossibly wide, darting over your body like he was trying to memorize a complex map.
"Holy shit, Y/N," he whispered, almost reverently.
You did a little spin, posing with your hands behind your head, fluffing your hair. "Like what you see, Mikey?"
"You have no idea," he choked out. His hands reached out, gripping your hips, pulling you forward until your thighs were pressed against the denim of his jeans. "You’re... God, you’re just so much."
"Is that a complaint?" you teased, running your hands down his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart through his thin polo shirt.
"Never," he swore. His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs tracing the bottom edge of your lace bra. His touch was shaky, hesitant, as if he was afraid he might break you. "You’re perfect. You look like one of those models in Nancy’s magazines, but... better. Real."
He buried his face in your stomach, his hot breath ghosting over your skin through the lace. "I hate that I can’t tell anyone," he muffled against you. "I want to show you off. It sucks."
Your heart softened. You knew the secrecy ate at him. Mike Wheeler wore his heart on his sleeve, and having to hide the biggest thing in his life was torture.
"I know, baby," you soothed, threading your fingers through his dark hair. "But think about Dustin’s face. He’d have a literal aneurysm."
Mike let out a short, sharp laugh against your skin. "He'd kill me. Literally. He'd find a way using science."
"Exactly. So this..." You tilted his chin up so he had to look at you. "This is just for us. Our little secret world."
The intensity returned to his gaze, burning hotter than before. "Our world," he repeated.
He stood up suddenly, towering over you. The hesitation was gone, replaced by that frantic need that always seemed to simmer just beneath his surface.
He grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head, tossing it somewhere into the pile of pillows on the floor. He was skinny, all ribs and sharp angles, but there was a wiry strength to him that you loved.
He pushed you gently backward onto the bed. You sank into the duvet, your hair fanning out around you. Mike crawled over you, bracing his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, caging you in.
He stared down at you, his expression deadly serious. "Tell me I'm your favorite," he demanded, his voice low and rough.
It was his thing. He needed reassurance. He needed to know he was winning against the imaginary competition he’d convinced himself you had.
You smiled up at him, tracing the line of his jaw with a perfectly manicured finger. "You’re my absolute favorite nerd, Mike."
"Not good enough," he growled, leaning down to nip at your jawline.
"You're my favorite," you whispered, turning your head to give him better access to your neck. "My only one."
He sucked a mark right over your pulse point, hard enough that you knew it would bruise. You’d have to cover it with heavy concealer tomorrow and wear your hair down, but you didn't care. It was a brand.
His hands moved down to the clasp of your bra, fumbling with it impatiently.
"Ugh, these things are impossibly stupid," he muttered, frustrated.
You giggled. "Here, let the expert handle it." You reached behind your back and unhooked it in one smooth motion.
Mike peeled the lace away, tossing it aside. He stared at your bare chest for a long moment, his breathing heavy, before lowering his head to worship you.
He wasn't smooth. He wasn't experienced. But the sheer amount of devotion he put into every touch, every kiss, made up for everything. He treated your body like a shrine he was terrified of defiling but desperate to pray at.
He kissed his way down your ribs, his tongue tracing the indent of your waist. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your legs.
When he finally settled between your thighs, still fully clothed in his jeans, the friction was electric.
"Mike," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Your jeans. Off. Now."
He scrambled back, practically falling off the bed in his haste to toe off his sneakers and shove his jeans down. He kicked them away, leaving him in just his boxers, breathing hard.
He crawled back up the bed, positioning himself between your legs again. The heat coming off him was immense.
He braced himself above you, his eyes searching yours. There was a vulnerability there, a silent question he always asked before the final step.
"Please, Y/N," he whispered, his voice raw. "I need you."
You reached down, wrapping your hand around him through his boxers. He hissed, his hips bucking involuntarily against your hand.
"You have me, Mike," you assured him. "Take me."
He pulled his boxers down and guided himself to your entrance. He paused at the threshold, the tip pushing against your slick heat.
"Look at me," he said, his voice strained.
You opened your eyes, locking your gaze with his.
He pushed inside slowly, inch by agonizing inch. You let out a shaky exhale, your head falling back into the pillows as the feeling of being filled stretched you. He was bigger than people would guess looking at his lanky frame, and it always took a moment to adjust.
Mike groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he buried himself completely to the hilt. He held still for a moment, just breathing, letting the sensation wash over him.
"You feel incredible," he ground out, his jaw clenched tight. "So tight. So unbelievably hot."
He began to move. At first, it was slow, deep strokes that made your toes curl. He was careful, always careful, making sure you were okay.
But the care quickly gave way to that familiar desperation. The pace quickened. His thrusts became harder, snapping his hips against yours with a bruising rhythm. The bedsprings squeaked rhythmically, a dangerous soundtrack to your secret.
"Mike—wait, shhh," you gasped, trying to quiet your own moans as the pleasure started to coil tight in your belly. "Dustin..."
"Forget Dustin," Mike panted, his sweat dripping onto your chest. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the mattress above your head, taking control. "Think about me. Only me."
He drove into you harder, hitting that spot deep inside that made your vision spotty. You couldn't help the high, breathy keens that escaped your throat.
Mike leaned down, swallowing your sounds with a searing kiss. His tongue warred with yours, mirroring the frantic rhythm of his hips below. It was messy and hot and overwhelming.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing more friction. Your nails dug into his back, leaving little crescent moon marks on his skin.
"You’re so beautiful," he murmured against your lips, between frantic kisses. "You’re so beautiful it hurts my head. My beautiful, stupid girl."
He didn't mean it as an insult. You knew that. It was his way of grappling with how much he loved the parts of you that made no logical sense to him, the makeup, the hair, the vapid magazines. He loved it because it was yours.
The tension in your body wound tighter and tighter. The friction, the heat of his body, the scent of his sweat and your perfume mixing together, it was too much.
"Do it," he urged, letting go of your wrists to slide his hand down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and grinding against it in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, Y/N."
That was it. The added stimulation sent you over the edge. You cried out, your back arching off the bed as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and blinding. Your inner muscles clamped down around him violently.
The sensation was too much for Mike. With a guttural groan that he barely managed to muffle against your neck, he slammed into you one, two, three more times, his body going rigid as he spilled himself inside you.
He collapsed on top of you, dead weight, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breathing was harsh and ragged, hot against your damp skin.
You lay there for a long time, just breathing together in the aftermath, the only sounds in the room the whirring of your bedside fan and the distant chirp of crickets outside.
Your perfect hair was a disaster, glued to your forehead with sweat. Your lip gloss was definitely smeared all over Mike's face. The room smelled like sex and strawberries.
Slowly, Mike lifted his head. He looked utterly wrecked, sleepy and satisfied, with lipstick smeared across his cheek. It was your favorite look on him.
He smiled, a lazy, genuinely happy smile that rarely made an appearance outside of this room.
"Hi," he whispered again, echoing his earlier greeting.
You giggled weakly, reaching up to wipe a smudge of pink off his chin. "Hi, yourself. You made a mess of me, Wheeler."
He looked down at your body, taking in the dishevelled state of your perfection. A look of intense possessiveness crossed his face.
"Good," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Mine."
He rolled off you reluctantly, flopping onto his back beside you and immediately pulling you into his side. You rested your head on his chest, listening to his heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm.
"What time is it?" he asked drowsily into your hair.
You craned your neck to look at the evil red numbers. "1:15 AM."
He groaned. "I have to go in like an hour. If my mom wakes up for water and checks my room, I'm dead."
"Stay a little longer," you pleaded, tracing the sharp line of his collarbone with your fingertip.
His arm tightened around you. "Yeah. Okay. A little longer."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your ridiculously expensive hairspray.
"You know," he mumbled sleepily. "Dustin says you spend three hours in the bathroom every morning just staring at yourself in the mirror."
You pinched his side sharply. "He's a liar. It's only two hours."
Mike chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "He has no idea, does he? That you're... smart. And funny. And the best thing in this entire garbage town."
Your heart gave a little squeeze. It was moments like this, when the post-coital haze stripped away his usual awkwardness, that you remembered why you risked Dustin’s wrath for him.
"Don't tell anyone I'm smart, Wheeler," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest. "It’ll ruin my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me," he promised, tilting your chin up for one last, lingering kiss before the reality of the morning forced him back out into the cold night air. "Queen of the bimbos."
"King of the nerds," you whispered back against his lips.
It was the weirdest, riskiest, most confusing relationship in Hawkins. And you wouldn't trade it for all the pink lip gloss in the world.
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