Professor!Mike Wheeler x Student!GN!Reader
[Mike Wheeler who fell back on teaching after flunking as a writer, until you join his class, inspirational and maybe something more…]
CW: NSFW!! teacher+student to lovers, fluff mostly, eventual smut, kissing, smoking, age gap, secrecy, slow-burn, older mike, everyone is 18+
Music ~ Glory box, Portishead
By the time he was thirty-eight, Mike Wheeler had become the sort of professor students described with a mixture of affection and intimidation. Not because he was strict, because he cared too much.
His hair always grown a little too long, dark and slightly unruly, curling around his ears. A few faint grey strands peppered in over the past couple years. He wore glasses now, thin frames he pushed up his nose whenever he leaned over a page. Mostly he lived in button-downs and soft sweaters, the sort that made him look more like a writer than a professor.
Technically, he had been one once. One novel. Ten years ago. A promising debut fantasy that people had expected him to follow up with something bigger. He never had.
The writer’s block came quietly at first, then settled in like permanent weather. Teaching had become the closest thing he had to writing anymore. And even that had started to feel routine.
Until the first lecture of the semester.
You spoke halfway through the class. Not loudly. Not trying to show off. Just thoughtfully. You disagreed with Mike’s interpretation of the story they were discussing, gently pointing out a different reading of the main character’s motivations.
Mike leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded, listening, really listening. And when the you finished explaining your perspective, something strange happened.
He felt that old spark, the one he hadn’t felt in years. “Okay,” Mike said slowly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “That’s… actually a really interesting way to look at it.”
A few students glanced at him in surprise. Mike rarely admitted that someone else had a better point. For the rest of the discussion, Mike found himself watching you. Not intentionally, it just… kept happening.
The first time Mike realized he was in trouble was during workshop the following week. Students were exchanging drafts. Mike walked between desks, glancing over shoulders as they worked.
He stopped behind you, “Is this your story?” he asked.
You nod, “First chapter.”
Mike stepped closer, resting one hand on the back of the chair while he leaned forward to read. Then the other hand braced against the desk. Without realizing it, he’d ended up leaning over your shoulder, close enough to read the screen.
The writing was… good. Not polished yet, a little messy, but alive. Mike felt a slow smile spread across his face as he read a paragraph, “Okay,” he murmured.
You glance back at him. “Okay good or okay bad?”
“Very good,” Mike said quietly. He stayed there longer than he meant to, scanning the next few lines. Eventually he straightened, clearing his throat slightly. Your face brightened immediately, and for some reason, that reaction stuck with Mike for the rest of the day.
For the first time in years, Mike had started writing again. Not seriously, just fragments, ideas. Scenes scribbled into a notebook late at night, the excitement was back, the feeling that stories mattered again.
One afternoon after class, while the last students were packing up their bags, Mike looked up from his desk, You’re still there, gathering your things.
“There’s a reading downtown tonight,” he said, a little hesitantly. “Local authors. It’s actually pretty good.”
“Are you recommending it… or inviting me?”
Mike paused. For a moment he felt that familiar flicker of uncertainty. Professional boundaries. Expectations. You being at least ten years younger than him…
Yet again, you are an adult in your twenties. A writer. Someone who loves stories as much as he did. And the idea of sharing that world with you felt… natural.
“Inviting,” Mike admitted.
The bookstore was smaller than you expected. Warm lights, crooked stacks of novels, and rows of folding chairs filling the middle of the room. The air smelled faintly of coffee and paper.
Mike Wheeler stood near the back, hands in the pockets of his jacket. His hair looked slightly windblown from the walk over, and when he spotted the student coming through the door he pushed his glasses up his nose in a familiar, slightly distracted gesture.
He smiled at that, soft, a little relieved. Mike had changed out of his usual classroom sweater into another one, darker this time, layered over a button-down. The sleeves were already pushed up slightly, exposing his forearms the way he did when he got comfortable.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “I saved you a seat.”
You sat together while the authors began reading their work. Every now and then Mike leaned slightly closer to whisper a comment, an observation about a sentence, a quick joke about a cliché, a quiet appreciation for a good metaphor.
It was strange seeing him outside the classroom. More relaxed, less Mr Wheeler, more Mike. At one point he leaned toward you again, lowering his voice, murmuring another comment. His hand resting on your thigh, you speak, trying to distract yourself, “You can’t turn off the professor brain, can you?”
Mike huffed a quiet laugh, “Nope.” and then he realised where his hand had subconsciously landed. He cleared his throat a second later, leaning back in his chair.
When the reading ended, people filtered slowly toward the door. Mike lingered near one of the shelves, glancing through a stack of books, you follow.
He slid a book back onto the shelf before turning toward you, “Are you hungry?” The question came out casually, but there was a faint uncertainty behind it. “There’s a place around the corner,” he added quickly, “Good pasta.”
The restaurant was quiet, warm, and dimly lit. You ended up sitting across from each other in a small booth.
“…because if the character doesn’t believe the choice they’re making,” Mike was saying, leaning forward slightly, “then the reader won’t believe it either.”
You watch him for a second, “You really love this stuff.”
He pauses, “I used to,” he said quietly.
He hesitates, the restaurant lights reflected faintly in his glasses. “Writer’s block,” Mike admitted after a moment. “Ten years and counting.”
“But you understand stories better than anyone I’ve met.”
“That’s different from writing them.” he fidgets with his watch.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
“You started writing again, though.”
“You mentioned it last week.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed, “Yeah. A little.”
For a moment he looked like he might dodge the question. Instead he said quietly, “Honestly?”
A week later, after another long office hours discussion, Mike paused while gathering his papers. “Actually,” he said suddenly, “there’s something I want to show you.”
“My place isn’t far from here.” He seemed slightly awkward saying it, not nervous exactly, just aware of how it might sound. “I’ve got some old drafts I think might help with your worldbuilding.”
Mike’s apartment looked exactly like what someone would imagine a writer’s apartment looked like. Books everywhere. Stacks on shelves. Stacks on tables. Stacks on the floor beside the couch. Not messy, well- just full. A few framed prints hung on the walls, along with a bulletin board covered in old story notes.
“You weren’t kidding about the drafts.”
Mike laughed softly from the doorway, “Yeah… I might have a problem.”
He moved past you toward a shelf, reaching for a worn notebook. He ended up standing closer than either of you expected, you felt his presence, warm, steady. Mike opened the notebook and handed it over, “Early world-building stuff,” he said.
You flip through the pages. Detailed maps. Character notes. Fragments of scenes. “You wrote all this?”
Mike watched you reading for a moment. Something complicated flickered across his face. Because standing there, in the quiet of his apartment, he felt the same awareness he’d been trying to ignore for weeks.
You look up suddenly. Your eyes met. Mike realized, with a slow and slightly unsettling clarity, that his feelings had crossed a line somewhere along the way.
It wasn’t just admiration anymore. Or mentorship. Or even simple attraction. It was something deeper. Something warmer. Mike looked away first, clearing his throat, “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “some friends of mine are getting together tonight.”
“Old friends. From way back.” He hesitated, cringed a little, that made him sound ancient. Then added casually, “You should come.”
The moment you walked into the restaurant, they understood the situation a little better. The group at the table lived up to his description. Late thirties - early forties. Couples mostly. A few toddlers in high chairs. One baby carrier balanced on a chair.
Mike got up to greet you with a big smile, introducing you as you sat beside him. His friends greeted you warmly, but you couldn’t help noticing the curious glances passing between a few of them.
One of the women leaned toward Mike with a small smile, “Student?” she asked quietly.
Mike nodded, completely unconcerned, “Yeah. A friend really, we just happened to meet through my class.”
Another friend laughed lightly, “Your best student?”
Mike grinned, so smitten it was making him oblivious to every hint and sarcastic comment, “Probably, yeah.”
Wedding rings. Conversations about daycare. Stories about sleepless nights with newborns. And then there was Mike. Thirty-eight. Single. Childless. His closest companion at the moment being someone from his own class.
You shift slightly in your chair, feeling out of place. Less like a sore thumb, more like a duck in a pond of geese. Mike didn’t seem to notice, and that somehow made it more awkward.
Later that night, the group slowly began saying their goodbyes. You and Mike stepping outside with into the cool evening air. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket.
“Hope that didn’t feel too weird,” he said, lighting it.
You watched the small flare of the lighter, he really was pretty, it made you wonder even more how he’s remained celibate all these years.
Mike glanced over, surprised.
“You were the only single one there.”
He exhaled smoke slowly, considering that, “…what?”
“No,” he scratches the back of his neck, truthfully he was too focused on you to notice. He leaned back against the brick wall beside the restaurant.
After a moment, he offers the cigarette. You hesitate, then take it. Your fingers brushed briefly. Mike felt the contact like a small electric current.
“You fit in fine,” Mike said after a while.
You laugh softly, “With a bunch of people ten- twenty years older than me?”
Mike turned his head slightly, “You’re not that much younger.” he studied you for a second, then said quietly, “You’re one of the most intelligent and interesting people I know.” His hand coming to cup the back of your head reassuringly.
It happened during office hours. You had your laptop open on Mike’s desk, scrolling through the newest chapter of your story. Mike stood behind them, leaning forward to read. One hand rested on the desk beside the keyboard. The other held his glasses loosely as he squinted at the screen. His sweater sleeves were pushed up again, revealing his forearms as he traced a line of dialogue with his finger.
“This line,” he said quietly, “perfect. Well done.”
You smile slightly, “Thanks, I was worried you’d hate that one, Mr Wheeler.”
Mike froze, then exhaled softly, “Please don’t call me that.”
The student glanced back at him, amused, “What? Mr Wheeler?”
His knuckles tighten, “Yes.” adam’s apple bobbing nervously.
“You’re literally my professor.”
Mike rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, “I know, but it makes me sound like some braindead gym teacher from 1984.”
He hesitated, now ‘Mike’ sounded weird too, maybe the names weren’t the reason he felt strange.
“You secretly like it though.”
Mike snorted, “No, I don’t.”
Later that night, you’d been sitting in his apartment for hours already, papers and notebooks scattered across the coffee table.
Your newest chapter was open on his laptop. Mike tried to stay focused, he really did. But the problem with you being in his apartment was that it was comfortable, too comfortable.
Mike was sitting sideways on the couch now, his back against the armrest, long legs stretched across the cushions. “You cannot seriously think that line works,” he said, pointing at the screen.
“It absolutely works!” you scoff.
“It absolutely does not!”
You glare at each other. Then you snatch the laptop away.
“Excuse me?” Mike said immediately.
“You’re editing my comments.”
“I’m fixing your bad opinions.”
Mike rolls his eyes, leaning forward, trying to grab the computer. You twist away, “Hey!”
In the awkward shuffle that followed, the laptop ended up on the coffee table and you ended up half sitting across Mike’s legs. Neither of you notice at first, you’re too busy arguing.
“You’re impossible,” Mike muttered.
Mike laughed despite himself, you lean forward again, trying to grab the laptop. Mike catching your wrist, “Absolutely not.”
You try to pull away, Mikes grip remained. You sigh dramatically, leaning forward further, trying to reach around him. And suddenly the balance shifted. Now you’re sitting directly across his waist.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “This seems… unfair.”
“Stop cheating,” he said, “You’re literally holding me down.”
“Strategically restraining.” you say rolling your eyes and shoving lightly at his shoulder. Mike shoved back, it was barely a push, but you lost your balance slightly and fell forward. Your hands landed on Mike’s chest to steady themselves.
Everything froze. The laughter faded. Mike felt the warmth of you sitting across his waist. Felt the pressure of their hands against his sweater. For a moment neither of you moved. Mike’s brain went completely blank. His glasses had slipped again, and when he pushed them back up his nose his hand brushed briefly against the student’s arm.
“Uh,” he said intelligently.
You look down at him. Very close. Too close. Mike’s heart started beating faster. He had imagined this moment more times than he wanted to admit. But imagining it and actually being here were two very different things.
“You should uh- probably get up,” he said softly.
But he didn’t move his hands from where they were resting lightly at your waist. You didn’t move either.
“…do you- want me to?” they asked.
Mike hesitated. That question hit him right in the chest. Because the honest answer was painfully obvious.
“No,” he admitted quietly. The word hung in the air. Mike swallowed, suddenly nervous in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
The room felt smaller suddenly. More intimate. Mike’s thumb brushed lightly against your side without him realizing it, he lifted one hand slowly and brushed a stray piece of hair away from your face. That same hand slipping to the back of your neck, guiding your lips closer to his.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
And then his lips are on yours, Mike made a soft, surprised sound against your mouth as your fingers slide into his curls. The kiss deepened quickly, months of tension finally snapping all at once.
He was a little rusty, but that neediness quickly had him back in gear. His knee shifted between your legs, not hesitant, certain. His fingers curling gently at your hip as he pulls you closer.
You made a quiet surprised sound, but didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned into him more, grinding against his leg. That was all the encouragement Mike needed. Without really thinking about it, he shifted slightly on the couch, the one hand firm on your waist.
“Careful, Mr Wheeler,” you murmur with a breathless laugh.
“Too late,” Mike groaned. He shifted again, gently guiding you backward across the cushions. It happened almost naturally, the playful wrestling from earlier turning into something charged, more passionate.
Mike hovers above you, bracing one arm beside your shoulder, flustering at the feeling of your hands sliding down his torso to untuck his shirt. He just watches you, desperate for him, the sound of his zipper and belt unbuckling making his adrenaline run high and blood pump faster. His hair had fallen forward slightly. His glasses were halfway down his nose again.
You reach up and tug lightly at the front of his sweater, “Mike,” you whine. That was all it took. He leaned down again, kissing you with a little more confidence now. His fingers working your jeans, pushing them off entirely. His slender hands sliding up your shirt and then slowly down your waist, resting at your knees. His lips trailing wet kisses down your neck, to your navel, to your inner thighs. You moan, back arching as he presses another right through your cotton underwear, against your sex.
When he leant up to kiss you again, his expression was much more intense than you’re used to, needy. “You see me,” his breath hot against your mouth, “I love it, I love you.” and then he was shrugging his pants off and lining himself up to you.
That final look did it for the both of you, you both wanted it, you both needed it. He pushes into you slowly, “Big stretch now, m’sorry baby,” he kisses your cheek with a whimper. Admittedly this is a lot for him too, physically and emotionally, “just tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
“Mmph-“ is as much as you can get out right now, he wasn’t lying about the big stretch part, but it wasn’t bad. It was anything but that.
Once he bottoms out, he kisses between your brows, his own breath trembling too. And once he moves, his strokes aren’t aggressive, they’re passionate. You can tell he’s the kind of guy to call this ‘making love’ truthfully you love that about him.
You can tell he’s a little embarrassed that he only lasts a few minutes before his thrusts are getting sloppy, “M’sorry- m’sorry love, I can- I can pull out if you-“
You shake your head no before he can even finish the question, pressing a kiss to his jaw, and that undid him. Feeling him shudder and melt into you released that knot in your stomach too. He gently rests in the crook of your neck as the two of you come down, fingers intertwining with yours as he presses lazy kisses at your pulse point.
The strange thing was that you never formally talked about it. There was no long conversation about rules or expectations. Just an unspoken understanding. You were doing this, but it had to stay quiet. Mike still had a class to teach, and you both knew how it would look if anyone found out. So officially, nothing had changed. Unofficially… everything had.
The first risky moment happened on campus. You had stopped by Mike’s office after class to talk about their latest chapter, the door wide open. Students passed occasionally in the hallway. Everything looked perfectly normal. Mike sat behind his desk reviewing a page of notes.
“…your pacing in the middle still slows down,” he said.
You leaned against the desk, arms folded, “Mr. Wheeler, I-”
Mike groaned softly, “Don’t start.”
You smile faintly. Mike tried to focus on the paper in front of him. But he could feel you standing there, watching him, that look you’d been giving him lately. The one that made his concentration fall apart.
“Stop that,” he said suddenly, his knee bouncing anxiously under the desk.
“That look.” his fingers tightened at the fabric of his pants.
Mike glanced up. Big mistake, because you were closer now, leaning slightly toward him. Mike’s brain short-circuited. He stood abruptly, “Close the door,” he said quietly.
You raise an eyebrow, “Professor-”
Something in his voice made you move. The door clicked shut. Mike barely waited a second before pulling them toward him and kissing them. Fast. Hungry. Like he’d been holding it in all day.
They both pulled apart suddenly when voices passed in the hallway. Mike ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard, “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered.
He kissed you again anyway.
Mike had promised himself he would behave. That night his friends had gathered at someone’s apartment again. Wine. Music. Writers talking loudly about books. You stood beside him in the kitchen while Mike talked to someone about a novel. But his focus kept drifting. Every time he glanced over, you were already looking at him.
At one point one of Mike’s older friends, half tipsy, started chatting with you. Leaning closer. Laughing. Mike noticed immediately. Something sharp flared in his chest, he tried to ignore it, tried to keep talking to the person in front of him.
But when his friend lightly touched your arm while laughing, that was it. Mike stepped in, “Hey,” he said. Mike’s expression was calm, but his hand landed firmly at the small of your back, “Can I steal you for a second?”
Mike guided you down the hallway. The second they turned the corner out of sight, he pushed you gently against the wall and kissed you.
“Was that jealousy?” you almost laugh.
Mike pulled back slightly, “…maybe.”
He groaned through a grin and kissed you again.
Dinner was supposed to be normal. Just the two of you at a small restaurant. You both had agreed to behave. Which worked… for about twenty minutes.
You sat across from each other discussing a novel. Mike had his sleeves pushed up again, gesturing animatedly while explaining something about narrative structure. His forearms and hands were oddly attractive, that paired with his chronic over-gesturing, you were the one to break first.
“…because if the protagonist doesn’t-” He stopped mid-sentence.
Your foot had brushed his ankle under the table. Mike blinked. Then it happened again, this time slowly sliding up his leg. Mike nearly choked on his drink, and you looked completely innocent, “Something wrong?” you asked, incredibly coy.
Mike stared at you. You held his gaze. And suddenly the entire conversation between you shifted without a word. Mike leaned forward slightly, “We should go,” he murmured.
He paid the bill in record time, tip and all. Mike barely waited until you were outside before pulling you into the shadowed alley beside the restaurant, “You’re trouble,” he muttered before kissing them again.
You laughed softly against his mouth, “And you love it.”
The real problem was simple. It’s not so hard to hide physically, the real challenge is hiding feelings. Every time you saw each other the same thing happened. Looks lingered too long. Hands found excuses to touch. Conversations drifted closer and closer until neither of you remembered why you were trying to behave in the first place.
And Mike, despite being the older and supposedly responsible one, was often the worst of the both of you. And with your time at the university coming to a close, he was scared this was the end. Because the truth he was slowly being absorbed by was terrifyingly simple.
He didn’t just like you. He didn’t just admire you. He loved you. He knew you thought it was just something he said in the heat of the moment that night the two of you… but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. And apparently that meant he had absolutely no self-control when you were near.
The next afternoon, you stopped by Mike’s office. You had that same look again, the one that made his heart skip, made him forget how to breathe.
“You okay?” You ask softly, noticing how tense he looked.
Mike groaned and ran a hand through his hair, “No,” he admitted. “No, I’m not okay. I… I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You froze, caught off guard by how unguarded he sounded.
“I… I know,” Mike continued, pacing slightly. “I know it’s complicated. And I know it’s unconventional. I just… I can’t help it. I want… I want you. All the time.”
Mike laughed bitterly, “Hate myself?” he echoed. “I’ve been terrified I’d ruin everything, you’re leaving soon and I just don’t know if this was- I don’t know if this meant to you what it meant to me. I don’t know how to be without you.”
You step closer, your hand brushed his arm, “Why is this so scary to you Mike?”
Mike’s chest tightened, “Because I love you,” he muttered. “Really love you, and I don’t even know if you feel the same. This isn’t some midlife crisis or weird predatory thing or some shit I just said because we made love-”
Mike exhaled shakily, pulling you into his arms and leaning down, brushing his forehead against yours, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”
A silence hung before you said, “I knew you were the ‘made love’ kinda guy Mr Wheeler,”
“You’re impossible” he chuckled.
gummygunk
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
andulkaphoto
