MHutch

She/her

[ms-hutch]

Mike Schmidt masterlist

Hey, so here’s a little bit about me :)

She/her

18

INTJ

Aries

Certified overthinker

🌟 My current interests :

Hunger Games

Any Jhutch movie

reading

coding

some writing

baking

travelling

skiing

hockey

music (Linkin Park, Chase Atlantic, and much more)

📖 One of my fav quotes -“It’s the things we love the most that destroy us.”

My character.ai : @M_Hutch

[ms-hutch]

“Christmas decorations”

Mike x Reader

0.6 words

Author’s note : haven’t seen the new FNAF 2 yet so there might not be some details. Also if you have any ideas for scenarios please send them my way!

Mike had agreed to decorate.

That was the mistake.

He hadn’t said how much, which in hindsight felt like a rookie error. But in his defense, when he pictured “Christmas decorations,” his brain supplied something reasonable. A small tree. One string of lights. Maybe a wreath that shed pine needles and quietly annoyed him until January.

What he did not picture was this.

He unlocked the apartment door, stepped inside and stopped so abruptly his shoulder bumped the frame.

The living room was glowing. Not softly. Not tastefully. Glowing like the sun had been replaced with warm white LEDs and seasonal optimism. Garland wrapped the walls. The bookshelf he’d built you was fully outlined in lights. There were ornaments hanging from places that had no business hosting ornaments. Candles lined the windowsill. The tree in the corner looked… aggressive. Taller than it had any right to be, drowning in decorations, tinsel, ribbon, bows.

Mike just stood there.

“…No,” he said quietly.

You peeked around the corner, already smiling. “Hey!”

He didn’t look at you. He was still processing the room like it was a crime scene. “I was gone for eight hours.”

“Yeah?”

“I said I was okay with a little festive spirit.”

You stepped fully into view. “This is spirit.”

“This is a hostile takeover,” he replied.

You crossed your arms. “You said the apartment could use some warmth.”

“I meant emotionally,” he said. “Not… whatever winter cult this is.”

You tried not to laugh. Failed. “I might’ve gotten carried away.”

He walked further in, slowly, like he expected something to fall on him. He stopped in front of the bookshelf and stared at the lights wrapped perfectly around the edges.

“…You measured.”

“Yes.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I built that with actual tools.”

“And now it’s festive.”

“It’s a load-bearing shelf,” he muttered. “It doesn’t need a personality.”

You leaned against the counter, watching him take it all in. The tension in his shoulders wasn’t anger, it was exhaustion. Work had been long. Money was tight. And now the apartment looked like it had opinions.

“How much of this is permanent,” he asked carefully.

“Just for December.”

“And the candles?”

“Ambience.”

“And the fake snow in the corner?”

You hesitated. “…Decorative ambience.”

He rubbed his face. “I don’t hate Christmas.”

You raised a brow.

“I just hate surprises,” he corrected. “And clutter. And expenses.”

That one landed quieter.

You softened. “I didn’t go crazy with money. I just… wanted it to feel like something good. This year’s been rough.”

That made him pause.

He looked around again, slower this time. Not assessing damage but noticing effort. The way the lights were evenly spaced. The tree balanced just right. The care you’d put into making the place feel alive.

“…You could’ve warned me,” he said.

“You would’ve tried to stop me.”

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

Then he reached out and adjusted one crooked ornament on the tree. “This one’s gonna fall.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “You’re fixing it.”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

He stepped back, arms crossed. “Okay. Some of this stays.”

You brightened. “Really?”

“The lights,” he said. “The tree. The bookshelf outline.”

You smiled wider.

“The candles,” he added, “are a fire hazard.”

“Rude.”

“And whatever that is,” he gestured at a decorative centerpiece, “is coming down.”

“Compromise?”

He nodded. “Compromise.”

Then, quieter, almost under his breath: “It’s… not awful.”

You moved closer, bumping his shoulder lightly with yours. “High praise.”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he didn’t turn the lights off.

And when you sat together later, the apartment glowing around you, he didn’t complain again — just leaned back, tired but present, like maybe too much Christmas was still better than none at all.

[ms-hutch]

The dog fic was so cuteeee. You’re honestly my favorite Mike writer. You’re doing amazing, sweetie 💕💕💕

Omg thank you!!! It truly means SO much to me ❤️❤️❤️

(And I promise to post more stories)

[ms-hutch]

“Dog trouble”

Mike Schmidt x Reader

0.8 words

Post FNAF AU (for more explanation check “Bookshelf” story)

Author’s note : Unfortunately inspired by my yesterday’s events during dogsitting but as long as it gives some motivation to create stories I’ll take it ig

Money had been tight lately, and both of you knew it. Between Mike’s new job and rent, there wasn’t a lot of room for surprises — which was why, when you came home one afternoon cradling a shivering, scruffy little dog wrapped in your jacket, Mike froze mid-step in the kitchen doorway.

He blinked once. Twice. Then:

“…No.”

You smiled innocently. “Hear me out.”

“No,” he repeated, pointing toward the door like the word was a command. “Whatever that is, put it back where you found it.”

“It’s a dog, Mike. A lost dog.”

“Yeah? Well, it looks found now,” he said, already dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t just— we can’t—” He gestured helplessly, searching for logic. “You can’t adopt every sad pair of eyes you see on the street.”

The dog whimpered. You looked down at it, then back up at him. “He followed me home.”

“Sure he did,” Mike muttered. “You probably offered him half your sandwich.”

You said nothing, which was answer enough.

He sighed — that long, resigned sigh you’d come to recognize as Fine, I’m losing this argument but I’m still going to complain about it. He crouched, looking at the dog warily. “Great. He’s dirty, he’s probably covered in fleas, and we can’t even afford a real couch right now.”

You smiled a little. “But look at his face.”

“I’m trying not to.”

The dog wagged its tail once and then, like some sort of divine test, leaned forward and licked his hand. Mike froze, stared at the dog, then at you. “He did that on purpose.”

“Maybe he just likes you.”

“Yeah, that’s worse.”

But he didn’t tell you to take the dog back outside. Instead, he grumbled something under his breath about giving it food “just this once,” and disappeared into the kitchen.

Three days later, Mike’s stance had softened from absolutely not to temporary house guest under review. The little dog — you’d started calling him Bean — had claimed a blanket by the couch and followed you everywhere. You’d even caught Mike sneaking him leftover chicken once. He swore it was an accident.

Then came the morning disaster.

You woke to the sound of Mike muttering from the living room, the low rasp of his voice sharp with frustration. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You stumbled in, half asleep. “What’s wrong?”

He turned, holding up the frayed end of his laptop charger like it was a crime scene exhibit. “This. This is wrong. Your little angel decided to eat forty dollars’ worth of electricity.”

You glanced down. Bean sat nearby, tail thumping nervously, a small piece of wire insulation still stuck to his whiskers.

“Oh no…” you said quietly.

“Oh yes,” Mike replied. “He chewed through the only thing I need for work, and now I can’t even check my emails. Harris is gonna think I died.”

You bit back a smile, trying to sound serious. “Maybe it was an accident?”

“An accident,” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “He dragged it under the couch like a trophy.”

You crouched beside Bean, who promptly rolled over and exposed his belly. “He feels bad.”

“I feel broke,” Mike said flatly, dropping the charger on the counter. “Do you know how much this costs? Of course you don’t, because you were too busy running your stray dog rescue.”

You stood and crossed your arms. “Okay, first of all, our stray dog. And second, I’ll cover the charger.”

“With what, optimism?” he asked, but there was already a trace of humor fighting its way into his voice.

You sighed. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll pick up an extra shift this weekend.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s fine. I’ll ask Harris if he’s got a spare one at the shop. He’s got, like, a junk drawer of random cords.” He paused, then added, “But the dog’s on probation.

You smiled. “Probation?”

“Yeah. One more offense and he’s out. No appeals, no second chances.”

Bean barked once, as if in argument.

Mike pointed at him. “Don’t talk back.”

You laughed, and he tried not to smile, but failed — just a little. “You’re lucky he’s cute,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket.

“See?” you said, following him to the door. “I knew you’d come around.”

He stopped, turned halfway, and gave you that half-smirk, the one that always carried equal parts annoyance and affection. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning on the doorframe. “But you like me anyway.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering something about “questionable life choices,” but when he bent down to tie his boots, Bean waddled over and pressed against his ankle. Mike didn’t move for a second, then gave in with a resigned sigh and a quiet, “Fine. But you’re paying for the next charger, pal.”

[ficpmaan]

"drum show" mike schmidt x gn!reader

summary: teen Mike invites you to listen to the drumming. sketch. (possible translations errors)

words: 0.7

notes: guys, I haven't written anything for a long time. it must be terrible. tell me if there's blood coming out of your eyes

"after lessons at the school gates. I'll put on a show just for you :)" the note fell on your desk in math class and you immediately recognized mike's handwriting. slightly careless broken letters, a black pen and a silly smiley face :) at the end.

you did just that, and after school you were standing at the school gates when you heard mike's voice behind you.

"thank you for agreeing.. let's go..", he awkwardly wrapped his hand around your palm, touching your knuckles with his thumb. mike looked like his usual self: a big gray hoodie, wide pants, sneakers, a backpack that hung down to his ass, bangs that covered his eyes. he wasn't always like this.

unfortunately, after the terrible incident with his brother, mike changed. he didn't laugh so much anymore, didn't wear his silly red hoodie, and didn't eat ice cream after school. but he didn't turn his back on you.

mike also found himself in music. in the summer before his 14th birthday, he illegally worked in a store as a loader, helping to carry heavy boxes to the warehouse. that's when he got his first paycheck and bought the drums. a used musical instrument, a dusty old garage, and a teenager on the verge of suicide. what could have come of it?

but mike was a fast learner, taking out his anger and sadness on his drum kit, constantly breaking sticks and shouting loudly. the neighbors complained about him, but not mike, not his parents didn't care.

you've known him since the beginning of school. you walked with him on weekends, bungee-jumped into the lake, and laughed at school breaks. you were almost always there. that's why mike let you get very close to him. so much so that now sometimes at recess you would kiss each other at school and wink stupidly at each other at recess.

he had been shutting himself in lately, hardly coming to lessons and not explaining anything. but today he invited you to his garage, his place of strength and tranquility. you're finally going to spend time together.

mike opens the door to the garage, turns on the light and sits down at the drums.

"I've learned some new songs.. do you want to listen?", there was a plea in his words. an exact plea that you listen to his playing, see how he puts all his strength into this song, finally lets his soul out of his body.

“yeah.. of course," you put your backpack on the old, dusty sofa and sit next to it. mike starts.

he's puttin' on a drum show

the music fills a small space, hits his ears, mike turns the drumsticks in his hands and knocks loudly. his bangs fly up with every movement, he frowns, closess eyes and doesn't even look at the drums. all movements are made from memory. you don't know this song, you don't know the artist or the band, but you feel all of mike's pain, which slides through all the rhythm and sounds.

one song gives way to another, something fast, sharp, then something calm and sweet. on the last song, you arrive in shock.

mike starts singing. a light voice, slightly trembling and broken, but you can hear him, a guy who has been afraid all his life to even jokingly sing along to a song, who was almost silent during public appearances or school projects.

I've been this way

I want to change

I've been this way

"I want to change!", mike's voice breaks, a loud scream pierces the room, hoarse, long and full of inner pain.

he finishes playing the song and drops his drumsticks on the floor. the sound echoes through the garage, and you just sit there in shock. the music is still ringing in your ears, and you'll remember mike's voice, his face, and his scream.

he looks up at you, trying to catch his breath. his hands are shaking, and his shapeless gray hoodie is stuck to his body.

"did you like it...?"

—

mike is behind the guys from the band, while the vocalist pulls notes and the guitarist performs a solo. today is graduation day, and in honor of this, the school music group decided to perform a few songs.

you stand in the crowd, looking only at mike and knowing that after a while he will come to you, hug you and tell you how much he loves you.

the day he arranged the drum show for you, something changed.

[m1kzzz]

MY NICK BRADY HEADCANONS!

- He would show his love with small actions such as bringing you bouquets of flowers, chocolate boxes and much more even though he didn't have enough money even for himself.

- If something happens to you, he would never be able to forgive himself. He needs you in his life, you're the most precious thing he has.

- After what happened to his family, he's not sure anymore about having a family at all. He doesn't want a kid, scared he won't be able to protect and take care of them. He doesn't want to fail anyone anymore.

- He still surfs from time to time, but not as much as before, since it was something he'd do with his brother. But if you're with him, he manages to forget about it for some time.

- He would sacrifice everything for you, even his own life.

- His favorite thing would probably be kissing you. He just would love seeing your reaction everytime. Those kisses could go from making out to simple gentle pecks that show how much he cares and cherishes you, all his love.

[ms-hutch]

“Bookshelf”

Mike x reader

Summary : post FNAF movie (few months), Mike has gotten a new job as apprentice constructor (FNAF movie novel canon) and has decided to use the work benefits to make furniture for his home.

1k words

It was weird, seeing Mike with a routine.

For the longest time after Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, you weren’t sure if he’d ever have one again.

At first, he’d been in survival mode, the kind where “get through today” was the biggest goal he’d set for himself. You’d watch him sit on the couch at night, jaw tight, his mind clearly somewhere else, like he was still stuck in those dimly lit hallways with the flicker of faulty bulbs over his head. He wasn’t the type to talk about it much, no long monologues about trauma, no big “I’m fine” speeches, but you could tell by the way his hands curled into fists in his sleep that he was still fighting something.

And then Harris happened.

Harris was a gruff, broad-shouldered contractor who ran a small crew on the edge of town. You’d met him once at the hardware store when you and Mike were buying a stubborn leaky faucet, and Harris had apparently taken note of Mike’s quiet way of listening and his natural patience with the instructions.

A few weeks later, Harris offered him a shot: apprentice contractor. Steady work, real hours, and most importantly something to build instead of just survive.

Mike didn’t say yes right away. He’d made some joke about “not exactly being Bob the Builder material,” but the way his shoulders straightened when Harris said “You’ll learn. You’ve got the focus for it” told you he was tempted. He started the following Monday.

Now, three weeks in, the change was obvious. He came home physically tired instead of mentally wrung-out. He smelled like pine, varnish, and sometimes sweat, his hair dusted with wood shavings. You’d even caught him humming once while changing out of his work shirt which, for Mike, was basically a parade and fireworks.

That Friday night, you found him at Harris’s shop, long after the rest of the crew had gone home.

The big garage door was half-rolled up, letting the cool evening air in. The inside smelled of sawdust, machine oil, and something faintly sweet — cedar, maybe. Under a single overhead light, Mike was at one of the long wooden workbenches, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a pencil stuck behind one ear. His hair was messy, probably from running a hand through it every five minutes, and he was squinting down at a board as if staring it into perfect alignment.

“You know,” you called from the doorway, “most boyfriends take their girlfriends out for dinner on a Friday night. You… make furniture.”

He glanced up, smirked faintly, and went back to marking the wood. “Yeah, well, dinner gets eaten. This’ll last longer.”

You stepped inside, brushing stray curls of wood off the bench. “So what are you building? Coffee table? Throne for your ego?”

“Bookshelf,” he said simply, lining up his tape measure. “You’ve been stacking your books on the floor like some kind of… gremlin. Figured I’d save your knees and give you something decent.”

Your brows lifted. “A bookshelf. For me.”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he said, smirking without looking up. “I do nice things sometimes. Don’t spread it around, though ruins my reputation.”

You walked around to his side of the bench, running your hand over the smooth wood. “So this is your master plan? Win me over with power tools?”

“Worked on you, didn’t it?” He glanced up at you with that sideways look he was so good at — half amusement, half challenge.

“Actually, if I recall correctly,” you said, “you won me over with caffeine dependency, stubbornness, and sad eyes.”

“Details,” he muttered, grabbing the drill. Then, as if realizing you were still there, he paused. “You wanna help, or are you just here to make fun of me?”

“A little of both,” you said, but moved closer anyway.

He handed you the drill, his hands lingering just long enough to adjust your grip. “Keep it steady. Let the drill do the work. And, just so you know if you scratch this, I’m blaming Harris and telling him it was all his fault for letting you near his tools.”

“Wow, so much trust,” you deadpanned.

The drill whirred, and when you finished, Mike stepped back to inspect your work. “Not bad. For an amateur.”

“Not bad for a guy who just learned how to use these three weeks ago,” you shot back.

He grinned faintly and shook his head, muttering something about you being “ungrateful.” But you saw the pride in the way he lined up the next piece careful, precise, making sure everything was flush.

The two of you worked like that for nearly an hour trading sarcastic jabs between stretches of comfortable silence until the shelf stood fully assembled. The pale pine gleamed under the workshop light, smelling faintly of varnish.

Mike stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “There. Now you can stop living like you’re still in a dorm.”

You crossed your arms, pretending to study it critically. “Hmm. I think the milk crates had more… character.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, that little spark of mock-annoyance lighting up his expression. “You’re taking this home whether you like it or not.”

You laughed and helped him carry it to his truck. As he strapped it down in the bed, he caught you watching him, and for a moment the teasing edge in his eyes softened.

He wouldn’t say it out loud, not here, not yet, but you knew. This wasn’t just a piece of furniture. It was the first thing he’d made in months that wasn’t about fixing something broken. It was something solid, something for you, something meant to last.

[ms-hutch]

Mike Schmidt masterlist

🤍 - fluff 🧸 - Mike x Abby 💔 - angst

🤍 A noise

🤍 Birthday picnic

🤍 Valentine’s Day

🤍 Face masks with Mike

🤍 Name day

🤍 18th birthday

🤍 Bookshelf

🤍 Dog trouble

🧸 School morning

💔 Mike comforting reader

[ms-hutch]

School year’s over and all exams are passed (yay!!!) which means I can now actually breathe and finally focus on writing again (and maybe more?)

Recently started reading FNAF movie novel and now I’m kinda more obsessed with Mike (again??) So expect more Mike content soon. If anyone’s got requests, please send them my way - desperately need some inspo 🙏

[m1kzzz]

MY SEAN ANDERSON HEADCANONS!

- Sean would always be planning mini adventures with you: hikes, road trips, exploring local “mystery spots,” or even urban exploring. He’s the kind of boyfriend who says “Let’s go find something weird today.”

- He acts like he’s too cool for romance, but he would do the sweetest things like mapping out a star constellation and naming one after you, or leaving cryptic treasure-hunt-style notes around town leading to a picnic spot.

- He’s had enough experience with danger to know what fear actually feels like. So while he’s protective, he never underestimates your abilities — he encourages you, trusts you, and supports you rather than being overbearing.

- Maybe it’s the influence of his love for Jules Verne, or just his sentimental side, but Sean writes occasional handwritten notes or letters: especially when you two would be apart. He thinks texting is fine, but ink on paper feels more meaningful.

- If you'd like mythology, books, science, or even cryptids, Sean would dive into it with you. He’ll binge-read Greek myths or research the Loch Ness Monster just to talk about it more. He lives for passionate convos.

- He'd casually flex his climbing skills. He would play it cool but hope you notice.

[ficpmaan]

"summer" sean anderson x gn!reader

summary: sean invites you to his grandmother's for a little vacation (possible translations errors)

words: 1.2

on a hot summer day when the sun was shining through your window and the curtains were blowing in the wind, sean came to your house and invited you to his grandmother's for a short rest. he promised an unforgettable day somewhere in the wilderness, where you will be surrounded only by forests, rivers and birdsong. and he wasn't lying.

his grandmother was a lovely woman and her house smelled of dust and old books that had been read several times. sean showed you his old room, where he used to spend all his summers when he was younger. from his closet, he took out a t-shirt and shorts that were the perfect size for you. the silly dinosaur print on the fabric only added comfort and tranquility, and sean's hands on your waist made your knees tremble.

"that's it, beautiful. let's eat now and I'll take you to the river.. maybe we'll even go for a swim.. I can give you another t-shirt to cover all your body" - his voice was slightly playful, but very caring. the desire to show you all the secret corners of this place has inspired the desire to sit in a room together and kiss your sweet cheeks.

about an hour later, sean put you in the back seat of his old bike and ordered you to hold on very tightly. the wind blew across your cheeks as the bike carried you forward. the beautiful landscapes of this place made you think about a lot, and you realized that life in the city can be comfortable, but it is not saturated with true freedom and purity of soul. different types of trees made a noise like the force of the winds, cones fell to the ground, and rare bugs crawled along the trunks. after about 10 minutes, you found yourself at a small river with a slope of several meters and a neatly trodden path to the shore. sean stopped and you got off the bike, looking around. there was genuine joy and happiness on his face from this moment. He was finally able to share these spaces with someone he truly cared about.

"do I want to jump into the river? are you with me?" - his hands pick up a t-shirt and throw it on the ground, and then he also deftly takes off his shoes and shorts, remaining in front of you in only swimming trunks. you try not to stare at him, but it's almost impossible.

"um.. yes, but I'd rather go down.." - you pointed to the path to the shore and he nodded to you, then ran forward, pushed off the edge and jumped into the water with a run.

you still decided to take off your t-shirt and went downstairs in just your underwear, which was instead of swimming trunks, and then entered the cool water, which tickled your skin. sean was already completely wet, actively moving his arms and swimming up to you, smiling his snow-white smile. he abruptly grabbed your hand and pulled you towards him, and you fell into the water. for a couple of seconds, you thought your heart would stop when the cold went through your entire body, but then you slowly got used to this temperature and stopped gasping for air.

"are you afraid?" - sean's voice was slightly sarcastic as he squinted at you and laughed. He wasn't used to people not jumping into the water or being afraid of the cold. but he's willing to forgive you for that. In response, you just splashed water on him and snorted, awkwardly swimming away.

"hey!" - he grabbed your leg underwater and pulled you towards him hugging you from behind. "don't be offended, honey.. I'm used to running with my friends and loving this cold.. come on, cling to my back, I'll show you something.."

of course you couldn't take offense at him for long, there was something in those eyes and innocent gaze that caught on, and you did as he asked. sean swam to the other side, because the river was narrow, and then came ashore, taking your hand.

"here, look.." - you look ahead and see a small hut and a hammock behind the bushes. this place is closed from prying eyes, as if you have entered another world. "I did this a few years ago with a friend. james brought the branches, and I brought the ropes for the hammock. we built our little world in a few days," sean walked forward, stepping on the soft grass under his feet as the water ran down his toned, athletic body. you shivered slightly in the cool air as you followed him. in fact, it looked amazing. you've never seen such a small world hidden from prying eyes.

"get in the hammock. I can go back and drive around the river, it's not far. give me five minutes. I'll bring you your clothes and a towel, I don't want you to get cold." - sean lifted you onto a hammock, kissed you gently on the lips, and then disappeared behind the bushes and you heard the splash of water. during sean's absence, the birds sang their beautiful song, the ants built new tunnels in their house, and the butterflies collected nectar from the flowers. after about 5 minutes, you heard the sound of a bicycle, and sean finally appeared in front of you. he jumped to the ground, took a towel, and quickly wrapped it around your shoulders.

"that's it, bask, honey. come on, move over..." - he slightly pushed you aside and climbed into the hammock, which was comfortable for two, so you had to change your position and lie on top of him. sean's skin radiated warmth, and you gently rested your head on his chest. "yeah.. that's better.." - his voice filled your ears as he told some old life stories and gently stroked your back. after a couple of minutes, you felt tired, and after a while you fell asleep.

you dreamed of a field with flowers, beautiful birds and the face of sean, who gently held your hand.

you woke up and saw darkness in front of you. the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, leaving an orange trail on the ground. your cheeks hurt because of the position you were sleeping in, and your fingers were rubbing your tired eyes. sean was asleep.

you jumped off him, changed your clothes, put on a t-shirt with shorts, and then started waking him up.

"hey.. wake up.." - sean jumped up as if on cue, blinking his eyes and looking around.

"oh, shit..." - he rubbed his eyes and stretched. judging by his appearance, sean was feeling great. "I'm sorry, I think I fell asleep too.." - he was definitely saying the obvious things.

you're ready to go home in 10 minutes, flexing your muscles. sean's back was warm and strong when you snuggled up to him while riding a bike. now the wind was colder than during the day, and it was dark in the forest, so you had to turn on the flashlight on your bike.

sean's grandmother started worrying about where you had been all this time, and when you arrived, she greeted you joyfully with hugs and her warm soup.

at night the two of you went out into the backyard, lay down on the grass and stared at the stars.

"here, look.. this is the big dipper, and this is the little dipper.." - your head was lying on Sean's chest again when he explained all the subtleties of space and creation, gently running his other hand through your hair.

it's really a great vacation for the two of you.

[m1kzzz]

MY MIKE SCHMIDT HEADCANONS!

- He would be very protective over you, just like he is with Abby. He would always check up on you, make sure you're safe...as if you're a baby or something. He can't help acting like that since the loss of his little brother Garrett.

- He doesn't really like showing affection in public. He would feel awkward and watched. The most affectionate thing he could do in public would be hold your hand and keep you close by his side.

- At home, he would be quite different. He would be clingy, even. He doesn't like staying away from you, even if you two are in the same room.

- He would be scared to lose you like he almost lost Abby and like he lost Garrett.

- He's very sweet. Like, a lot. He'd shower you with affection, give you kisses all over your face, cook for you... He'd basically do anything for you.

- Once he would leave his job, you two of course would sleep together. He won't take his pills anymore because just holding you at night would be enough to make him fall in a peaceful sleep.

[ms-hutch]

hi are you the one with ca.i cuz if you are i love your bots and is wondering if you can make one of mike and user dating or married and user sneaks into job at the pizza place?

Hi!! Yeah it’s me. Right now I am on slight hiatus due to exam season in my country but I will try to create your request hopefully in this week’s time :)

[ms-hutch]

“18th birthday”

0.9 words

Brother Mike x sibling reader

Author’s note : Sorry for being inactive - it’s exam season, so I barely have time for anything other than studying. And I hope this scenario is somewhat in character cuz I made it mostly to comfort myself on my upcoming birthday tomorrow haha.

It was a chilly evening in early April, and the sun had long set, casting a soft glow through the curtains of the small, cozy living room. The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional sound of the refrigerator humming in the background. It was your 18th birthday, a day you’d been dreading for weeks. Not because you were unhappy about becoming an adult, but because adulthood felt like it was suddenly right there, knocking at the door. You’d been Mike’s responsibility for as long as you could remember, and in just a few short years, that would change. He’d always been your protector, your older brother who took on the world with a gruff exterior and a heart of gold. But now, you were supposed to figure it all out on your own.

Mike, however, hadn’t seemed to notice the weight of the milestone. For him, it was just another day, another birthday to celebrate. He was at the kitchen counter, trying to make something edible from the ingredients he had on hand. “I’m not going to win any culinary awards with this,” he grumbled, stirring something in a pot, clearly out of his element.

You laughed. “You say that every year, but you always make something halfway decent,” you teased, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.

Mike shot you a mock glare but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m serious, though. If this is inedible, I’m blaming you for getting me into this whole ‘birthday dinner’ nonsense. It’s your fault I thought I could cook.”

You smiled back, rolling your eyes playfully. “It’s your fault I’m 18 today. You’re the one who took on the job of looking after me.”

He turned to face you, his expression softening for a moment before he looked away, clearly trying to hide whatever emotions were threatening to spill out. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “I’ve never regretted it. Not for a second.”

The sentiment hit you harder than you expected. You’d always known Mike loved you, but in this quiet, understated way, it had never felt as real as it did in that moment. You walked over to the couch, trying to shrug off the sudden wave of emotion.

“Come on, stop being all sentimental,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood. “You know we’ve got a whole marathon of cartoons to watch tonight. It’s tradition.”

Mike rolled his eyes but followed you to the couch. “I’m not exactly in the mood for cartoons.”

You grinned, “You have to. It’s your duty as my older brother. Plus, I want to comment on everything.”

As the opening credits to some childhood show began, Mike settled onto the couch beside you, a comfortable distance between you both. You snuggled into the cushions, and for the next hour or so, it was just the two of you, like it had been for years. You made random comments about the ridiculous plotlines, about the voice actors’ performances, about everything and nothing. Normally, Mike would throw you a look every now and then—his silent way of asking you to tone it down—but tonight, he didn’t. Instead, he let you ramble on.

It was one of those rare, simple moments when everything felt right. No complicated adult problems, no looming future. Just you and Mike, doing what you did best: being together.

At some point, you turned to him, watching as he tried (and failed) to keep up with the cartoon’s bizarre storyline. “You know,” you said, grinning, “I think you’ve missed a lot of important plot points over the years.”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me. I’m too old for this crap.”

You laughed. “I’ll make sure you stay young forever.”

He gave you a skeptical glance but didn’t say anything. The moment was too perfect for words. He’d let you comment as much as you wanted, not even bothering to give you that usual “look” that you’d gotten used to over the years. Instead, he simply let you be yourself.

As the show ended, Mike finally spoke. “You know, I can’t believe you’re 18 already. It feels like just yesterday you were running around the apartment in your pajamas, yelling at me for taking the last slice of pizza.”

You rolled your eyes at the memory but smiled fondly. “Yeah, you were always a jerk about the pizza.”

He chuckled softly, leaning back on the couch. “I was a lot of things, but I always tried to do right by you.”

“I know,” you whispered.

The room felt suddenly too quiet, the weight of the moment pressing on you. It was hard to believe that the person you had depended on all these years—the one who had helped you grow from a scared little girl into the adult you were today—was still right there beside you, his presence more comforting than anything.

“I’m proud of you,” Mike said, his voice lower now. “You’ve come a long way.”

It wasn’t a big, grand gesture, but it didn’t need to be. It was just the two of you. And maybe that’s all you ever really needed.

With one final glance, Mike pulled you into a quick hug, something brief but warm. “Alright, kiddo. I’ll let you take the last slice of pizza next time.”

And in that quiet moment, with nothing but cartoons and familiar jokes filling the space, you realized that no matter where life took you, as long as Mike was by your side, you’d be alright.

[pmaany]

mike schmidt headcanons

★ mike makes a lot of noises. he's constantly grunting, puffing, and grumbling. his every action is accompanied by the sound of "ahhhh"

★ he loves sarcasm. all his words are saturated with this, he loves to joke about abby, because she still does not understand this

★ because of his preoccupation with abby's upbringing, mike has never paid attention to sexuality. he never thought about who he loved, because he was not up to it. and he genuinely doesn't understand why people are judged for loving their gender.

"mike, why are the two boys holding hands?" - abby asked as they walked through the park. mike just shrugged his shoulders.

"because they love each other"

★ he likes to do things with his own hands. when he was a kid, he used to carve wood, and now he often cooks or repairs something in the house

★ mike doesn't drive well. he tries, but nothing works. drivers on the road are sometimes too slow, sometimes too fast, and the turns are too narrow.

"fuck you, you bastard!" - mike honks the horn at the car next to him, and abby glares at him through the car mirror.

"hey! you said you shouldn't talk like that!"

"I'm sorry, abbs. you didn't hear anything."

★ mike's love language is touching. therefore, during his time alone, he was simply hungry for them. he doesn't show it, but he just loves hugging.

★ he smells like spruce. mike doesn't like to change things in his life, so he's been using the same deodorant, shower gel, and shampoo for several years now.

★ mike loves cleanliness, but he can't reproduce it in his room. there are clothes scattered around his room, and a chair acts as a closet. but at the same time, he often cleans up abby's room with her, playing the game "whoever removes all the toys faster gets candy" mike doesn't actually tell abby that he has candy freely available.

★he tried to find a relationship a couple of times, but no one wanted anything serious, because mike had abby. over time, he just stopped trying and decided to go with the flow of life.

★ he hates small talk. for him, this is the worst torture in his life.

"how are you, mike? how's the day going?" - a girl from his job asks him. mike frowned, arched his right eyebrow, and rolled his eyes.

"do you really care about that?"

★ while watching cartoons with abby, mike enjoys the process too much. when episodes of spongebob are on tv, mike involuntarily stares, stopping reading the newspaper.

"mike, squidward looks like you!" - abby points at the tv screen, pointing at the animated octopus. mike just clicks his tongue.

"so funny, thank you." - acually, he feels a connection with this character, but he won't tell anyone about it.

[ms-hutch]

Love your fics!! You’re one of the few writers that keeps Mike in-character but still absolutely fluffy, romantic, and adorable. I’ve been binging your fics and you got me giggling and kicking my feet for every one! 🫶🏻💕

Ahhh thank you!! 💕 Mike is an interesting and fun character for me to write, so it truly means a lot to me to hear that you think I keep him in character. Knowing my fics have that kind of effect is the best compliment ever! 🥹🫶 Hope you keep enjoying them!!

[ms-hutch]

“Name day”

Mike x GN reader

0,7 words

It’s your name day (fluff)

Mike Schmidt never thought much about celebrations. Sure, birthdays, holidays—those were normal. But when you brought up the idea of a Name Day, he had blinked at you in confusion, his brows furrowing the way they always did when he was trying to piece something together.

“A Name Day?” he repeated, shifting in his seat as he eyed you from across your small kitchen table. “Like… another birthday?”

You had laughed, shaking your head as you set down your cup of tea. “Not exactly. It’s a tradition back home,” you explained, your voice carrying a soft warmth. “In the Baltic States, we celebrate the day our names appear on the calendar. It’s not as big as a birthday, but people give small gifts, and it’s just… nice. A reason to be happy.”

Mike had nodded slowly, absorbing the information like he always did, though you could tell he was skeptical. The man barely celebrated his own birthday—he didn’t even tell you when it was at first, and you had to drag it out of him. The idea of celebrating a day just because of your name? That was new to him.

Still, when the morning of your Name Day arrived, you woke up to the smell of something slightly burnt drifting through your apartment. Frowning, you sat up, the blankets pooling around your waist.

“Mike?” you called, groggy.

A loud clank came from the kitchen, followed by a muttered curse. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, padding barefoot toward the source of the noise. And there he was—Mike Schmidt, your usually composed and brooding boyfriend, standing in your kitchen in a wrinkled gray t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, staring down at a pan with an expression of pure frustration.

Your eyes flicked to the counter. Scrambled eggs that looked halfway decent. Toast that was… well, toast. And what you thought was supposed to be bacon but had tragically burned beyond recognition.

He turned at the sound of your steps, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh. Morning,” he said, looking sheepish. “Happy Name Day?”

A slow smile spread across your face. “You… tried to make me breakfast?”

Mike exhaled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah. It’s a thing, right? Celebrating. Figured I’d start the day off right.”

Your heart swelled at the effort. He wasn’t the kind of man to go all out on things like this—Mike showed love in quiet ways, in making sure your doors were locked at night, in pulling you closer in his sleep, in always walking on the side closest to the road when you were out together. The fact that he had tried—that he had remembered—meant more than anything.

You stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his stubbled jaw. “Thank you,” you murmured against his skin. “This means a lot.”

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, shifting slightly, but you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “It’s not much, but… wait here.”

He disappeared into the other room, leaving you standing there, still touched by the gesture. When he returned, he was holding something small wrapped in brown paper.

“Got you a little something,” he said, shoving it into your hands like he was almost embarrassed by the whole thing.

Surprised, you unwrapped the paper carefully. Inside was a tiny, delicate silver pendant—simple, with your initial engraved on it.

Your breath hitched. “Mike…”

He shifted on his feet. “You, uh… you always wear that other necklace, so I thought maybe you’d like another one. Something small. For Name Day or whatever.”

You stared at him, at the way his hands stuffed into his pockets, the way his tired eyes watched your reaction like he wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and reached for him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest. “I love it,” you whispered.

Mike let out a slow breath, his arms coming around you, holding you close. “Good,” he murmured, voice low. “Happy Name Day, sweetheart.”

And in that moment, with his arms around you, the smell of slightly burnt bacon lingering in the air, and the weight of the little silver pendant in your palm, you realized—Mike Schmidt might not be the kind of man who made grand gestures. But when he did? He made them count.

[pmaan]

AWWWW I love him. damn I want him to be real

[ms-hutch]

SAME!