A/N: I literally have no idea where this came from. I don't even really ship these two that much on the show, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ here's some Mike/Gin porn anyway. Enjoy!

He arrived at the clubhouse just on time—exactly ten minutes after the night cleaning crew had left—and she tried not to smile at his punctuality. Showing too much enjoyment at the start could ruin the game, the fantasy. And they both lived for this fantasy.

"What are you doing here, rookie?"

She turned quickly at the sound of his voice, feigning surprise with falsely wide eyes and a half-open mouth. She swallowed, and watched as his gaze fell to the front of her neck to track the movement. He so loved her neck. Most days, it was the only part of her exposed to him. It was the first thing he kissed when they were alone together, and the last thing he touched before they parted.

"I'm just—cleaning up, captain."

"You're here awfully late for just cleaning up."

"So are you."

The words simply slipped out of her mouth without a thought, just as they had the first time, and as his eyes narrowed at the perceived judgment, just as they had the first time. She swallowed again, harder this time, slower. As if she still had something to hide when it came to him.

"What do you care if I'm here late?" he demanded.

"I don't," she muttered, looking down. She turned into a cubby that was not hers, and pretended to pack up things that were not hers. They had done this dance at least ten times by now, but still, her heart raced when she heard him begin to walk towards her. She could hear it in her ears. And in the silence of the deserted and dark clubhouse, the sound of her own excitement seemed to echo. She wondered if he could hear it. If it made him hard.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he asked, stopping just a few feet away. "And don't say cleaning up," he added before she could answer. "I've been in this game a long time, Baker, and I know bullshit when I hear it."

She sighed, tipping her head back to look up at the ceiling, then down at her shoes. Slowly, she used the toe of one cleat to push the other off. She was in her socks and skin-tight workout gear when she turned to look at him.

"I'm here waiting," she told him, looking him straight in the eye, not shrinking, not hesitating. Not embarrassed, not anymore.

The smallest furrow of confusion upset his forehead. "Waiting? For what? It's after midnight. What could you possibly be waiting in here for?"

"You."

His eyes widened now as they had every other time before—she didn't know if it was an affectation of their game, or if he really was somehow still surprised that she wanted him, or if hearing the words again turned him on just that much.

Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He didn't waste time now as he hadn't that first time: he moved forward and kissed her, not so much sweeping her up into his arms as shoving her back into the cubby. It was Piker's this time—she realized the moment she reached for purchase on the shelf and felt a crumpled Twix wrapper sliding beneath her palm instead. She would've laughed had Mike's tongue not been pushing its way into her mouth; Piker ate more candy bars than ten-year-olds on Halloween, and yet he was almost as thin as Ginny.

"Floor," she told Mike, gasping as she had the first time and every time in between then and now. It didn't matter how many times they did this, he still stole all her breath away. All her thoughts. Almost all her rationality.

He hoisted her up into his arms, not even groaning at the weight. She had worried the first time, about his back, about his knees, but he'd assured her she was lighter than his away-game bag. He had been trying to save face, she was certain, but if he didn't admit to being uncomfortable, she wasn't going to press him. Fantasies needed to be perfect, after all—in execution if not in fact. And this one? They had perfected it to an almost scientific degree—and that only made it better. Each tiny tweak made things that much more exciting.

This time, he chose a spot directly in the middle of the room—on top of the interlacing S and D, and right beneath the grouping of TVs hung from the ceiling. Ginny knew there weren't any cameras in the clubhouse—it was the reason they met here—but as Mike laid her down, she wondered what it would be like if there were cameras. What it would be like if all those TVs were recording what they were doing right now, and broadcasting what they'd done before. She wondered what it would be like to both be with him and watch them together at the same exact time…

"Jesus, you're wet, Gin."

She barely had time to smile at his shock before she was moaning, pushing her hips up into his hand. She groaned as he slid a thick finger through her folds and into her vagina. He massaged the sides of her inner channel, pointedly ignoring her clit, even as she squirmed beneath him, and begged in a whisper for more.

They always whispered here, no matter how late it was, or how empty they knew the stadium to be. If they whispered, it heightened the highly unlikely (and disastrous) fantasy that they'd get caught. It heightened everything.

She hurried through the buttons on his shirt, desperate for him but not clumsy anymore—she had had enough practice with his shirts that he no longer needed to take them to the tailor after their trysts. Once she was finished, he threw it off, and then proceeded to help her out of her leggings and socks. She tore off her shirt, and before he could, reached for his pants.

"How is it you always beat me?" he muttered, bending down to kiss her as she yanked down the zipper. "I go as fast as I can and yet—"

"Yet you're still too slow," she finished with a too-satisfied grin. "Seems to be a pattern with you, old man."

His eyes narrowed at the dig, and she bit her lip so she wouldn't smile more. It was no secret between them that she liked his vindictive side. Often, she went out of her way to draw it out by making fun of him, or taunting him. He became someone just a little more primal when he was wronged, and God, she loved him like that. Usually the Neanderthal antics of men made her turn right around and walk back where she'd come from, but with Mike… There was something sexy about it. His possessiveness—when he allowed it to surface—turned her on.

"You think insulting me is gonna get you places, rook?"

The left corner of her mouth pulled up into a smile. She ran her hand along the length of his erection, beneath his pants but over his briefs. "It's gotten me this far, hasn't it?"

"It won't get you much further if you don't watch it," he muttered. He withdrew his hand from between her legs, then shoved his pants fully off. He was about to reach for his underwear when she stopped him. He looked up and found her sitting up, leaning into his space.

"Let me make it up to you," she whispered, pulling his briefs off herself. She licked her lips as his cock sprung up, ready and eager for attention, and he groaned, tipping his head back in silent supplication as she maneuvered herself onto her stomach between his legs.

She had not done this the first time, nor the second, but somewhere down the line, she'd found an opportunity, and she hadn't stopped since. It had surprised her at first that a man as control-oriented as Mike would be so susceptible to blowjobs, but then again—he was a man. She didn't mind his preference—in fact, she loved it.

It made her feel so powerful, so fucking powerful, to watch him come apart under nothing more than the pressure of her throat, the slide of her tongue, and the heat of her mouth. Such simple things, easy things—and yet he broke into pieces as if she were death coming knocking. The first time, he came so hard he couldn't even fuck her properly afterwards; he just laid there panting and mesmerized, asking where in the world she'd learned to do that.

Same way I've learned nearly everything else I know, she had answered with a shrug. I taught myself.

He had rolled his eyes at that, but it had been the truth, really. In the five years she'd been sexually active, she'd exclusively dated within her age range, something that—after having been with Mike—she realized was a detriment. Men her age didn't know what they wanted. All they wanted was to get off as fast as possible, as many times as possible.

But Mike appreciated the work that went into it. He appreciated the subtle twists and turns. He appreciated the way she brought their whole bodies into it, touching him as she sucked him, and guiding him to touch her.

"Ginny, baby… Christ…" He let the endearment slip out as it always did when she put her mouth on him, and she smiled to herself, not quite able to respond with her lips and teeth and tongue otherwise occupied. Mike didn't seem to mind—he kept up a constant stream of whispered commentary that only made her realize how much she missed feeling his fingers buried between her legs. How much she missed feeling him inside her.

She focused as long and as hard as she could, trying not to think about how much she wanted him even as he taunted her by whispering all the things he would, could, and had done to her—and then finally he let her off the hook with a terse, Not too much, Gin.

She pulled back gratefully for once, catching her breath, and in the darkness, hidden beneath his beard, she saw him smirk.

"Was wondering how long you'd last this time."

"Not long," she muttered, sour even during sex, because she had not met her personal goals. "I was distracted. I do better when I've already gotten off."

Mike grinned, reaching into the pocket of his discarded pants for a condom. "Oh, I'll get you off, don't worry about that."

"I never do."

She smiled and pushed him back onto the carpet, knowing this position was easier on his knees, at least, and fine on his back if he kept his head about him and didn't tense up.

He let her straddle him, her legs spread wide around his waist, but authoritative hands on her hips held her back from sinking down onto what they both wanted most. She fought against him for a moment, just so she could feel his thumbs dig in hard to her hipbones. She hissed in pleasure at the brief pain, and then rocked back, allowing him to do what he liked.

He kept one hand on her hip, as if to hold her still, while the other slipped between her spread legs. She sighed, her eyes falling closed, as he parted her folds with a few fingers and spread her wetness around, coating her as fully as he could manage. Then he dropped his hand to his cock, stroking himself a couple times to cover the head of the condom in her arousal as well.

"Hair," he told her, and she obeyed the sparse command, watching his face as she reached up and released her hair from its restrictive, ever-present ponytail. "Fuck," Mike sighed happily, his shoulders sinking back into the floor as he gazed up at her. "I love that you only look like this for me."

Ginny smirked, swallowing the laugh that threatened. She wore her hair down regularly enough on her days off—he was certainly not the only one to see her like this—and she had half a mind to tell him, but then she thought better of it. These meetings of theirs were all so perfectly calibrated, every moment hardwired for pleasure, be it hers or his or theirs together. Why ruin the fantasy with such an unnecessary injection of reality?

She softened her smirk into a smile, and then leaned low over him, taking his face in her hands to kiss him.

"Only for you," she whispered against his lips.

Then she drew back, took his cock in hand, and lowered herself down. She groaned as he filled her, throwing her head back with pleasure. They had had sex nearly a dozen times by this point, but she could swear her body was still adjusting to his size. Far from wanting the acclimation process over, she relished it. She loved feeling him stretch her during, loved feeling changed afterwards.

She hoped he was changed, too. If there was no physical marker, she hoped at least there was an emotional one. She hoped he thought about these trysts after they were over as much as she did. She hoped that, on the nights they couldn't meet up, when he touched himself it was to memories of her. Them. Of the things they'd done and the things they had yet to do together.

"Fuck, Gin."

His fingers dug in so deep to the curves of her ass as she rode him that she could feel his clipped-to-the-quick nails starting to break her skin. She didn't stop moving. Nothing could make her stop.

"Baby, please…"

She was grateful she still had her own dressing room—it'd be hard enough to explain away the bruises on her hips, and near impossible to account for the scratches on her ass.

"Rookie—"

She arched her back as she sank down again, and the movement made him groan so sharply she actually thought she'd hurt him. But that twist on his face was pleasure, not pain—she knew the two intimately now: the latter unfortunately from work, the former from these late, hidden nights.

"You're gonna kill me," Mike bit out through gritted teeth, and she laughed, curling her splayed fingers into fists atop his chest as she picked up the pace.

"Can't die on me yet," she panted. "You haven't gotten me off. You owe me."

He snorted out a laugh through his nose. "So demanding."

"I'm here for what's mine."

He caught her eye, grinning as he bucked his hips up into hers as she was coming down, causing her to cry out. "Does that make me yours?" he questioned. "Or am I just another item in the long list of things you need to prove about yourself here?"

"Both?"

He laughed at the shrugged answer and, just like that, the would-be tense, too-personal moment passed, as they returned to what they'd come here for in the first place. They went faster, harder, rougher, and barely a minute later, Ginny's mouth opened in a silent shout as she came, and Mike bit down so hard on his lower lip trying to hold in a groan of completion that he actually tasted blood.

She rolled off of him—agile as ever, even after such exhaustive activity—and then curled up beside him. He was still panting, trying to bring himself back to earth, but he managed to throw an arm out, to pull her close. When he turned his head towards her, she kissed him immediately, both of them pouring all the gratitude they had for the other into the gesture. Mike ran a hand through her hair, purposefully getting his fingers tangled up in the strands so he couldn't let go. Ginny smiled, and reached a hand out to brush a couple fingers through his beard.

"Gonna be ready for tomorrow?" she asked quietly, reality settling over them again, softly, like a blanket.

"What, for San Francisco?" Mike asked through a yawn. "Please, like they're a threat. We destroyed them last year."

"That was last year."

"So what?" He pulled back to look her in the eye. "Wait, are you saying you're worried about this year? Are you kidding me?"

"No, I'm not kidding," Ginny replied. "And I don't see why you're being so nonchalant about this. They won the Series—"

"That was years ago, rookie. They have a completely different team now."

"So do we."

Far from looking subdued, Mike grinned. "Yeah, we do." Before she could correct him—she wasn't being optimistic—he kissed her. He pulled her back on top of him. He held her to him and let her settle there above him until he was sure her mind was far enough away from worries about the coming game.

"You know what I'm going to be thinking about tomorrow?" he murmured, pulling back as slowly as he could manage. "Want to know what I'm going to be thinking about when I walk through those doors bright and early tomorrow morning?"

"That it's a new year and we've got a new team?" Ginny guessed dryly, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

Mike smiled. "No…" He reached his hands up, combing her hair away from her face. "I'm going to be thinking about this—fucking you here—and I am not going to worry about a single thing. I swear," he laughed when he saw her shake her head, "I swear, it's the only thing I'll be thinking about. There's nothing better than walking back into this room knowing I've had you in it—and will again."

She grinned, deciding to play along. "I can think of something better."

He raised his eyebrows, sensing a challenge. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She smiled smugly for a moment in silence, drawing it out, then she tipped her head towards the doors that led out to the stadium. "Walking out onto that field after I've had you on it—that's better."

"Ha!" Mike laughed with his whole body, his chest shaking beneath her. "Touché. That's one for my bucket list, Baker: getting fucked by you on the pitcher's mound. I think I can ascend to heaven afterwards. I won't need to experience anything else on this earth."

"Oh, come on, you're not even going to make a play for doing round two on top of home plate?" she teased.

"I'll take both, if you're offering. And while we're at it, why not add first, second, and third to the list? Maybe the dugout, the stands…"

"Is this bucket list ever going to end?"

"So long as you keep spreading your legs for me? No, not a chance. The list goes on and on until you're the one begging for mercy for once."

She laughed. "Not a chance for that, either."

"Then the list goes on and on."

She smiled wide, and then quickly ducked her head down, as if to hide it. He let her; he knew how sometimes it all got to be too much. And he knew she didn't have many places to hide. He hugged her to him, stroking her hair gently, grateful at least that they had this place to hide—if only for a few stolen hours here and there.

It was quiet for a good couple of minutes before she finally lifted her head, and then rolled off him again. Mike turned to look at her, and for a long moment, they simply stared at each other in silence—not smiling, not laughing, hardly breathing. Just staring.

"Can I say something?" he wondered finally. His voice was much quieter than usual, and she adjusted herself accordingly. She could feel her heart again, beating too fast. It was not out of excitement this time.

"Sure," she replied, though her voice stuck in her throat.

If he knew she was nervous, it didn't make him hesitate. He came right out with it.

"I want you to come home with me."

Her eyes dropped at that, and she immediately busied herself with picking at a miniscule spot in the carpet. "Can't do that," she whispered.

"I know." He sighed heavily—he had seen this coming—and yet somehow he still felt disappointed. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her curling further into herself, away from him. He reached out a hand, touching her back, gently drawing her close again. His goal hadn't been to force her away. He pressed a kiss to her head, leaving his lips there against her skin until he felt her release the breath she'd been holding. "It's fine," he murmured to her as he pulled away. "It's fine, okay? I get it. I understand that you have different limitations than I do."

"Then why'd you say it?" she whispered back, surprising them both with such directness.

He sighed, knowing he owed her the same. "Because I couldn't not say it anymore," he admitted. "That's why."

She nodded slowly, accepting the truth for what it was. "Well, okay, then," she whispered back.

She stayed a moment more, just to show him she would, before she got to her feet and started putting her clothes back on. He watched her from the floor, naked still; it wasn't until she started tying her shoes that he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

"I'll see you here tomorrow morning?" he checked, knowing it was easiest for them both to revert back to work.

She nodded, tying her hair up again. "Six AM sharp."

"And next Thursday…?"

She smiled a little. "Twelve AM sharp," she promised.

He nodded, accepting that as more than he deserved. He began reaching for his own clothes as she walked to the door. He had his pants on and his shirt half-buttoned when she called his name. He looked up and found her lingering just before the entryway.

"About the other thing…" She rolled her lips together, letting a few rare and raw nerves expose themselves before him. "We'll find a time to figure it out, okay? Maybe—after the season's over?"

He nodded at once, surprised by how good that deal sounded. The end of the season was months away still, but even just the promise of reaching it gave him some hope.

"After the season's over," he agreed with a nod. "We'll talk at the end of September, then."

"September? Check your calendar, the end of the season's in October."

He pointed a warning finger at her, shaking his head hard. "Don't joke, rook. It is far too early for you to even be thinking about the Series, let alone planning for it."

"Who said I was joking? Have some faith, old man. And besides, planning for the Series is how we get there."

"Winning is how we get there."

"Well, then…" Ginny lifted her chin, determined as ever as she met his eyes. "I guess we better win, huh? Tomorrow and every day that comes after. Win, win, win."

Despite everything, Mike couldn't help but spare a smile for her boundless persistence. It had gotten them this far, and who knew—maybe it could take them all the way.

A/N: Thank you for reading! This was my first try at Mike & Ginny, so your thoughts on the story would be much appreciated! :)