John slams the front door harder than he means to, the sound echoing down the short hallway. His tie is already loosened, shirt untucked, beard scruffy from a day that started at five a.m. and refused to end.

The Task Force X debrief ran long—again—Harcourt riding his ass about budget reports, Waller on the video screen looking like she wanted to reach through and strangle him personally.

He finds you in the bedroom, curled on the bed in one of his old t-shirts and soft cotton shorts, reading under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. All the frustration, the coiled anger, the endless feeling of being one step behind, tightens low in his gut and shifts into something hotter.

You look up, smile soft and welcoming, but it falters when you see his face. “Rough day, baby?”

John doesn’t answer right away. He drops his messenger bag by the door, toes off his shoes, and crosses the room. The air changes around him like the moment before lightning strikes. He stops at the edge of the bed, eyes locked on you with an intensity that makes the lamp’s light feel suddenly too bright.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice low and rough, thick with exhaustion and want. “Real rough.”

You set the book aside, sit up a little, concern creasing your brow. “Want to talk about it, or—”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than he intends. He scrubs a hand over his beard, exhales through his nose. “I don’t wanna talk. I just… need you.”

The admission hangs between you, raw and unpolished. He’s not good at asking—John Economos, perpetual nice guy, perpetual people-pleaser—but tonight the mask is cracked. You see it in the tense line of his shoulders, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s holding himself back from grabbing you.

You shift onto your knees on the mattress, reaching for him. “I’m right here.”

He catches your wrist, pulls you up and against him in one fluid motion, mouth crashing down on yours with a hunger that steals both your breaths. The kiss is messy, the warmth of your lips grounding him even as it winds him tighter. His hands slide down your back, grip your hips hard enough to leave faint marks tomorrow, and he walks you backward until your thighs hit the sturdy oak desk against the wall (the one he uses for late-night paperwork, now scattered with pens and a half-empty coffee mug).

He breaks the kiss only to spin you around, pressing your front to the cool wood, his body caging yours from behind. You feel the heat of him through your thin clothes, the solid weight of his chest against your back, the unmistakable hardness pressing into the curve of your ass.

“Been thinking about this ass all fucking day,” he mutters against your ear, voice gravel-rough, one hand sliding up under the hem of your shirt to splay possessively across your stomach. “Every time Harcourt opened her mouth, every time Waller glared at me like I’m the village idiot… just kept picturing you like this. Bent over for me. Letting me forget all that bullshit.”

His other hand tugs your shorts down slow, exposing you inch by inch until the fabric pools at your ankles. Cool air kisses your skin; his palm follows immediately, tracing the swell of your ass with something close to reverence before the first sharp spank lands. The crack echoes in the quiet room, heat blooming instantly across your flesh. You yelp, arching deeper, and he feels the tension uncoil just a fraction, pleasure surging in to replace the anger.

Another smack (harder, precise) followed by his fingers tracing the welt, soothing the bruised flesh. "God, look at you," he breathes, voice cracking with awe, grinding slightly against you. His free hand tangles in your hair, tugging your head back gently for another messy kiss, all teeth and desperation.