That Damn Freckle
🏠BLOG HOME🎖️J.W. MASTERLIST
C's corner: I am obsessed with that freckle on Wyatt’s left earlobe, so of course I had to write about it.
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, strong language, heavy making out, suggestive content, slight smut, mutual pining, John Walker being a problem, all because of that damn freckle.
✍🏽WC: 11.8K+
SUMMARY: John Walker was already a problem, then you noticed that damn freckle on his left ear.
The Tower is finally quiet.
No guns, no yelling, no Ava stalking down the hall threatening to tase anyone who breathes too loud. Just the low hum of the fridge, the faint ticking of the old clock over the stove, and the soft clink of your spoon against the mug as you stir your tea.
You curl your fingers around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into your hands. Your muscles ache in that satisfying way that only comes after a successful mission, no casualties, minimal yelling from Val, and you managed not to punch anyone you weren’t supposed to. So you’re counting that as a win.
You bring the mug to your lips and exhale, watching the steam curl up. Tonight, you tell yourself, you’re going to be calm. No chaos. No drama. Just tea, a snack, and bed.
The universe, of course, hears that and laughs.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway outside the kitchen, the familiar cadence of someone who has never learned how to walk quietly in his life.
John Walker.
You don’t even have to see him to know; you feel him, like the air shifts a little just before he appears. It’s stupidly dramatic, but the man really does have main character energy.
He steps into the doorway, hair damp from a shower, a gray t-shirt tugged over his shoulders and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants slung low on his hips. There’s a faint crease on his cheek where he clearly face planted onto his pillow earlier and then got back up, unable to fully give in to sleep.
“Could smell the tea from down the hall,” he says, voice low and rough from tiredness. “You hoggin’ all the good stuff again, sweetheart?”
You roll your eyes, but your lips tug upward anyway. “Maybe I am. What are you gonna do about it, Captain America?”
He shoots you a look that’s half amused, half exasperated. “You know I’m not..."
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, hiding your smile behind your mug. “Retired Captain America. Discount Captain America. Thunderbolt Walker. Take your pick.”
He snorts. “You forgot devastatingly handsome super soldier. That one’s my personal favorite.”
“The ego on you,” you say, shamelessly eyeing him over the rim of your mug. “I was going to say ‘moderately decent to look at,’ but sure. Let’s go with that.”
He shakes his head, crossing the kitchen to the cabinet where the mugs are. “Moderately decent?” He glances back at you, blue eyes glinting. “You wound me.”
You watch him move, easy and comfortable in this space, big body somehow fitting into this old, slightly too small kitchen like he belongs there. He reaches up to grab a mug from the top shelf, the hem of his t-shirt lifting just enough to flash a bit of skin, the faint line of a scar along his side.
You’ve seen worse. You’ve patched him up before. But somehow, in this soft, domestic light, every inch of him feels… different. More dangerous, in a stupid, heart-clenching way.
He sets his mug down on the counter next to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through your sleep shirt. “Move over,” he murmurs.
“You move over,” you argue, though you shift a little to give him space.
His arm brushes yours as he reaches for the tea tin, and your brain short-circuits just a little. You’ve always known he was handsome, ridiculously so. You’ve flirted with him more times than you can count, and he’s given just as good right back. It’s a game. A safe one.
Mostly.
He leans in, squinting at the label. “This the fancy stuff Yelena hid from everyone?”
“We do not speak of my tea sources,” you say primly.
“Oh, so you admit it’s stolen.”
“I admit nothing.”
He huffs out a laugh, low and warm. It curls down your spine.
You look away, forcing your attention back to your mug so you don’t stare at him like some lovesick idiot. It’s late, you’re tired, that’s all this is. Your brain is mush and your filter is weaker than usual.
From the corner of your eye, you watch him spoon tea leaves into his mug, pour hot water from the kettle, then lean his hip against the counter to wait. His hair is still damp, darker at the ends, a couple of strands clinging to his forehead. He drags a hand through it, pushing it back, and then...
You see it.
He turns his head just a little, and the kitchen light catches the side of his face. His jaw, sharp and shadowed with stubble. The strong line of his neck.
And there, just below his left ear, on the soft, delicate skin of his earlobe...
A freckle.
Small, warm brown, perfectly placed.
Your brain flatlines.
You blink, your tea forgotten midway to your lips. How have you not seen that before? You’ve seen John bleed, seen him broken and bruised, seen him shirtless and half out of his mind with adrenaline after missions, but somehow this tiny, absolutely unfair freckle escaped your notice.
Until now.
It shouldn’t be a big deal.
It’s just a freckle.
But your gaze locks onto it, and your thoughts lurch sideways into territory that is very much not safe for late night kitchen conversation.
You imagine leaning in, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin under your lips. Imagine the way he’d suck in a breath the moment your mouth brushed that spot, the way his shoulders might tense before he melted into it. You picture your hand sliding up the back of his neck, fingers curling in his hair while you kiss that little freckle like it’s your own personal target.
Your cheeks heat.
You swallow.
You really, really should look away.
Instead, you find yourself tracking the way his throat moves as he takes a sip of his tea, oblivious. The freckle disappears for a second as he turns the other way, and you feel an absurd spike of annoyance. Turn back, your brain complains. You were looking at that.
“So,” John says, completely unaware that your thoughts have gone off the rails, “are we celebratin’ tonight or hiding?”
You blink, dragging your gaze up from his neck to his face. “What?”
He smirks. “Mission went well. No yelling, no explosions, no one tried to stab you. I’d say that’s a success.”
You wrinkle your nose. “You didn’t see the paperwork Val sent me.”
“That bad?”
“I’m pretty sure she wants to strangle me with bureaucratic procedure.”
He chuckles, the sound low and genuine. “You did good out there,” he says quietly. “You always do.”
The compliment, simple as it is, sneaks past your defenses. Your grip on your mug tightens. “Careful, Walker. If you keep being nice to me, people are gonna talk.”
“Oh, they already talk,” he says easily. “I hear things.”
You arch a brow, leaning your hip into the counter so you’re angled toward him. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“That you’re a menace,” he drawls.
You gasp dramatically. “I am a delight.”
“Mm.” He pretends to consider. “A delightful menace, maybe.”
“You’re just jealous.”
He tilts his head, and there it is again, that damn freckle. Your gaze dips to it for half a second before you force yourself to meet his eyes again. “Of what, exactly?” he asks, that cocky little glint in his gaze telling you he knows you’re up to something.
You lift your mug, hiding half your face behind it. “That I do chaos better than you.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. You do chaos, I do damage control.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“That’s ‘cause your memory’s biased,” he says, stepping just a little closer, like you’re caught in your usual orbit. “You always make yourself the hero in your own version.”
“Well,” you say lightly, “someone has to.”
There’s a moment of quiet after that, comfortable, your earlier tension slowly morphing into something softer. You sip your tea; he watches the steam rise from his, his shoulder brushing yours.
You’re acutely aware of every point of contact.
His knuckles, resting on the counter near your hand. The warmth radiating off his body. The faint scent of his soap, something clean and simple, cut with that underlying thread of John, sweat and leather and whatever specific kind of stubborn his cologne is trying and failing to tame.
“So,” you say, because silence feels dangerous with your thoughts already in the gutter, “did we survive Yelena’s cooking?”
“Barely,” John deadpans. “I think that casserole could be classified as a weapon.”
“She said it was a family recipe.”
“Her family is Russian and terrifying, that tracks.”
You chuckle, biting back a grin. “You’re just mad she called you ‘old man’ in front of everyone.”
“I am not old,” he insists, indignant. “I’m experienced.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
“That’s what I’m callin’ it,” he says, and there’s that little spark again, that familiar back-and-forth you’ve always had with him. His tone dips, just enough. “You don’t seem to mind.”
Your heart skips.
This is the game you play. Flirt, tease, flirt, retreat. You tell yourself it’s harmless. That you could stop anytime.
You’re not so sure anymore.
“Maybe I don’t,” you say softly.
His gaze lingers on your face for a beat longer than usual. It feels like standing on the edge of something. Like if either of you leans just a little too far, this will stop being a joke.
And you will absolutely, one hundred percent, kiss that freckle.
He looks away first, clearing his throat, as if he just remembered the script and found his place again. “You should get some sleep,” he says, gentler now. “Long day.”
“You too, Walker,” you reply, grateful for the out. Your heart’s pounding a little too fast for someone who is allegedly just having tea.
He finishes the last sip from his mug and sets it in the sink, rinsing it out. You watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he moves, the veins standing out under his skin. You drag your eyes back up quickly before you embarrass yourself.
He turns back to you, leaning one hand on the counter, the other braced on his hip. He’s close again. So close.
“You stayin’ up much longer?” he asks, voice lower now, tinged with that rough edge you’re becoming too aware of.
“I’ll finish this,” you say, lifting your mug slightly, “then I’ll head to bed.”
“You sure?” His gaze searches your face, always so damn observant when you wish he wouldn’t be. “You look beat.”
“Wow, thank you,” you say dryly. “Tell me how you really feel.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Didn’t mean it like that.” His eyes soften, crinkling at the corners. “You’re beautiful even when you look like death warmed over, you know that.”
Your brain trips over the word beautiful.
The air between you thins.
You recover with a crooked smile. “Careful, Walker. You keep talking like that and I might start thinking you like me.”
He grins, slow and easy, like this is just another volley in your ongoing game. “Who says I don’t?” he tosses back.
Your pulse jumps. His eyes hold yours for a heartbeat, two, then he pushes off the counter.
You feel the loss of his closeness more than you’d like to admit.
“Night, sweetheart,” he says, giving you a little two-finger salute as he heads for the doorway.
“Goodnight, Walker,” you reply, trying very hard to sound normal and not like you’re actively fighting the urge to drag him back by his shirt and investigate every stupid, perfect inch of him.
He’s halfway through the door when he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. The kitchen light hits the side of his face again.
Your gaze drops, unbidden, to that freckle on his left earlobe.
God, it’s tiny. Insignificant, really. But now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. Your mind conjures a dozen scenarios all at once, leaning in close under the pretense of whispering something in his ear, your lips brushing that spot “by accident.” His breath stuttering. His hand tightening on your waist.
You squeeze your mug a little tighter, heat creeping up your neck.
“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowing slightly at whatever expression you’re probably making.
“Yeah,” you say quickly, schooling your features. “Just… thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he teases automatically, that little half-smile back in place.
You raise your mug in a mock toast. “Go to bed, old man.”
He points at you as he backs away. “Menace,” he reminds you.
“Delight,” you counter.
He chuckles, shaking his head as he disappears down the hallway.
The moment he’s gone, the kitchen feels too quiet again. The hum of the fridge returns to the forefront. You stare at the doorway for a long second, replaying the entire conversation in your mind, your thoughts pausing every single time on that little freckle.
You drag a hand down your face.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself.
You finish your tea in a few slow gulps, rinse your mug, and flick off the kitchen light. The hallway is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the sconces, and the quiet feels heavier now.
You pass his door on the way, the memory of his damp hair and that sleepy half-smile still fresh in your mind.
And that damn freckle.
You pause in front of his room without meaning to, listening. There’s the faintest rustle from inside, then silence. He’s probably already half-asleep, big idiot. He’s always out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow after missions.
You imagine him lying there, broad back relaxed, lashes resting against his cheeks, that freckle waiting just out of sight. One tiny dot on a man who’s been torn apart and stitched back together too many times.
You wonder what it would feel like to be that close to him. To press your mouth there and feel him shiver. To have him know you like him, not just in passing, not just as a joke, but really know.
Your heart squeezes.
You step away from his door before you do something truly spectacularly stupid, like knock.
In your room, you collapse onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. The tower is quiet again, but your mind is anything but. Every time you close your eyes, you don’t see explosions or blood or mission reports.
You see the curve of his neck.
The scruff on his jaw.
The soft, maddeningly perfect freckle on his left earlobe.
You throw an arm over your face and groan into your pillow.
You’ve always known John Walker was handsome. Cocky, infuriating, annoyingly charming, but handsome. You’ve always been aware of his mouth, his hands, his stupid blue eyes.
But now?
Now, all you can think about is a freckle.
A tiny, innocent freckle that you suddenly, desperately, irrationally want your mouth on.
John Walker goes to bed that night completely unaware.
You, on the other hand, lie awake far too long, wondering how exactly a small dot of pigment on a super soldier’s ear became the center of your entire universe.
Sleep doesn’t come easy.
You toss and turn for a while, replaying the kitchen scene in your head on a loop. His laugh, the way he said beautiful so casually, like it was a fact and not a grenade. The little glint in his eyes when he said, Who says I don’t?
And that freckle.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’ve noticed stupid things about teammates before: the way Ava always taps twice before opening a door, the scar on Yelena’s knuckle, the faint streak of gray through Bucky’s hair.
This is just another detail. Your brain is just… stuck.
You roll over, burying your face in your pillow.
It doesn’t help.
Eventually, the hum of the vents and the soft creaks of the tower lull you under. Your breathing evens out. Your muscles loosen.
And then you’re back in the kitchen.
Only this time, it’s different.
The light’s dimmer, warmer, like someone turned the switch down low. The hum of the fridge feels distant, blurred at the edges. You’re at the counter, but there’s no mug in your hand, no tea, no pretense.
Just him.
John is standing close. Closer than he ever has. His chest is nearly pressed to yours, his body a wall of heat and solid muscle, caging you in without touching yet. His hand is braced on the counter beside your hip, the other hovering like he’s not sure if he should touch you, or he’s drawing it out on purpose.
“Thought you were gonna stay away from the dangerous stuff,” he murmurs, voice low as thunder.
You swallow, looking up at him. “This feels… pretty dangerous.”
“Yeah?” he asks, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again. “What part?”
You don’t answer with words.
Your gaze is dragged, inevitably, to the side of his neck. To his jaw, rough with stubble. To the curve of his ear.
To that freckle.
You reach up, fingers brushing his shoulder for balance, and you lean in. His breath ghosts across your cheek, hot and uneven. You get close enough to see every detail, every tiny color variation in his skin.
“Been thinkin’ about it, haven’t you?” he says, his voice a rasp now. “That look you’ve been givin’ me…”
Your lips hover a breath away from that spot. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Maybe I have.”
His hand finally settles at your waist, fingers gripping, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against your chest.
“Then stop thinking,” he says, almost a growl. “Show me.”
You close the last bit of distance.
Your mouth finds that freckle, soft skin warm and sensitive under your lips. The reaction is immediate and devastating, John sucks in a sharp breath, his whole body jerking with the surprise of it. His fingers dig into your waist like you’ve hit a live wire.
“Jesus...” His voice breaks.
You kiss the spot once, twice, slower the second time, letting your mouth linger, letting your lips part just enough to taste the salt of his skin. His head tips to the side without you asking, baring more of his neck like instinct.
“Do that again,” he whispers, and there’s something almost desperate in it.
You oblige.
This time your hand slides up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. You press your mouth to that freckle and feel him shudder, feel the quiet, helpless sound he makes against your ear. His grip on you tightens; he pulls you flush against him, no more holding back.
“That why you’ve been avoidin’ lookin’ at me, huh?” he mutters, words vibrating against your cheek. “This little thing drivin’ you crazy?”
You smile against his skin, emboldened, and flatten your tongue to that spot before you can stop yourself.
He swears, low and wrecked, his hand at your waist sliding to the small of your back, shoving you into him like he can’t get you close enough.
Your own control slips. Your lips trail from the freckle down the line of his neck, his pulse racing under your mouth. His other hand finds your hip, thumb drawing rough, aimless circles that make heat pool low in your stomach.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he warns, except it doesn’t sound like a warning at all. It sounds like a plea. “Keep goin’ like that, I’m not gonna be able to pretend I don’t..."
You never hear the end of that sentence.
Because suddenly you’re awake.
You jolt upright in bed, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like you just sprinted half a mile. For a second, your brain scrambles, still halfway in the dream, still tasting his skin, still feeling his hands on you.
Your room swims into focus. The familiar shadows, the glow of the digital clock on your nightstand.
3:17 a.m.
You stare at the numbers, chest rising and falling too fast.
“Fuck,” you whisper into the quiet darkness.
Your skin is hot, your face is burning, and you are painfully aware of how turned on you are over something that, technically, hasn’t happened.
You flop back onto the mattress, throwing an arm over your eyes.
“A freckle,” you mutter. “You are losing your mind over a freckle.”
The universe does not correct you.
You lie there for a long time, trying to will your racing pulse to calm down. Every time you close your eyes you get flashes of that dream, your lips on his skin, his reaction, the way he sounded.
It feels too real. Too close to the line you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
You know, with absolute, bone-deep certainty,
You are fucked.
You manage maybe another hour of restless sleep before your alarm goes off.
The morning is cruel.
Your reflection in the bathroom mirror looks like hell, dark circles, hair a mess, eyes still a little wild. You splash cold water on your face and try to scrub the images of the dream from your brain.
You fail.
By the time you wander into the kitchen, the tower is starting to wake up. Yelena is already rummaging through the fridge, Ava is stabbing her cereal like it personally offended her, and Bob is humming something off-key under his breath.
John is at the counter, back to you, pouring coffee.
Your stomach does a weird, traitorous flip.
You freeze for a half-second in the doorway. In the harsh morning light, he looks almost exactly like he did in your dream, broad shoulders filling out his t-shirt, hair still a little damp from the shower, that easy spread of him across the space like he owns it.
Except, in your dream, your hands were on him.
You force your feet to move, heading for the cupboards like everything is normal. Like your subconscious didn’t just throw a very explicit compilation of “what if” scenarios at you all night.
“Morning,” he says without looking, like he always does, that warm-gravel drawl wrapping around the word.
“Morning,” you manage, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strangled.
He glances over at you, smiling and you immediately jerk your gaze to his forehead. Not his ear. Not his neck. Not the freckle.
Just. Forehead.
God, you are so obvious.
“Someone didn’t sleep,” Ava observes dryly from the table.
You shoot her a flat look. “Thank you for the analysis.”
Yelena squints at you over a yogurt container. “You look like Walker when he reads a big email.”
“I do not... hey,” John protests.
You snort despite yourself. “She’s not wrong.”
John turns fully then, leaning back against the counter with his coffee in hand. His eyes flick over your face, lingering a moment too long. He’s assessing, you realize. Cataloguing. He’s always been weirdly good at it when he wants to be.
“You good?” he asks, and it’s not the casual throwaway version. It’s the quiet one. The real one.
“I’m fine,” you say a little too quickly.
His brow ticks up just slightly.
You distract yourself with the coffee machine, wrestling a mug out of the cabinet, focusing very hard on not looking at the side of his face. Every time he moves, your brain supplies a mental zoom-in of that spot, plus a highlight reel of what you did to it in your dream.
You nearly drop the mug.
The day doesn’t get better.
If anything, it gets worse.
Because whatever switch your brain flipped last night is firmly stuck there now. You’re hyper-aware of John in a way that is absolutely obnoxious.
In the quinjet? He adjusts his earpiece and your eyes dart to his neck before you can stop them.
On the mission debriefing? He leans back in his chair, stretching, and you suddenly remember exactly how his voice sounded when you kissed...
“Focus,” you hiss to yourself under your breath.
“What?” Yelena whispers.
“Nothing,” you say, staring down at the mission files like they personally insulted you.
You avoid being alone with John all day, which is its own problem. Because he’s not stupid, and you’re not actually subtle even on your best days.
You’re not flirting with him like usual, either. The banter is shorter, your touches nonexistent. Every time he brushes past you in the hallway you practically jump out of your skin like he’s on fire.
It’s a miracle no one calls you out on it.
Almost.
It takes him three days.
Three long, agonizing days of you being weird before John snaps.
It’s late again, some ungodly hour when most of the tower is either asleep or pretending to be. You’re in the hallway outside the armory, half-expecting to run into no one, just making a quick trip to drop off a weapon you’d been cleaning in your room.
You close the locker with a quiet click, exhale, and turn...
Right into John Walker’s chest.
You yelp, stumbling back a step.
He catches your elbow without thinking, steadying you. “Easy,” he says, that automatic concern tightening his voice. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”
You look up at him, your heart banging against your ribs. He’s close. Of course he’s close. It’s a narrow hallway and he’s huge and your brain is useless.
“God, wear a bell or something,” you mutter, trying to pull your arm back.
He doesn’t let go.
“Been lookin’ for you,” he says.
Something in his tone makes your stomach drop. It’s not playful. Not sharp. It’s… intent.
“Congratulations,” you say lightly, defaulting to sarcasm, your go-to armor. “You found me.”
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t roll his eyes. He just studies you for a long, quiet moment, blue eyes searching your face.
“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on with you,” he asks, “or do I have to guess?”
You hate how your pulse jumps.
“Nothing’s going on,” you lie. “I’m fine.”
He lifts a brow. “That’s twice today you’ve said you’re fine. You forget I’ve been around you long enough to know that’s bull?”
You try to sidestep him. He shifts with you, hand still warm around your elbow, effectively blocking your exit. He’s not crowding you, exactly, but he’s close. Close enough that you can see the faint roughness of his shave, the tiny scar near his jaw.
And yes, the curve of his ear.
You look away quickly.
“Walker,” you say, sighing. “I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”
He tilts his head, something like frustration flickering across his face. “You’ve been actin’ weird around me for days.”
“I act weird around you all the time,” you try.
“You’ve been actin’ different,” he corrects, voice firm. “You’re avoidin’ me. You won’t look at me. You barely talk to me unless other people are around.”
“That’s not true,” you protest, totally busted and knowing it.
He leans in just a fraction, eyes never leaving yours. “Did I do somethin’?” he asks quietly. “Say somethin’? Because if I crossed a line, I wanna know.”
The earnestness in his voice hits you right in the chest.
Guilt twists in your gut. This isn’t his fault. He’s just existing. Breathing. Having skin.
“No,” you say quickly. “You didn’t… you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then what is it?” he presses.
You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip. There’s no way in hell you’re about to look this man in the eyes and say, Hey, so, tiny update, I had a really hot dream about licking your ear like it offended me, and now I can’t look at you without wanting to recreate it.
Absolutely not.
“I just…” You cast around helplessly for an excuse. “I’ve had some weird dreams. That’s all. It’s messing with my sleep.”
His expression softens immediately, thumb unconsciously rubbing a soothing circle against the inside of your elbow. “Nightmares?”
Oh. Great. Now you feel worse.
“Not… exactly,” you say, staring very hard at his chest so you don’t accidentally glance up and fixate on the freckle again.
He studies you, jaw working. “You know you can talk to me, right?” he says. “I mean it. You don’t have to tell me everything, but if somethin’ I’m doin’ is making you uncomfortable..."
“It’s not that,” you cut in, sharper than you intend. “You’re not... you haven’t done anything wrong. Okay?”
His brows draw together. “Then why can’t you look at me?”
You freeze.
Because he’s right. You’ve been talking to his shoulder, his collar, his nose, anywhere but his eyes. Or his ear.
Slowly, like it might bite you, you drag your gaze up to his.
It’s a mistake.
He’s standing so close you can see every shade of blue in his irises, the darker ring around the edge. His expression is open, worried, a little confused. There’s no teasing there now. No cocky smirk. Just… John.
You swallow.
The silence stretches.
“I’m not gonna just drop this,” he says finally, voice low. “Not when you look like you’re five seconds from bolting every time I walk into a room. So either you tell me it’s somethin’ that has nothin’ to do with me and swear you mean it..."
“It does have to do with you,” you blurt, before your brain can stop your mouth.
His fingers flex on your arm.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “Then talk to me.”
Your heart is beating so fast you feel a little dizzy. You glance past him, down the empty hallway, as if someone might conveniently walk by and save you from this conversation.
No one does.
Of course.
You take a breath. “It’s stupid,” you say. “You’re gonna laugh.”
“Doubt it.”
“You always laugh at me.”
“Not when you look like this,” he says softly.
Like this. Like what? Like your whole world tilted on its axis because your subconscious decided to zero in on one tiny piece of him and build an entire fantasy around it?
“John,” you warn.
The sound of his first name on your lips makes his eyes flicker, but he doesn’t comment on it. He just waits.
You stare at him, at the familiar lines of his face, at the gentle crease between his brows. You want to trust him with this. You do. But you also want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
You compromise.
“I had a dream,” you say finally, words knife-edged with embarrassment. “About you. And now my brain is being… extra.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “A dream,” he repeats slowly.
“Drop it,” you say quickly, heat flooding your face. “It was just a stupid… thing. I’m tired. It messed with my head, that’s all.”
He doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze sharpens. You can practically feel the question sitting on his tongue: what kind of dream?
“What did I do?” he asks instead, voice rougher.
You let out a shaky breath, half a laugh. “You existed,” you say, attempting lightness that doesn’t quite land. “You breathed. It was very offensive.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “You sure that’s all?”
You shoot him a look. “Don’t push it.”
His eyes flick over your face one more time, slower now. You get the sense he’s lining things up in his head. The late nights. The staring. The avoidance.
You pray he doesn’t land on freckle.
After a beat, he sighs, and his grip on your elbow loosens, but doesn’t fall away.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll back off. For now.”
You blink, surprised. “You will?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You don’t owe me the details. But if it’s messin’ with you this bad, and it’s about me…” He pauses, searching for the words. “Just know I’m not gonna freak out on you. Whatever it is. I can take it.”
You stare at him, torn between rolling your eyes and kissing him stupid.
Instead you nod, throat tight. “Thanks,” you say, and you mean it more than he probably realizes.
He studies you for another moment, like he’s committing something to memory. Then, slowly, his hand slides down from your elbow, fingers brushing yours before he lets go completely.
The absence of his touch is immediate.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “You’re runnin’ on fumes.”
“You sound like Bucky,” you mutter.
“Yeah, well, he’s right sometimes.” He steps aside, finally giving you a path down the hallway. “And… if you ever wanna talk about it. The dream. Or whatever.” His jaw flexes. “I’ll listen.”
You hesitate, your hand brushing the wall as you move past him.
“I know,” you say quietly.
You’re almost clear of him when he speaks again, voice softer, just for you.
“For the record,” he adds, “I’ve had a couple dreams about you too.”
You freeze.
Slowly, you look back at him. His expression is unreadable in the dim light, somewhere between teasing and serious, but his eyes are very, very real.
Your mouth goes dry. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “So you’re not alone in that.”
Your brain short-circuits.
You manage a weak, “Great. Fantastic. Love that for us.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth finally tipping up. “Go to bed,” he repeats.
You turn and walk away before you can do something stupid like ask him what his dreams were about.
You feel his gaze on your back all the way down the hall.
In your room, you close the door gently, lean your forehead against it, and exhale a long, shaky breath.
You are still, undeniably, fucked.
But now, for the first time, you’re not entirely sure you’re fucked alone.
Mission reports are the worst.
You’ve fought enhanced mercenaries, outrun collapsing buildings, stared down Val when she’s in one of her I will end your career with a single email moods, but nothing drains your soul like a stack of post-op forms.
Especially at midnight.
You’re at the big table in the common room, laptop open, half-finished report glaring back at you. The only light is the floor lamp in the corner and the dull blue glow from the city outside.
Across from you, John sits hunched over his own laptop, his t-shirt is tight across his shoulders, his forearms braced on the edge of the table, veins standing out just enough to be distracting.
Very, very distracting.
You try to focus on the cursor blinking in the “Detailed Account” section.
Subject neutralized at 2300 hours. No civilian casualties. Team maintained formation…
Your gaze flicks up without permission.
John shifts in his chair, rolling his shoulders like they’ve been locked in place too long. He cranes his neck to one side, then the other. The movement exposes the side of his throat, the line of his jaw.
And there it is.
That stupid, tiny, life-ruining freckle on his left earlobe.
You go completely blank.
You stare at it, mind helpfully pulling files from your mental disaster archive, that vivid dream, the way he’d shivered under your mouth, the sound he’d made when you’d...
Nope.
You slam the mental file cabinet shut so hard you almost hear it.
Your cheeks warm. You drag your gaze back to your laptop like it just said something offensive.
Focus.
Words. Reports. Neutralized. Coordinated assault.
You type, “Subject attempted to flee through the...”
John mutters a quiet curse under his breath.
Your eyes snap back up like they’ve been yanked on a string.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck now, head tilted the other way. The side of his face is exposed again. The freckle is right there, a little dot of color on otherwise pale skin.
Taunting you.
You swallow hard.
You do not remember being this obsessed with any physical feature in your life. Not a mouth, not hands, nothing. But this? This tiny, infuriating speck of pigment has apparently become your Roman Empire.
“Stop it,” you whisper.
John’s fingers still on the keyboard. “What’d I do?”
Mortification hits fast and hard. “Nothing. I meant...” You gesture vaguely at your screen. “This. Paperwork. It’s killing me.”
He huffs out a sympathetic laugh. “Thought you were yelling at me for typin’ too loud.”
“You type like a normal person,” you say. “You breathe too loud.”
His mouth quirks. “Knew there was somethin’.”
You should look back at your laptop.
You don’t.
Your eyes keep darting to that freckle like it has its own gravitational pull. Every tiny movement he makes draws your attention there, when he tilts his head, when he rubs at his ear absently, when he hums low under his breath in concentration.
You feel a hot, prickly wave of irritation at yourself. This was already bad. Ever since you admitted to him that you’d had “a dream,” your brain has been running laps. But now, knowing he’s had dreams too?
Yeah. You are so deeply, irreparably screwed.
You stare at the blinking cursor until the words start to blur.
Footsteps echo somewhere down the hallway, distant. A door shuts. The tower settles a little more into that late-night quiet, the kind that makes every rustle and every breath sound louder.
“Y’know,” John says, breaking the silence, “for someone who hates paperwork, you sure stare at it a lot.”
You blink, realizing you haven’t typed anything new in… several minutes.
“Maybe I’m trying to melt it with my mind,” you mutter.
“How’s that goin’ for you?”
“So far I just have a headache.”
He chuckles, leaning back in his chair. The movement makes his shirt stretch across his chest, muscles shifting under the fabric. He scrubs a hand over his face, then drags it back through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead.
Your gaze follows the motion.
Lands on his ear.
Sticks.
You think about it under your mouth again, about what his face looked like in your dream when you...
You shut your laptop.
Hard.
John startles slightly. “You kill it?” he asks dryly.
“I’m done,” you say, shoving your chair back. “That’s it. Brain has left the building.”
“You didn’t finish your report,” he points out, glancing at the screen.
“I’ll finish it tomorrow,” you say, already gathering stray papers that don’t even belong to you. “Or Val can. Or we can fake a data breach and lose them all. I’ll set the server room on fire. It’ll be great.”
He snorts. “You set the server room on fire, I’m not savin’ you.”
“Liar,” you say automatically.
His eyes soften, just a little. “Yeah,” he admits. “I’d still save you.”
That does annoyingly warm things to your insides.
You sling your laptop under your arm, avoiding looking directly at him. “I’m calling it. If I stare at one more casualty box, I’m gonna start writing my own name in it.”
He watches you stand, something flickering in his expression. “You sure?” he asks. “We were almost done.”
You shrug, trying for casual. “My brain’s mush. I’ll just screw it up and you’ll have to fix it anyway.”
“M’sure I could manage,” he says, but he doesn’t push.
You start to turn away.
“Hang on,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’ll walk you.”
You roll your eyes. “You really don’t have to..."
“I know,” he says, already closing his laptop and setting it aside. “Still gonna.”
You exhale through your nose, too tired to argue and too rattled to be in this room alone with him any longer.
“Suit yourself,” you mutter.
The walk starts normal.
It never stays that way.
You fall into step beside him, laptop clutched to your chest like a shield. The hallway lights are dimmed, most of the tower already gone to bed. Your socked feet make almost no sound on the floor; his steps are heavier, that familiar solid presence at your side.
You’re painfully aware of him.
Of the way his arm swings just close enough that it brushes yours every few steps. Of the heat radiating off his body. Of the faint smell of his soap and clean sweat and the cologne he always claims he doesn’t wear.
You keep your eyes straight ahead.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at his face. Don’t look at his neck or his jaw or his...
You glance sideways.
The light hits him just right as you turn a corner, casting shadows along his cheekbones, catching on the curve of his ear.
There.
The freckle.
You drag your gaze away so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.
John notices.
Of course he notices.
He’s been watching you all week, ever since you half-confessed about your dream. And you can practically feel him clock every tiny flinch, every time you avoid his eyes, every stupid micro-expression your traitor face makes.
“You always this quiet after missions?” he asks casually.
“Sometimes,” you say.
“Only time I’ve seen you this quiet is when Yelena’s cookin’ experiment goes bad and you’re trying not to offend her.”
“That’s survival instinct,” you say. “There’s a difference.”
He huffs out a laugh. “That what this is now? Survival instinct?”
You don’t answer.
You’re almost to your hallway, or you should be. You realize, two turns too late, that you’re not going the usual way to your room.
You know the tower well enough now to orient yourself fast.
You’re in his hallway.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
You slow down. “Uh, Walker?”
“Mm?”
“This isn’t… my side.”
“I know,” he says.
He stops right in front of his door.
You stop too, momentum bringing you a little closer than you mean to. You can practically hear the click of a trap closing.
You narrow your eyes. “You plan this?”
“Maybe,” he says honestly.
You stare at him.
He leans his shoulder against his doorframe, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. The pose makes his biceps bulge just enough to be obnoxious. He looks maddeningly calm. Patient, even.
You, on the other hand, are pure static.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“What I said I wasn’t gonna do,” he admits. “Droppin’ it.”
You exhale, frustration and anxiety tangling together. “John..."
“You’re not sleepin’,” he says quietly, cutting you off. “You’re jumpy. You won’t look at me half the time, and when you do, you look like you wanna crawl out of your skin.”
He tilts his head, eyes never leaving your face.
“And unless I got real ugly overnight,” he adds, lips quirking just a little, “I’m pretty sure it’s not ‘cause you suddenly hate me.”
You press your lips together.
He’s not wrong.
“I told you,” you say carefully, “it’s a weird dream. That’s all.”
“I can handle weird,” he says. “You know that. Hell, I am weird.”
You huff out half a laugh, despite yourself.
“Talk to me,” he says, and the light tone drops entirely. “Stop runnin’ circles in your head and just… let me in, a little.”
He takes a small step toward you, not enough to crowd, just enough to make the space between you feel charged.
“If you really don’t wanna tell me,” he goes on, “I’ll back off. But if this is about me, and it’s messin’ with you this much?” His gaze searches yours. “I’d rather know.”
You stare at him.
He’s leaving you an out. He is. You could lie. You could make something up about a mission gone wrong, about some nightmare that has nothing to do with him. He’d probably believe you, at least for a while.
But you’re tired.
So, so tired.
Of pretending you’re not thinking about his mouth. Of pretending that freckle isn’t living rent-free in your skull. Of dancing around something that’s already halfway out in the open.
You lean back against the opposite wall, the cool surface grounding you a little. Your laptop digs into your ribs.
“This is going to sound insane,” you warn.
He smiles, just a little. “Puts us on the same level then.”
“I’m serious,” you say.
“So am I.”
You take a breath. Let it out slowly. Your gaze flicks up to his face, to his eyes, then skitters away again.
“Okay,” you say finally, voice low. “You remember that night in the kitchen? After the mission?”
“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Tea. Insults. You called me old. Standard Tuesday.”
You ignore the faint warmth that curls in your chest at how fast he says yeah.
“Yeah, well,” you say, “that was also the night I noticed it.”
“Noticed what?”
You’d rather be shot than answer, but you force the word out.
“The freckle,” you mutter.
He blinks. “…What?”
You gesture vaguely toward his head, mortified. “On your ear.”
His hand automatically lifts, fingers brushing the shell of his left ear like he’s checking it’s still there. “You lost sleep over... a freckle?”
“Yes,” you snap, then immediately cringe. “I mean... no. I mean... not just that. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile and losing. “You’re gonna have to help me out here, sweetheart, ‘cause I am not followin’ how a dot on my ear has you lookin’ like I ran over your dog.”
You scrub a hand over your face. This is torture.
You could soften it. You could say I keep noticing it or my brain fixated and leave it there. But his eyes are steady on you, open and patient and stubbornly kind, and you realize he’s not going to let you half-ass this.
So you rip the bandage off.
“The dream I had,” you blurt, staring very hard at the space between his shoulder and the doorframe, “was about me kissing that stupid freckle on your left earlobe and you losing your mind over it, and now every time I look at you, all I can think about is putting my mouth on it, and my brain won’t shut up.”
Silence.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“I told you it was insane,” you add weakly.
There’s a beat where he doesn’t say anything at all.
Then, “Say that again.”
You groan. “Absolutely not.”
“Not the whole thing,” he says, a little rough around the edges now. “Just... the part where you said..."
“Nope. We’re skipping past that part.”
He takes another step forward before you can bolt, one hand braced on the wall beside your head now. He’s close enough that you can see his pulse jump in his throat.
“You had a dream,” he says slowly, voice low, “about kissing… my ear.”
“Just the freckle,” you mutter, because apparently your dignity is already in hell. “I mean, technically your ear, yes, but the freckle specifically.”
“You’re killin’ me,” he says under his breath.
“I am aware,” you shoot back. “Welcome to my week.”
His gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, then snaps back up. There’s no teasing in it now. No smugness. Just heat, and something softer under it, something that makes your chest tight.
“And now you can’t look at me,” he says, “because you’re thinkin’ about that.”
“Yes,” you say honestly. “It’s… extremely inconvenient.”
He huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh, like he can’t quite believe this is his life. “You’re losin’ sleep ‘cause you wanna kiss a freckle.”
“You make it sound ridiculous when you say it like that.”
“How am I supposed to say it?”
“I don’t know!” you snap, more defensive than you mean to be. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have your brain latch onto something like this and refuse to let go? I look at you and it’s just..." You gesture vaguely at his ear, flustered. “...ear. Freckle. Mouth. Static. Nothing else.”
His jaw flexes.
You push on, half-laughing, half on the verge of hysterical. “I can’t concentrate. I can’t write reports. I almost walked into a door yesterday because you turned your head at the wrong time. I’m trying not to be weird about it, but I am being weird about it, and you notice everything, and I hate it.”
You stop, chest heaving, words finally spent.
John just looks at you.
Then, very quietly, "You’re attracted to me.”
You stare at him. “That’s what you’re pulling from this? Now you figure that out?”
His mouth curves, faint and crooked. “Just makin’ sure we’re on the same page.”
You glare, but there’s no real heat in it. You’re too raw, too exhausted.
“Of course I’m attracted to you,” you mutter. “You’re... you. And we’ve been flirting for months. You knew that. I thought we were just… not talking about it.”
His eyes soften. “I knew,” he admits. “Didn’t know it was keepin’ you up at night.”
“Not you,” you say quickly. “The freckle. Specifically. That’s an important distinction.”
He laughs then, low and incredulous, running a hand down his face. “You’re really somethin’, you know that?”
“I did warn you,” you say.
He drops his hand, looks at you again, really looks. There’s a new weight in his gaze now, something considering, like he’s turning over a decision in his mind.
“So let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You’ve been losin’ sleep, avoidin’ me, drivin’ yourself crazy… over somethin’ you want to do.”
You blink. “…Yes?”
“And you didn’t think,” he continues, a little wry, “at any point in all this, to maybe just ask me?”
Your heart stutters.
“Ask you,” you repeat.
He lifts one shoulder. “I told you I’ve had dreams too,” he says quietly. “You think I haven’t imagined you this close? Think I haven’t...” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, reins it in. “Point is, you’re not the only one who’s been thinkin’ about… stuff.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“So,” he says, voice dropping, “before your brain explodes… why don’t you let me help you out?”
You swallow. “Help me how?”
He shifts just a little closer, careful, giving you plenty of time to shove him away if you want to. You don’t move.
“If the thing drivin’ you crazy,” he murmurs, “is not knowin’ what it feels like… we could fix that.”
The world narrows to the space between you.
“John,” you say, warning and want tangled together.
He searches your face. “You tell me no, I walk into that room,” he tilts his head toward his door, “and we pretend this conversation ended at ‘weird dream.’ I won’t bring it up again unless you do.”
You believe him.
You hate that you believe him, because it makes the decision yours.
“But if you say yes,” he adds, voice a little rougher now, “then maybe tonight you sleep a little better. ‘Cause you won’t be wonderin’ anymore.”
Your pulse is a steady roar in your ears.
You think about lying awake, staring at the ceiling. You think about the heat that coils low in your stomach every time he walks into a room. You think about the way he looked at you in your dream, like you’d knocked the air out of him.
You’re tired.
You’re so, so tired.
And you trust him.
You exhale slowly. “You’re sure this isn’t just you trying to cash in on the fact that I’m very publicly losing it over your ear?”
His lips curve. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to ‘cash in,’ I would’ve done it months ago.”
“That’s… fair,” you admit.
He leans in just a fraction more, enough that you can feel his breath feather across your cheek. “So,” he murmurs. “What’s it gonna be?”
You stare at him, at his mouth, at the steady light in his eyes. Then, finally, you let your gaze drop to the left.
To the freckle.
It’s right there. Real, not dream-soft. A perfect little dot against his skin, close enough to touch if you just lift your hand.
Your voice comes out quiet. “I hate how much I want this.”
He smiles, soft and a little sad. “You’re not the only one.”
You meet his eyes again.
“Okay,” you say, heart in your throat. “Then… help me out.”
Something in his expression loosens, relief, maybe, or tension he’s been holding just as tightly as you. His hand lifts from the wall, fingers skimming lightly along your jaw until his thumb rests just below your cheekbone.
“Last chance to run,” he says, giving you one more out.
You step into him instead.
“I’m already fucked because of a freckle,” you murmur. “Might as well commit.”
His laugh is breathless, barely there.
“Come here,” he whispers.
His thumb strokes along your cheek, slow and steady, and then he leans in, closing the last bit of space between you. His mouth brushes yours once, soft, testing, like he’s giving you every chance in the world to change your mind.
You don’t.
You tilt up into him, kissing back properly, your free hand catching his shirt at the collar and holding on. The first real kiss is nothing like the joking, half-flirty, half-serious stuff you’ve imagined between missions.
It’s better.
He’s warm and steady and careful in a way you didn’t expect, like he’s been holding this back for a long time and refuses to rush now that he finally has it. His hand slides along your jaw, fingers threading behind your ear, angling you closer as his lips move against yours, slow, firm, thorough.
You exhale into his mouth, something inside you unwinding.
He hums low in his chest, that sound vibrating through you, and when you part for a breath he stays close, his forehead resting against yours.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
You’re breathless, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah,” you manage. “You’re… very distracting.”
His mouth kicks up at one corner. “Good.”
His hand drops to your waist, big palm spanning your side, and then he’s walking you backward the last few steps until your shoulders bump his door. You hear the soft click as he reaches behind you and opens it, backing you both inside without breaking contact.
You don’t even remember the door closing, just the soft thud of it somewhere behind you and the feel of his hands, his mouth, his body in front of you. The room is darker than the hallway, lit only by the faint glow from the blinds and the small lamp on his dresser.
John kisses you like he has nowhere else to be.
Slow, then deeper, letting it build. One hand cupping the back of your neck, thumb stroking small circles at the base of your skull; the other finding your hip, anchoring you to him. You slide your fingers into his hair, tug gently, and he makes a quiet sound that goes straight through you.
Your brain is static.
When he finally pulls back, both of you breathing harder, he searches your face in the low light.
“Still okay?” he asks, chest rising and falling under your hands.
You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. Just… recalibrating.”
He huffs a smirk, brushing his nose against yours. “Been tryin’ to recalibrate around you since the day you walked in that briefing room. ‘Bout time I stopped pretending.”
The confession hits something tender in you, but before you can answer, your gaze flickers sideways.
The angle of his head, this close, brings his left ear into view. The soft curve of it, the pale skin, and there, like a dot on a map you’ve memorized too many times...
That freckle.
You go a little lightheaded.
John feels the shift in your focus. His thumb pauses where it’s resting near your jaw.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
You drag your eyes back to his. “What?”
“That look,” he says softly. “The one that says you’re thinkin’ about it again.”
Your cheeks heat. “I hate that you can tell.”
He smiles, but there’s nothing mocking in it. If anything, there’s a kind of warmth there that nearly undoes you. “You don’t have to hate it,” he says. “You can… y’know. Do somethin’ about it.”
Your heart stutters. “You’re really okay with this?”
His hand slides from your neck to your shoulder, firm and reassuring. “Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “I have been thinking about your mouth for months. If you wanna use it on some tiny piece of me that’s got you all tied up in knots, I’m not gonna complain.”
You laugh, half-nervous, half giddy. “You say that now.”
He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “Trust me,” he murmurs, the words ghosting along your cheek, “I’m very sure.”
You shiver.
Carefully, you lift a hand, fingers curling lightly at the back of his neck. He lets you guide him, his body yielding to your touch, turning his head just a little until that small, infuriating freckle is right there in front of you.
Your pulse thunders.
You take a breath.
Then, finally, you lean in.
Your lips brush the freckle in the lightest, quickest kiss, just a press of mouth to skin.
John’s reaction is immediate.
His breath catches, shoulders jerking with a small, surprised shudder. His hand tightens on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to feel. You feel his exhale stutter against your cheek.
“Jesus,” he whispers, the word punched out of him.
You pull back a fraction, dazed. “That was barely anything.”
He huffs a laugh that sounds a little wrecked. “Do it again.”
You shouldn’t feel as smug as you do.
But you do.
You go back in slower this time, letting yourself savor it. The skin there is softer than you expected, warm and sensitive, the tiny freckle a marker under your mouth. You let your lips linger, giving it a proper, unhurried kiss.
John’s head tips to the side without you asking, like his body is chasing the contact. His hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades, holding you close.
“Keep goin’,” he says, voice rougher now. “Please.”
The please does something dangerous to you.
You smile against his skin, emboldened, and let your mouth wander, another kiss to the freckle, then a slow trail along the edge of his ear, the line of his jaw, back again like you’re mapping a route only you get to follow.
You take your time with it, like you promised yourself you would. Worshipping is the only word for it; this isn’t rushed or sloppy or joking. It’s deliberate. Focused. A quiet, greedy kind of reverence, all centered on this one tiny, ridiculous detail of him that somehow feels like everything.
John feels it.
His breathing changes, deepening, turning uneven. You feel the way his chest rises against yours, the way his fingers flex where they hold you. Every little sound he makes, those low, unguarded noises you’ve never heard from him before, only pushes you further.
“So that’s what’s been in your head, huh,” he murmurs, voice shaking around the edges as you kiss that spot again.
“No wonder you’ve been distracted.” he whispered, his voice laced with awe, as if he couldn’t believe someone could worship something so small about him.
“You have no idea,” you whisper, lips brushing his skin.
He swallows hard. “I’m gettin’ one, believe me.”
You let your hand slide up into his hair, thumb tracing the edge of his ear as your mouth returns to the freckle again and again, soft kisses, a gentle scrape of teeth that makes him swear under his breath, the slow press of you mouthing at it like you can imprint yourself there.
He turns his face toward you suddenly, catching your mouth with his.
The kiss this time is not slow.
It’s hungry.
You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading into his hair as the kiss deepened, tongues brushing in a slow, sensual dance.
He guides you back toward the bed, never breaking contact, his hands roaming your sides with a gentleness that made your heart ache.
“Let me show you,” he breathed against your mouth, “how much I’ve wanted this too.”
You both tumbled onto the sheets, a tangle of limbs and quiet gasps.
John hovered over you, his weight a comforting press as he trailed kisses down your jaw, your neck, pausing to nip softly at your collarbone. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Every inch of you… I want to worship you right back.”
Your hands explored him greedily, sliding under his shirt to feel the hard planes of his chest, the scattering of freckles across his shoulders that mirrored the one on his ear.
But you kept returning to that spot, leaning up to press your lips to his left earlobe, tongue flicking out to trace the freckle.
He groaned, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through you, his hips pressing instinctively against yours.
“God, that feels…” He trailed off, his breath hitching as you sucked gently on the lobe, worshipping that tiny imperfection like it was sacred.
His hands worked at your clothes, peeling them away with care, exposing your skin to the cool air. He paused to admire you, eyes dark with desire but soft with adoration.
“Perfect,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss your breasts, his mouth warm and reverent as he lavished attention on each nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue until you arched beneath him, moaning his name.
You tugged at his shirt, desperate for more skin, and he obliged, shrugging it off to reveal the expanse of his torso, strong, marked by life, but so achingly human.
Your fingers traced patterns over him, worshipping the dips and rises, the freckles that dotted his body like stars. “John,” you gasped, as his hand slipped between your thighs, finding you already wet and ready.
His touch was gentle, fingers circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that built the heat in your core.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he confessed, his voice husky as he kissed his way down your stomach, pausing to nuzzle against your hip. “About tasting you, feeling you come undone for me.”
He settled between your legs, his breath hot against your center, and then his mouth was on you, soft, worshipping licks that made your toes curl.
His tongue delved into you, exploring with a tenderness that bordered on devotion, sucking gently on your clit while his fingers slid inside, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, your hips bucking against his face. “John… oh, god, yes…” The pleasure built slowly, a sensual wave that crested when he hummed against you, the vibration sending you over the edge.
You came with a cry, body trembling as he lapped at you, drawing out every last shudder.
He rose up, lips glistening, eyes locked on yours with pure, unfiltered want.
You pulled him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on him, and reached for his pants, freeing his cock, hard and thick, the tip already weeping with pre-cum. “I need you,” you whispered, stroking him slowly, worshipping the length of him with your hand.
He groaned, thrusting into your grip, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly, always so careful, even now. But you shook your head, guiding him to your entrance, and he slid inside you inch by inch, filling you completely. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect fit, and you both moaned in unison as he bottomed out.
He moved slowly at first, hips rolling in a sensual rhythm that let you feel every inch of him.
“You feel incredible,” he breathed, kissing your neck, your shoulders, you returning again to that left earlobe where you nipped and sucked, making him thrust harder.
His pace built, still soft but insistent, each stroke a act of worship, his hands caressing your breasts, your sides, as if memorizing you.
You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails grazing his back in gentle patterns. “John… harder, please… I want all of you.”
He obliged, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, hitting that sweet spot inside you over and over. The room filled with the sounds of your bodies, wet, rhythmic slaps and shared gasps, as you climbed together.
“Come with me,” he murmured, his hand slipping between you to rub your clit in time with his movements. The pleasure coiled tight, and when it snapped, you clenched around him, crying out his name as waves of ecstasy washed over you.
He followed moments later, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you in hot pulses
You lay tangled together afterward, breaths mingling, his head resting on your chest as you traced lazy circles over his back.
Your fingers found their way back to his left earlobe, brushing the freckle softly.
For a long while, there’s only the sound of your breathing and the slow tick of the old clock on his wall.
You stare at the ceiling, every nerve pleasantly humming.
John moves on his side, facing you, one hand resting loosely over your stomach. His fingers move in slow, absent-minded patterns, just gentle, like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there.
You feel his gaze before you look.
When you turn your head, he’s already watching you.
There’s no smugness there. No cocky grin. Just something soft and a little stunned, like he hasn’t quite caught up to the reality of tonight.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You huff a lazy little laugh. “Hey.”
He studies your face for a moment. “You okay?” he asks.
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. “You’ve asked me that, like, twelve times tonight.”
“Gonna keep askin’ till I’m sure,” he says simply.
You think about it for a second, do a quick internal scan. Your body is pleasantly sore, your mind quieter than it’s felt in days, your heart still thudding a little faster than normal, but in a good way this time.
“I’m okay,” you say. “Better than okay, actually.”
He smiles, small and relieved. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His hand on your stomach relaxes, fingers splaying just a little like he wants to cover more of you. He glances away for a second, then back.
“For the record,” he says, “that was… definitely better than anything my brain came up with.”
You snort. “You had freckle dreams too?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, his smile turning crooked, “you don’t wanna know what my freckle dreams looked like.”
Heat creeps up your neck again. “Rude.”
He chuckles, sliding a little closer, his knee bumping yours under the sheets. “Your turn,” he says. “How’s reality stack up to that dream of yours?”
You pretend to consider it, then sigh dramatically. “Well, in the dream I didn’t almost drop my laptop, so that’s one point in its favor.”
He nudges your hip with his. “And?”
“And in the dream I didn’t have to admit I was losing my mind over your ear to your actual face.”
“Mm. That part was fun, not gonna lie,” he says, grin widening for a second.
You narrow your eyes at him; he schools his expression, tries again.
“But?” you prompt.
“But,” he says slowly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before coming back up, “pretty sure dream me didn’t sound like that when you kissed that spot.”
You feel that line all the way through you.
A smaller, more self-conscious part of you pokes its head up. “I didn’t… go too far with that, did I?” you ask quietly. “With the freckle thing. Or just… tonight, in general.”
He goes serious fast, the joking glint in his eyes softening.
“Hey,” he says, fingers tightening gently where they rest on your stomach. “You didn’t go too far. You told me what was goin’ on in your head, you let me check in. That’s… that’s not too far. That’s good.”
The knot in your chest loosens a little.
“Besides,” he adds, something fond curling at the edge of his mouth, “if you’re askin’ me if I minded you takin’ your time with that freckle?” He huffs a soft laugh. “Absolutely not. You can do that anytime you want.”
You bite back a smile. “Dangerous offer, Walker.”
“I’m willin’ to take the risk.”
Silence settles again, more comfortable this time. You scoot a little closer, letting your forehead rest against his chin. He adjusts automatically, arm sliding more firmly around you, pulling you into his chest.
You listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong under your ear.
After a while, you murmur, “So… what happens now?”
You feel him go still for a second, like he’s been wondering the same thing.
“Whatever you want to happen,” he says honestly. “If you wanna call this a one-time, ‘freckle crisis management’ situation, we can. I won’t make it weird. If you wanna see what it looks like when this… isn’t just happenin’ by accident at midnight in front of my door…” His hand rubs slow circles on your back. “We can try that, too.”
“You mean, like… date?” you ask, the word weirdly small in your mouth for everything you’ve just done.
He smiles into your hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like date.”
You lie there, thinking about it. About morning afters and shared coffees and missions where the flirting isn’t half as hypothetical. About the way he looked at you tonight, like you were a choice, not a mistake.
“You’d be okay with that?” you ask. “With… me?”
He tips your chin up gently so you’re looking at him. There’s no hesitation in his eyes.
“I’ve been okay with that since you called me ‘Discount Captain America’ to my face and then stole my fries,” he says. “Took me a while to catch up to what that meant. But yeah. I’d be more than okay with that.”
Emotion squeezes your chest in a way that has nothing to do with the freckle and everything to do with him.
You swallow past it. “We’re gonna have to tell the team,” you say, making a face.
He winces. “Yeah. That’s… future us’s problem.”
You snort. “Yelena is never letting us live this down.”
“Yelena ever finds out it all started because of a freckle, I’m movin’ to another country,” he mutters.
You grin, wicked. “Oh, I’m absolutely telling her that part.”
He groans, dropping his head back onto the pillow. “You are relentless.”
You lean in, pressing a soft, quick kiss just under his ear, right over that tiny dot of skin that started all this.
He shivers.
“I warned you,” you murmur against his skin. “I’m a menace, remember?”
He laughs quietly, that warm, wrecked sound you’re pretty sure you’re going to be chasing from now on.
“Yeah,” he says, pulling you closer, tucking you against his chest like you fit there. “But you’re my menace now.”
You smile into his skin, feeling the slow, steady thud of his heart under your cheek.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, your mind goes quiet.
No relentless what-ifs, no endless replay of that first kitchen scene. Just the weight of his arm around you, the warmth of his body, and the knowledge that if you wake up in the middle of the night thinking about that damn freckle again…
You’ll only have to reach up to find it.
