just saw a tweet that said “most romantic thing in the world is the first time someone leaves u to sleep in their room while they head out early for work” and it made me think of woll. you slept over at his and wake up to him getting ready to leave for practice. you start to get up to go home, but he makes you get back in his bed and says he wants you to still be in it when he gets back. he’d be sooooo sweet and giving lots of kisses <3
suggestive content below
the morning light filtering through joseph’s curtains is soft and gray, the kind of winter light that makes you want to burrow deeper into the blankets and never surface. you’re half-aware of movement in the room, the quiet rustle of fabric and the gentle click of a drawer closing, but it’s the dip of the mattress that fully pulls you from sleep. when you blink your eyes open, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, already in his leafs practice hoodie, the blue athletic fabric hanging loose on his broad frame, his hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck.
“hey,” he whispers, turning when he senses you awake, his voice barely above a breath. “didn’t mean to wake you, baby.”
you shift, pushing hair out of your face, and the sheets pool around your waist. the room smells like him—like clean soap and the faint, cold scent of the ice that never quite leaves his skin, even after showering. “what time is it?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
“early,” he says, reaching out with one of those massive hands to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers trail down your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw with that gentleness that makes your chest ache. “i’ve got to head to the rink. go back to sleep.”
you nod, still groggy, and start to push yourself up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. your clothes are somewhere on the floor, your bag by the door, and your brain is slowly assembling the thought that you should probably go home, shower in your own place, not overstay your welcome in his space—
a hand closes around your wrist, not tight, just enough to stop you. “where are you going?” joseph asks, and there’s confusion in his voice, soft and concerned.
“home,” you say, rubbing your eyes. “i didn’t want to just… stay here while you’re gone. i should—”
“no,” he says, and the word is gentle but firm. he tugs you back toward the pillows with the slightest pressure, his big hand easily guiding you, those goalie fingers wrapping all the way around your wrist with room to spare. “get back in bed, sweetheart.”
“but—”
“get back in bed,” he repeats, and this time he’s smiling, that shy, sweet smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. he stands up, all six-foot-three of him towering over you, but there’s nothing intimidating about it. he’s just joseph, your joseph, looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants to look at before he has to leave. “i want you here when i get back. okay? i want to come home and find you right here in my bed.”
your heart does something complicated and warm in your chest. “yeah?”
“yeah,” he says softly, and then he’s leaning down, both hands framing your face, his palms covering your cheeks completely, thumbs stroking your temples. he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, his breath warm against your skin. “i want to walk through that door after practice and see you all sleepy and cozy in my sheets. can you do that for me? just… stay? sleep in. use my shower. eat the cereal in the cabinet. be here.”
you nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and he rewards you with another kiss, this one on the bridge of your nose, then the tip of it, then each eyelid as you close them, soft as butterfly wings. his hands slide down to cup your shoulders, those massive palms kneading gently, working out tension you didn’t know you were holding.
“you’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your hair, and then he’s pressing you back against the pillows, his hands moving to tuck the blankets around you with meticulous care, pulling them up to your chin, smoothing them over your chest. he finds your hand under the covers and brings it to his mouth, pressing kisses to each knuckle, his lips warm and soft. “my good girl. staying in my bed where you belong.”
he doesn’t let go of your hand, even as he’s clearly running late, his keys in his pocket. he sits back down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you, and brings your hand to rest against his chest, right over his heart. you can feel it beating steady and strong under his hoodie.
“i’ll be back by two,” he says, leaning down to kiss your lips, chaste and sweet, then again, deeper but still soft, still unhurried. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes warm and devoted. “and when i get back, i’m gonna make you pancakes, okay? and we can build that lego set you wanted to start. or i can play piano for you. whatever you want. but i need you to be here. i need to know you’re in my space, safe and warm, while i’m gone. it makes practice better. knowing you’re here.”
“okay,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him down for one more kiss. “i’ll be here. promise.”
he exhales like you’ve given him the world, and then he’s kissing you again anyways, a flurry of them now, unable to stop—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your chin, your lips, your jaw, your throat where your pulse flutters. his big hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, holding you like something precious and fragile despite the size and strength of him.
“you’re the best thing,” he breathes against your collarbone, pressing one last kiss there, right above the neckline of your shirt. he pulls back, his thumb tracing your lower lip one final time. “sleep more. you’re tired. and if you get cold, my hoodies are in the second drawer. the gray one’s soft. wear that.”
“okay,” you say, already sinking back into the pillows, surrounded by his scent, his warmth still imprinted on the sheets.
he stands up, finally, and at the door, he pauses, looking back at you with such open affection it takes your breath away. “be here when i get back,” he says again.
“i will,” you promise, your voice small and sleepy.
he smiles, bright and beautiful, and blows you a kiss, his big hand cupping around his mouth like a child, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut with a soft sound that echoes in the quiet apartment.
you burrow deeper into the blankets, pulling his pillow close and inhaling the scent of his shampoo and cologne. the sheets are warm where he sat, and you press your hand there, imagining those big, gentle hands on you again in just a few hours. you close your eyes, smiling into the darkness, knowing that when he returns, he’ll find you exactly where he left you—safe in his bed, waiting for him, exactly where he wants you to be.
୨୧ ‧₊˚ good graces (live from toronto) - Offside AU ˚₊‧ ୨୧
pairing: j. woll x popstar!reader
summary: ANGL plays her show in Toronto. Behind her back, her publicist finds a particular hockey goalie to make a special appearance at the show.
lyrics: Break my heart and I swear I'm movin' on / With your favourite athlete / Shoot his shot every night
word count: 1.3k
warning(s): pure fluff, use of stage name (ANGL), not proof read
notes: *fanfare playing* hellooooo from university, everyone. yes, i am back. finally my mental health and my school work have allowed me to write. thank you for your love and support on this ongoing project. i hope you enjoy !!
offside masterpost - previous chapter - next chapter
"Ok, Y/N, sound check is done. Thank for your time," the man on the microphone overhead says. You yell up towards him, "No worries!" and walk backstage to get ready for your show.
Crazy how quickly the workers at Scotia Bank arena can change it from being a hockey rink to a stadium that can sit 20,000 people in less than 24 hours. Tonight was your first concert in Toronto, one of your favourite cities to travel to. It was late November so it was freezing, but when Scotia Bank arena offers you a date to play, you take it.
Fame. What a fickle thing. If someone had told you 10 months ago you'd be playing a sold out show in Toronto with Maisie Peters as your opener, you wouldn't have believed them. You were super excited... and a little nervous. You had gained so much fame opening for Taylor Swift in your home city of London and the surrounding area and you were so so grateful for that experience. Working with Taylor taught you so much about performing.
Your first album, entitled Dear Diary, was focused on growing up and your first ever serious relationship with Milo Manheim, an actor. It was a hit everywhere. Then, you and Milo had a messy, yet private breakup, leading to your newest hit single, Good Graces. After going viral on a few social media platforms and word of a collab with Taylor Swift getting out, your publicist, Janine, pitched the idea of this tour.
Toronto wasn't opening night of your tour, though. You started in Manchester and played the first leg in the UK before releasing North American dates due to high demand. Toronto is the first night of that leg of the tour. And, boy, were you nervous.
It was almost 7 PM and you could hear the crowd screaming along with Maisie as she sang Not Another Rockstar, one of your personal favourites. It was the last song of her set and you were getting nervous. You have done this a million times, Y/N, you're fine, you say in your head. Its not a long show. Just go, sing, yap and finish. Finally, it is your turn to go on.
The crowd feels massive. So far, this is the biggest stadium you have sold out on your own. You hear screams and cheers and clapping as you walk out on stage in a simple white baby doll dress and matching white mary janes shoes. You take a deep breath, smile and wave. You bring your blue bedazzled mic to your lips and say,
"Hello, Toronto!!"
The crowd goes even crazier and the intro to The Story of Us starts playing. You sing your heart out trying to forget that you're actually performing. The loudest part of the song is "So many things that you wish I knew / But the story of us might be ending soon" and you smile so so big to hear all these people know the lyrics you wrote in your bedroom at 16 years old.
Your first set of the evening goes well, and you finish off with Generation Why, a favourite of yours. The crowd is hyped and you are ready to give your first little speech before your second set begins.
"Oh my goodness, you guys are so loud," you say smiling at the crowd and looking around to see all the faces of the people watching you. "Welcome to the Dear Diary Tour, everyone. I am your host tonight. My name is ANGL!". This makes the crowd cheer more and you scan the VIP tents. You find the booth with your friends, including Iris and William. You see a few more guys but you can't see their faces clearly enough to know who they are.
"I just want to thank all of you for being here with me tonight and taking time out of your busy schedules to enjoy my music with me. I'm very very proud of everything I have accomplished in the past year and I'm so excited to get to share some of that with you. Now I have a question," you cross your arms and tap on finger to your chin, pretend pondering. It was time for Good Graces, the newest addition to your discography.
"I'm from the UK and we like football there. What about you guys here in Toronto? Is it hockey?"
All of a sudden the crowd gets really loud and your backup dancers box you in as you quickly change into the bedazzled Woll 60 jersey you got from Leafs admin the night before. The intro to you latest single plays and you get really excited. Who did Janine pick??
For context, you have played in only European cities on this tour. However, you have a small segment where you ask an athlete from wherever you are playing to make a small appearance. Normally, they have been football players but because you are in Canada, you assume Janine picked a hockey player.
And then it starts.
When I love you, I'm sweet like an angel
Drawin' hearts 'round our names and dreamin' of
Writing vows, rockin' cradles
Don't mistake my nice for naïve
I don't waste a second, I know lots of guys
You do somethin' suspect, this cute ass bye-bye
Like ooh, baby, you say you really like it being mine
So let me give you some advice
Boy, it's not that complicated
You should stay in my good graces
Or I'll switch it up like that
So fast, 'cause no one's more amazin'
At turnin' lovin' into hatred
You sing and spin and bounce around the stage. The crowd energy is electric and you feel so at peace. A feeling you never want to end. Then, the second verse starts and see something move over by where Iris is standing in the VIP tent. That must be the guy Janine picked. You continue the second verse as normal before you point to the jumbotron and sing,
"Break my heart and I swear 'm moving on with your favourite athlete, shoot his shot every night."
Your heart does a little dance when you see the man on the screen. Immediately, you recognize him. Joseph Woll. The goalie from last night. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair and an intoxicating smile. He gives a little wave at the camera before smiling up at you. You can't help but smile back. The image on the screen changes back to you almost as it did the first time.
You continue the song, occasionally taking a glimpse over your shoulder to see if Joseph is still standing there at the barricade. He is, of course, watching you intently as you finish the song. You breathe heavily and take a bow, waving at some of the fans in the front row.
The rest of the show goes smoothly. You sing and dance and wave. Everyone loves it and you can tell. After you play your last song of the night, a few seconds pass. You look to your left and meet Joseph's eyes. He mouths, "Incredible," before walking off towards the VIP tent. Your cheeks are on fire again but that seems to just be his affect of you.
The concert is over and everyone is still clapping and cheering. Finally, you look out at the crowd and say, "Wow, thank you all so much. I have never felt more welcome in a city than I do here. You truly are such a polite nation. Thank you.". The cheering continues and you smile wide.
"Thats all we have for you tonight but I hope you enjoyed. I cannot wait to be back and see you all again very soon. I love you, Toronto. Goodnight!".
You blow one more big kiss and the curtain closes. Your shoulders drop and you hear someone call your name from behind you. You're rushed to your room backstage to get cleaned up but in the back of your mind, all you can see is Joseph Woll. And his smile.
You find yourself hoping this isn't the last time you see him.
can we get woller where they're exes and they broke up becuz of like timing and careers and now they're forced back into each other's lives and nothing is resolved
you never asked | jw60
requests are open | navigation
a/n: ok sort of messy but it's a good length ..? sorry folks i feel so out of my element and i'm kinda just forcing myself to write to get out of it
Joseph Woll learns your name is on the Winter Classic master schedule the same way he learns most things lately: by accident, halfway through a conversation he isn’t fully listening to.
He’s standing in a conference room beneath the arena, walls plastered with renderings of an outdoor rink that does not yet exist, when someone from league operations says, “We’ll need final sign-off from her by end of week if we want to lock broadcast timing.”
Joseph’s attention snags—not sharply, not yet. Names float past him all the time. Vendors. Coordinators. People who orbit the game without ever touching it.
Then someone else adds, “She’s leading integration across teams. Marketing, scheduling, player access. Everything routes through her.”
Something shifts, slow and unpleasant, in his gut.
He keeps his face neutral. He’s good at that. Goalies learn early how to betray nothing.
“Who?” he asks, because not asking would be worse.
They say your name again, more clearly this time.
The room does not tilt. No one notices anything. The meeting continues, dense with logistics Joseph usually tolerates rather than absorbs.
But suddenly every mention of coordination, access windows, media blocks feels personal.
You are here.
And you’ve been here for weeks already.
That’s the thing Joseph doesn’t understand yet — by the time he becomes aware of you, you’ve already built an entire working system around the Winter Classic. You’ve walked the site at dawn, breath fogging as you counted steps and sightlines. You’ve fought with broadcast reps about camera angles and with sponsors about logo placement. You’ve learned which city permits take days and which take months.
You are tired in the deep, marrow way that only comes from responsibility without margin.
The players are one variable among many.
Important, yes — but contained.
At least, they were supposed to be.
The first time you see Joseph again, it isn't dramatic.
It’s a Thursday morning walkthrough at the outdoor venue, half-constructed scaffolding ringing the space where the rink will be. You’re mid-sentence, explaining to a group of operations staff how the player tunnel will intersect with the media riser, when you glance up and see him standing a few feet back, hands in the pockets of his jacket, listening.
You do not stop talking.
You note, distantly, that he looks taller than you remember. Broader through the shoulders. More settled in his body, like someone who has finally stopped apologizing for taking up space.
You file the observation away and continue working.
Later — much later — you will think about how practiced that instinct is. How quickly you learned to compartmentalize him.
But for now, you finish your sentence, answer a question, redirect the group.
Only then do you look at him again.
Your eyes meet.
The recognition is mutual and immediate, but it does not bloom into anything visible. No surprise. No warmth.
Just a brief recalibration.
You nod once, politely, the way you would to any stakeholder you haven’t formally met yet.
Then you turn back to your clipboard.
Joseph stands there longer than necessary, unsure what he expected — a reaction, maybe. Some sign that he still occupies a different category in your mind.
He does not.
It makes sense, intellectually, why he’s in these meetings.
The Winter Classic isn’t just a game; it’s a narrative event, and the league is meticulous about who gets positioned where. Joseph is part of the team’s leadership group now — not in title, exactly, but in practice. A goalie’s schedule is a puzzle piece no one else can solve, and media obligations for a marquee event are heavy.
They need his availability mapped precisely: practice windows, press slots, recovery time. They need his buy-in for promotional material, interviews, behind-the-scenes access.
So he sits at the table while you speak.
He listens while you outline timelines that intersect with his life in ways he’s never had to think about before.
You don’t look at him when you talk. You don’t soften your language. You treat him like a professional asset with specific constraints.
It is both fair and unbearable.
From Joseph’s side, the distance feels intentional.
He watches the way you command the room, how people defer to you without question. You’ve always been capable, but this is different. This is authority sharpened by experience.
You don’t fidget. You don’t hedge.
You are not the woman he remembers waiting on his couch, trying not to ask if he’d be home for dinner.
He tells himself this is proof he did the right thing.
That he stepped aside and let you become this.
But the thought offers no comfort.
The days settle into a rhythm that includes both of you whether you want it to or not.
Morning check-ins. Afternoon revisions. Late-night emails when something shifts unexpectedly. Your name appears in his inbox more often than it should, always attached to something logistical, always impeccable in tone.
Hi Joe — per our discussion, attached is the updated media schedule reflecting goalie-specific recovery needs. Let me know if there are conflicts.
He reads too much into the neutrality. He reads too much into everything.
Once, after a long session, someone jokes about how seamless coordination has been.
“You can thank her,” the league rep says, nodding at you. “She’s been keeping all the plates spinning.”
Joseph looks at you then. Really looks.
You’re tired. He can see it now — the slight tension in your jaw, the faint shadows beneath your eyes. The knowledge lands heavily in him.
You used to look like that because of him.
The promo shoot is not the breaking point — but it is the first visible fracture.
Outdoor shoots are chaos. Weather shifts. Light changes. Schedules compress. Everyone is cold and irritable.
Joseph is already annoyed when he steps onto the ice platform, skates crunching against temporary flooring. He hates cameras on principle; hates the way they ask him to perform ease when focus is his currency.
You’re there, headset on, hair pulled back, already fielding questions.
“Joe,” you say, voice steady. “We’re going to need you to hold position for a second.”
He does.
You adjust lighting angles, talk through framing, correct someone gently but firmly. You refer to him in the third person even while standing ten feet away.
“He’s getting shadowed on the left. Can we compensate?”
It shouldn’t matter.
It does.
Afterward, when the crew disperses, the cold seems sharper.
“Do you ever get tired of pretending I’m not here?” he asks.
The question slips out before he can stop it.
You look at him, surprised — not offended, not angry. Just caught off guard.
“I’m not pretending,” you say carefully. “I’m working.”
“I know. I just—” He exhales. “You don’t have to freeze me out.”
Something tightens in your chest.
“This isn’t freezing you out,” you say. “This is me doing my job without confusing it with… something else.”
“With us,” he says.
The word lands between you, heavy and dangerous.
You don’t deny it.
“There is no us Joe,” you say, quietly.
He nods, like he expected that.
Like he deserves it.
What follows is not one fight, but many near-misses.
Moments that almost become conversations. Silences that stretch too long. Old habits tugging at the edges of restraint.
You catch him watching you sometimes, his expression unreadable.
He catches you flinching when someone mentions partners or long-term plans.
Neither of you names it.
The night the truth finally surfaces, the stadium is empty — not just quiet, but hollow. The kind of silence that amplifies thought.
You’re alone at a table, schedules spread out, trying to solve a problem that shouldn’t exist. Joseph approaches slowly, as if afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.
“You always liked it when it was empty,” he says.
You don’t look up. “I liked things that made sense.”
“Did I ever?” he asks.
The question is softer than you expect.
You close your eyes.
Joseph doesn't expect you to answer him.
That’s the thing about finally asking the question you’ve been carrying for years—you prepare yourself for silence, for deflection, for a polite refusal that confirms everything you already believe. He braces for that, for the way you might straighten your shoulders and say something measured and final.
Instead, you let out a slow breath.
“Yeah,” you say. “You did. Until you didn’t.”
The words are not sharp. They are not thrown. They land with the quiet certainty of something you have already made peace with.
Joseph pulls out the chair across from you without asking and sits. The scrape of metal against concrete sounds too loud in the empty stadium.
“I didn’t know how to be what you needed,” he says, because it is the only honest thing he has left.
You finally look at him then. Really look. And something in your expression shifts—not softening, exactly, but deepening. As if you are finally allowing yourself to see him as he is now, not as the man he was when everything ended.
“I never needed you to be anything else,” you say. “I needed you to let me in.”
The words settle between you, heavy and precise.
Joseph stares down at his hands. He has replayed the breakup so many times that it has become a fixed object in his mind, immutable. He has always seen himself as the one who made the hard but necessary choice. The adult decision. The responsible one.
But now—now he wonders how much of that was fear dressed up as discipline.
“I thought you were pulling away,” he says quietly. “You were tired all the time. Distracted. You stopped asking about my games. About… us.”
You give a small, humorless smile. “I stopped asking because every answer felt like a reminder that I wasn’t part of it.”
“That’s not true.”
“It felt true,” you say firmly. “And when something feels true long enough, it starts to be.”
Joseph swallows.
“You never told me,” he says.
You tilt your head. “Neither did you.”
The symmetry of it is almost cruel.
After that night, nothing is resolved—but everything is different.
You don't suddenly become close. You don't fall back into old rhythms. If anything, the air between you grows heavier, charged with words said and unsaid.
But there is a shift.
You look at him more now. Not often, not openly—but enough that he notices. Enough that he starts to feel the old awareness stir, tentative and dangerous.
The Winter Classic looms closer, and the pressure ratchets up accordingly. Schedules compress. Meetings multiply. Your days bleed into nights, and your emails become shorter, more direct.
Joseph notices when you start forgetting to eat.
He notices because he remembers what that means.
Once, after a late-night walkthrough, he finds you sitting alone in the temporary operations trailer, staring at a spreadsheet like it might bite you.
“You should take a break,” he says, gentle.
You look up, startled, caught off guard by his presence.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue. He just sets a protein bar on the table between you and leaves.
You don’t touch it until he’s gone.
The night before the Winter Classic, the stadium is lit like a promise.
You stand at the edge of the rink, watching final preparations unfold. Tomorrow, this place will be unrecognizable—full, roaring, alive. Right now, it is quiet in a way that feels sacred.
Joseph finds you there.
“You did this,” he says, awe slipping into his voice despite himself.
You shrug. “I coordinated it. A lot of people did the work.”
“You held it together,” he says. “I’ve seen how this kind of thing falls apart.”
You glance at him. There's no deflection in his expression. Just respect.
“Thank you,” you say.
The moment stretches. Tomorrow presses in on both of you—the game, the cameras, the culmination of months of work.
“After this,” he says carefully, “will you disappear again?”
The question is quiet. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard from him before.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I’ve learned not to promise things I can’t guarantee.”
He nods. “I’d settle for honesty.”
You meet his gaze. “So would I.”
The game is everything it’s supposed to be.
It is spectacle and chaos and precision layered together until the seams disappear. The crowd roars. The cameras roll. Everything you planned unfolds almost exactly as intended.
You watch from behind the scenes, headset pressed to your ear, heart pounding—not with fear, but with something close to pride.
Joseph plays well. Focused. Calm. You see him during warm-ups, during breaks, during moments when the weight of the event threatens to crack through his composure.
And you realize, with a quiet certainty, that you never wanted him to choose between this and you.
After the stadium empties, after the last trucks pull away and the lights dim to a dull, exhausted glow, Joseph finds you again.
Not because he planned to. Not because he knew what he was going to say.
Because the night is too quiet, and the silence presses in on him until he can’t breathe.
You’re still in your coat, still wearing your headset even though it’s powered off, standing near the tunnel like you don’t quite know where to go now that the thing you’ve been holding together for months is finally over.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod automatically. Then stop yourself. “I don’t know.”
Something in your voice breaks him open.
“Come with me,” he says, before he can overthink it.
You hesitate. “Joe—”
“Just to talk,” he says. “Please. I can’t do this halfway anymore.”
You look at him for a long moment. He doesn’t try to soften the desperation on his face. He lets you see it.
Finally, you nod.
His place feels unfamiliar in a way that hurts.
You’ve been here before—so many times—but now it’s cleaner, quieter, stripped of the clutter you once left behind without realizing how much space you took up. You stand awkwardly in the doorway, hands tucked into your sleeves.
“I didn’t mean to bring you here,” he says. “I just—this was the only place I could think.”
“It’s fine,” you say. “I didn’t want to go home yet either.”
You sit on opposite ends of the couch at first. Like strangers. Like people pretending they don’t know exactly how the other takes their coffee, how they curl when they’re tired.
Hours pass without either of you noticing.
You talk.
Not carefully. Not strategically.
You talk about the year after the breakup—how empty it felt, how each of you assumed the other had moved on because that hurt less than imagining they hadn’t. You talk about the nights you almost reached out. The texts you typed and deleted. The resentment that grew in the absence of answers.
“I thought you stopped loving me,” you say at one point, voice barely holding together. “I thought hockey finally mattered more than I ever could.”
Joseph’s head drops into his hands.
“I thought you were already gone,” he admits. “I thought I was clinging to something you were quietly letting die.”
You stare at him. “I was waiting for you to fight.”
“I didn’t think I was allowed to,” he says. “I didn’t think you wanted me to. I didn't think you wanted me.”
The words sit there, devastating in their simplicity.
Sometime near dawn, exhaustion wins.
You don’t even remember who moves first—only that at some point you’re closer, knees touching, shoulders brushing. Then your head is against his chest, his arm heavy and careful around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he breathes wrong.
You fall asleep like that. Not as a decision. As a surrender.
But morning is cruel.
Light spills through the windows, exposing everything the dark made softer. You wake stiff and disoriented, Joseph’s arm still around you, his chin resting against your hair.
For a moment, it feels like nothing ever broke.
Then reality snaps back into place.
You sit up abruptly. “This was a mistake.”
Joseph blinks awake. “What?”
“We can’t just—fall back into this,” you say, standing, pacing. “Talking all night doesn’t fix what happened.”
“I know that,” he says, pushing himself up too. “I’m not pretending it does.”
“But you still don’t get it,” you say, frustration rising. “You always decide what’s best without asking me.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“It is,” you snap. “You did it then, and you’re doing it now by acting like closeness means resolution.”
“I’m not,” he says sharply. “I’m saying I want to try. With you. Not for you.”
“You already tried,” you say. “And you left.”
“I let you go because I thought you wanted out,” he fires back. “Because every time I reached for you, you pulled away.”
“Because you were already gone,” you say, voice breaking. “I was lonely in a relationship with you.”
Silence crashes down between you.
Joseph steps closer, eyes bright with something desperate and unresolved.
“I was scared,” he says. “Scared I’d ruin you. Scared you’d wake up one day and resent me for choosing this life.”
You laugh bitterly. “So instead you chose to hurt me first.”
“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says.
“You did,” you whisper.
He’s right in front of you now. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the tension vibrating through both of you.
“I don’t know how to do this perfectly,” he says. “But I know I don’t want a life where I keep walking away from you.”
Your chest aches.
“You don’t get to say that now,” you say. “You don’t get to undo two years with a confession.”
“I’m not undoing it,” he says. “I’m standing in it.”
Something in you finally gives.
You step into him, hands fisting in his shirt, not gentle, not careful.
“Then stand,” you say. “Don’t disappear. Don’t choose for me. Don’t make me feel like I’m something you have to sacrifice.”
His hands come up, framing your face, like he’s asking permission even now.
“I choose you,” he says. “With all of it.”
The space between you collapses.
The kiss is not soft. It’s not polished. It’s desperate and uneven and full of everything you never said, mouths crashing together like the only language left.
When you pull back, breathless, foreheads pressed together, nothing is solved.
But nothing is silent anymore.
And for the first time, that feels like a beginning.
𖦹˙— summary: a night in with joseph, playing video games and building lego flowers.
°. 🐚 ⋆ 𐔌 word count: ꒱ ~1.6k
⋆. 𐙚 ̊ warnings: sort of bad writing | maybe inaccurate personality a little | not really read over to check for mistakes…
₊ ⊹ pairings: joseph woll + (fem) reader
it had been just a target run. nothing too fancy, considering how normal this was. you’d go with joseph to practice or a home game and then need to go to a store to get something. you’ve been looking for one certain type of chapstick since yours got lost on a roadtrip you went with.
it was meant to be a ten dollar purchase at most… it ended being almost two hundred. joseph got distracted and next thing you knew, you guys ended up in the lego aisles with four different boxes in joseph’s hands.
it was more amusing than anything. especially considering the fact he was paying for all of this.
that’s how joseph ended up sitting up on the floor in the living room. it was cute — adorable even! he would occasionally poke you to show you his progress or show you a piece he found silly. you were curled up on the couch, pillow tucked between your legs and going between playing unpacking for the fifth time that month and watching joseph build. it was cozy, really cozy.
“hey,” joseph spoke after a moment, reaching over to poke your calf. “hey, hey, look…” he said as he held out the flower bouquet he had finished making.
“oh, that’s so pretty,” you said, setting the controller down nearby.
“it suits you,” he said as he moved to sit closer, gently pushing the lego built bouquet into your hands. “ah, be careful with it… please..”
and how could you deny him when he looked up at you with those precious starry eyes.
“of course— thank you, joey,” you mumbled out, smiling as you held the lego flowers in your hands. they truly were pretty. a mix of whites, purples and reds. it was adorable. you made a mental reminder to get a vase to hold them in. you’d feel bad if they just were left to collect dust in some corner of your shared apartment.
“yeah, no problem,” he said with a giggle that you sworn could light up the living room. his giggles were always so contagious. but he was cute and basically a giant golden retriever… so it was fine.
you leaned down, kissing the top of joseph’s head.
“cutie,” you murmur, smiling to yourself as he giggles again. he was such a princess... but he was your princess.
( -` 💋 ´- ) i hope this was decent at the very least !! this was meant to be published yesterday but… life (depression) depression.. but i found out i can’t play background music while playing resident evil village on ps5 and it’s highkey gonna make me crash out (｡>﹏<)
soft, slow morning sex under the covers has been a staple of your relationship with jo since you’ve started dating. to you there’s nothing getter that being lain over on your side with jo right behind you, groaning softly, slowly pushing up in and out of you. the only noises are the soft plaps echoing with every soft push forward and the birds singing outside to signal morning.
you’re moaning with every drive into you. back arched, face contorted in pleasure. he’s got a soft grip on your hips, gliding his hands around the soft flesh.
“fuck. doing so good f’me.” he groans out softly.
“jo. mmf-fuck.” you’re barely able to manage that out with how deep he’s nudged inside of you.
he lets out a low moan. his thrusts turn extra needy, sloppier, just full of want. he starts fucking rambling in your ear. about how you’re doing so good for him and you feel so good around him.
god, you’re close. so close your whole lower body aches. your legs almost lock up with how hard your orgasm hits you. all you can do is just squirm and yelp out jo’s name.
before you know it he’s filling you up as he bottoms out once again. you’re so stuffed it hurts.
thinking about making out with woll after he comes back from a road trip. he mentions how a selfie reader sent him while he was away got him really worked up, and he had to relieve himself alone in his hotel room. shes asks him to show her how he took care of it and talks him through it :)
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he kicks the door shut with his heel, duffel bag thumping onto the entry rug, and you’re on him before he can even shrug off his jacket. that familiar clean scent—soap, cologne, just a hint of plane air—wraps around you as you climb into his space, hands fisting in the fabric of his hoodie, mouth already finding his. the kiss is sloppy with relief, teeth and tongues bumping, you tasting travel coffee on his lips, him groaning softly into you like he’s been starving.
“missed you,” joseph breathes against your mouth, voice rough from days of press conferences and late flights. his huge hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, thumbs stroking the hinge of your jaw while he tilts your head to deepen the kiss. your back hits the hallway wall, his body slotting against yours, hockey muscles solid and warm even through the layers.
“missed you more,” you mumble, nipping his bottom lip before sucking it in, drawing out a choked sound that shoots straight to your core. his hands drop to your waist, fingers spanning your sides easily, tugging you flush so you feel exactly how hard he already is beneath the denim.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours, eyes blown dark. “you know what made it worse?”
“what?” you drag your nails over his scalp, making him shiver.
that slow grin creeps across his face, equal parts shy and wicked. “that selfie you sent. tiny tank top, no bra, all smug like you didn’t know what you were doing.” he chuckles when you grin. “had me losing my mind in the hotel.”
heat floods your cheeks. “yeah?”
“yeah.” he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “sat there with my phone propped up on a pillow like an idiot, jerking off to my own girlfriend instead of going out with the boys.” his hands squeeze your hips, possessive and sweet. “couldn’t help it.”
your stomach swoops. “show me,” you whisper, and his eyes light like you flipped a switch.
“right now?”
you nod, licking your lips. “yeah, right now. wanna see how you touched yourself thinking about me.” you reach down to cup him through his jeans, and he sucks in a breath, hips twitching. “let me talk you through it.”
joseph swallows hard, then takes your hand, leading you down the hallway toward the bedroom. he makes it halfway before impatience wins, and he backs you into the nearest wall again, kissing you like you’re oxygen. “can’t wait,” he murmurs against your throat, hands already tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “need you to watch.”
you help peel off his layers, revealing a clinging gray t-shirt damp with travel sweat that shows off every cut line of his torso. he kicks off his shoes, then sinks to sit on the edge of the bed, legs spread, looking up at you.
“take off your shirt,” you murmur, standing between his knees. he obeys immediately, lifting the tee over his head and tossing it aside. the sight of him—broad chest, abs tight, faint trail of hair leading down into his jeans—makes your mouth go dry.
“your turn,” he says softly, fingertips brushing the hem of your top. you strip quickly, and his gaze fixes on your breasts, pupils dilating. “that’s exactly how you looked in that photo,” he says, voice thick.
“good,” you purr, pressing your palm to his chest and pushing gently until he leans back on his elbows. “show me, jo.”
he nods, cheeks flushed, and reaches for his belt. his fingers work the buckle open with practiced efficiency, sliding the leather free, then popping the button of his jeans. the sound of the zipper is loud in the quiet room. he lifts his hips, shoving denim and boxers down in one go, freeing his cock. it springs up heavy and flushed, a bead of precum already slicking the tip.
you bite your lip. “god, i missed you.”
“come closer,” he murmurs, gripping the base of his dick with one hand and patting his thigh with the other. you straddle his leg, knees sinking into the mattress, your face inches from his, eyes locked.
“how’d you do it?” you ask, voice soft. “show me exactly.”
he exhales shakily and wraps his fingers around his cock, slow and deliberate, skin sliding over thick veins. “i thought about that smug little smile,” he says, stroking upward, thumb swiping over the head to smear precum. “about how you bit your lip in that photo like you knew i’d be in pieces.”
you rest your hands on his shoulders, watching every move, breathing with him. “go on,” you coax, leaning in to brush your lips over his jaw.
“imagined your thighs squeezing my hips,” he continues, pumping a little faster, wrist twisting on every upstroke the way he knows you love. “imagined you giggling while i begged you to send another angle.” he groans, head tipping back.
“did you talk to me?” you whisper, kissing down his neck.
“yeah,” he admits, voice hoarse. “told the empty room how bad i needed you. told you to come sit on my face like a good girl.” his free hand grips your waist, fingers digging into soft flesh. “i came so fast. never even made it past imagining the way you taste.”
you kiss him hard, tasting the honesty, the heat. “do it again,” you command softly. “in front of me.”
“yes, ma’am.” his lips curve, but he doesn’t lose the reverence. his strokes get tighter, faster, the wet sounds obscene, your eyes glued to the way his forearm flexes, the way his knuckles go white around himself.
Hi Ju! Can I request some soft smut in an established relationship where he takes care of you with fingering, eating and piv and makes you feel so good and talks you through it and praises you? Maybe with Joseph Woll or Sidney Crossby? Thanks
Went with Joseph tagging @hotts4watts to make sure she sees this... idk how i feel with the condescension with him but it felt right?? lmk what you guys think
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joseph takes his time the way he always does, that easy smile never fading as he tugs you gently into his lap on the couch. he’s in loose sweatpants and an old hoodie, hair damp from a shower, looking all cozy and domestic, hands resting warm and huge on your hips as if he wants to memorize every curve. “hi,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing little kisses along your skin, his voice a soft hum that vibrates right down your spine. “you ready for me to take care of you?” it’s half question, half tease, because he already knows you’re practically buzzing, but he waits all the same until you nod and lean back, letting him rearrange you on the couch cushions like he’s setting up another stretch regimen.
he stretches you out, your legs draped over his thighs, and those gorgeous hands skim your sides, pausing every few seconds to knead gently, checking muscle by muscle that you’re loose enough, that there isn’t a shred of tension left. “breathe for me,” he reminds, and you do, letting your shoulders sink as he pushes your shirt up just enough to mouth along your ribs. “that’s it. good job.” it’s a whisper of praise, barely louder than the soft music playing from his phone on the coffee table, but it hits you deep.
when his fingers finally slip beneath your underwear, he moves slowly, knuckles brushing your pelvis first as if to warn you, thumb circling lazily over your clit in a way that makes your hips stutter. “oh there she is,” he coos, amused and affectionate. “my needy girl.” you whimper a little, and that only makes his grin widen. “i know, i know. let me get you there properly.” he teases around your entrance first, just tracing and waiting, and when you start to squirm he clucks his tongue.
“be patient,” he says it like he’s explaining the instructions to step three of a lego set, gentle but a touch smug, and you have to bite your lip to keep from begging. he works one finger in with the slowest, sweetest pressure imaginable, crooking it to press into your favorite spot, then pulls back out, repeating the motion until you’re rolling your hips in search of more.
“jo,” you whine, hand flying to his wrist, and he chuckles.
“yeah, you need more, don’t you?” his tone makes it sound like he’s humouring a small child, but the glint in his eyes betrays exactly how much he loves that you’re needy. he adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, knuckles pressing deep as he curls them again and again. the slick sound fills the room—low, steady, obscene. “good girl. take it. breathe.” he keeps up a stream of praise, a litany of soft words that cushion the burn until it melts into pure pleasure. “there you go…"
his voice runs low and steady as a slow song, those thick fingers moving in a patient rhythm that makes your stomach dip. each curl drags against that fluttering spot that makes you gasp into his shoulder, a full-body shudder running through you. when he hears that little broken sound, his smile softens, eyes hooded, utterly focused. “oh, that’s perfect. stay with me, baby.”
he nudges your thighs farther apart with one knee and sinks between them, fingers never slowing. his mouth finds that sensitive patch below your belly button, lips leaving damp, open-mouthed kisses that make you twitch. “you feel so good, baby,” he murmurs. “all warmed up, nice and loose for me. just how i like you...”
his breath ghosts over your clit, hot and teasing, and he glances up through his lashes. “want me to taste you?” the question is gentle, but it’s obvious he’s already leaning in, waiting for your nod. when you give it, he hums happily and lowers his head, tongue stroking through you in one long, unhurried sweep. he doesn’t suck or rush; he traces slow figure-eights, tongue flattened as if he’s savoring every inch, fingers matching the rhythm inside you. the steady drag makes you moan, hips arching, and he anchors you with his free hand braced on your thigh, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin.
“that’s it, sweetheart. talk to me.” his voice is thick with warmth between licks. “feels nice here?” he adds a tiny pulse with his fingers, and your legs shake. joseph chuckles—low, gentle, like a secret between you. “there she is. let it happen.”
he alternates between worshipping your clit and whispering compliments against it, lips brushing the most sensitive part of you as he speaks. “so proud of you. doing so well for me. i could stay right here all day.” your fingers wind through his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans into you, a sound that ripples through your whole body.
he doesn’t stop until you’re panting, eyes glossy, your hips lifting toward his mouth on instinct. “jo… please.” the plea tumbles out before you can bite it back, and he pulls away just enough to grin up at you, chin slick, smile boyish. “please what? use your words.” it’s a nudge, a hint of teasing, more affectionate than demanding.
“w-want you inside,” you manage. “please.”
“thought you’d never ask.” he plants a kiss on your thigh, then another, and gently slips his fingers free, leaving you feeling empty enough to whimper. he wipes them on his stomach absently, not caring about the mess, and rises to his knees on the couch, tugging you with him. he pulls you close for a kiss, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “you're all needy, huh?” he purrs. “makes me want to spoil you.”
he takes a moment to strip off his sweatpants, tossing them aside, then lifts your hips in his hands as if you weigh nothing. “comfortable?” he asks, waiting until you nod. he guides you down onto him carefully, inch by inch, watching your face with tender focus. “ease into it...” he keeps up the stream of praise and instructions, one hand on your lower back, the other cupping the back of your head.
when you finally sink fully onto him, you both exhale. he waits there, filling you, stroking tiny circles between your shoulder blades. “you’re perfect,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “mm...you take me so good,” he stays completely still until your muscles soften, until you tilt your hips on your own, silently asking for more.
“okay,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek. “i’ve got you.” he rocks his hips upward slowly, a shallow grind that makes your breath hitch. “that’s it. let it feel good.” his thumb slips between you, rubbing gentle circles over your clit, never rough, just enough pressure to keep the pleasure rolling. every time you shiver, he whispers something new. “good girl.” “need me to go faster?” “you’re so gorgeous right now.” his voice dips into that tiny hint of condescension that only makes you melt more. “you look like you can barely think. is it that good? hmm? i know, baby. i know.”
your nails dig into his shoulders as the heat coils tighter. “jo, i’m gonna—” the words blur.
“yeah, you are,” he answers softly. “let it happen. i’m right here.” his hips pick up a little pace, still gentle, still worshipful, guiding you through it. “cum for me, sweetheart. there you go.”
the climax hits like a warm wave, and you gasp into his neck, legs trembling, heart slamming against his chest. joseph cradles you through it, hand pressing you closer, thumb never leaving your clit until the pulses slow. he follows a heartbeat later with a quiet groan, burying himself fully, his entire body shuddering as he spills deep inside you. even then, he doesn’t grip too hard, doesn’t lose that soft sweetness. he just holds you, murmuring praise.
afterward, he keeps you settled in his lap, one big hand smoothing up and down your spine while the other traces lazy patterns over your hip. “you okay?” he asks, voice a rumbling purr.
you nod against his shoulder, blissed-out and boneless. “mmhm.”
“i'm glad it was good for you, baby.” he chuckles, kissing your forehead. his hand slides up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face so he can press a soft, unhurried kiss to your lips. “let’s stay like this for a bit,” he suggests, voice all honey. “give you time to come back. you deserve every second.”
