Apr 4
HEY (accusing)
wild @ sens || 4.04.26
+ bonus sweaty helmet curls
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HEY (accusing)
wild @ sens || 4.04.26
+ bonus sweaty helmet curls
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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hii this is my first time requesting anything so i hope this makes sense.
can you write something for kirill karpizov? something with tooth rotting fluff? maybe kirill had a difficult game and just needs some reassurance and comfort from the reader?
i love your work so so much
You Are Enough
Pairing: Kirill Kaprizov x Reader
Word Count: 2139
Request open!
24 days of Christmas | Hockey Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist II
The apartment is warm in that soft, lived-in way,lamp on, kettle humming, your socked feet padding across the floor. On the coffee table, you’ve already set out the things that make the world gentler: a folded blanket, his favorite mug, the little jar of honey he pretends he doesn’t care about.
You glance at the clock again. Too late. Later than usual.
Your phone lights up with a single text.
Kirill: On way.
No emoji. No extra word. Your chest tightens anyway.
You answer fast.
You: Door’s open. I’m here.
Three minutes later, you hear the familiar click of his key, the quiet scrape of skates-bag straps being readjusted, the heavy exhale like he’s been holding his breath since puck drop.
Then he’s there in the doorway,Kirill Kaprizov, still half in his coat, hair slightly damp, eyes tired in that particular way that only comes after a game that refused to be kind.
He doesn’t look at you right away.
He looks at the floor.
“Hey,” you say softly, like you’re meeting a frightened animal, like any sudden movement might spook him. “Hi, Kirill.”
His mouth twitches in something that tries to be a smile and fails halfway. “Hi.”
The word comes out rough.
You step closer. “Come here?”
Kirill hesitates like the request is a complicated drill. Like he’s not sure where to put himself.
Then he crosses the space between you in two strides and drops into you, forehead pressing into your shoulder. His arms wrap around your waist, tight enough that you feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s still braced for impact.
You fold around him without thinking. One hand slides up to the back of his head, fingertips grazing his hair. The other settles between his shoulder blades.
“There you are,” you whisper.
He makes a sound that isn’t a word,more like a frustrated breath. “Was bad.”
You rock gently, side to side. “It was a hard game.”
“No.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes a little too bright. “I was bad.”
Your heart tugs. You cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing the tired shadows under his eyes. “Hey,” you say, firmer now. “Look at me.”
He does. Reluctant. Like it hurts.
“You are not bad,” you tell him. “You had a difficult night. Those are different things.”
His jaw tightens. “Missed.”
“I know.”
“Should score.”
“I know.”
“Coach look at me like…” He exhales, then shakes his head as if he can fling the memory away. “Like I,”
“Like you’re human?” you finish softly.
He gives you a look that says don’t be funny right now, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just exhaustion.
You press a kiss to his temple. “Come on,” you murmur. “Shoes off. Coat off. Let me take care of you.”
Kirill huffs, almost a laugh but not quite. “You always say.”
“And you always let me,” you say, tugging gently at his sleeves. “Because you secretly like being babied.”
He snorts. “Not secret.”
“Mm. Progress.”
He lets you peel his coat away, then his gloves, then his hat. He stands there in his hoodie and sweatpants, shoulders still up near his ears like he forgot how to put them down.
You guide him to the couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s not a professional athlete with a thousand eyes on him every night. Like he’s just your Kirill,your person,who came home carrying too much.
He sits, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands.
You kneel in front of him.
Immediately his eyes flick to yours. “What you doing.”
“Shh,” you say, and take his hands. They’re cold from the air outside, knuckles a little red. You rub warmth into them, thumb tracing the calluses.
He watches you like he doesn’t understand why you’re doing this.
“Talk to me,” you say quietly. “What’s happening in your head right now?”
Kirill swallows. “I see it.” He taps his temple once with a finger. “Every time. The pass, the shot, the…” He makes a helpless gesture, palm opening. “I know what to do and then I do wrong.”
You keep rubbing his hands. “You didn’t do everything wrong.”
He stares at you, unconvinced.
You lean forward and press your forehead to his. “Kirill.”
He breathes in, slow. Breathes out.
“I watched,” you remind him. “I saw you backcheck. I saw you fight for pucks in the corner when you were already exhausted. I saw you make that play in the second that set up the chance.”
“We didn’t score.”
“Not from that play,” you agree. “But you made it possible. You kept trying. Even when it wasn’t going your way.”
His eyes dart away. “Trying not enough.”
You squeeze his hands. “Okay,” you say, gentle but steady. “Then tell me this: if it was one of your teammates, would you call them ‘bad’ for having one tough game?”
Kirill’s lips press into a line. “No.”
“Would you say they don’t deserve comfort?”
“No.”
“Would you tell them they should go home and sit alone with it?”
He looks back at you, expression softening in spite of himself. “No.”
“Then why are you saying all of that to you?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. His throat bobs.
“I don’t know,” he admits, voice smaller than before. “Because… is me.”
You nod like that answer makes perfect sense. “Okay. Then I’m going to borrow your logic for you for a minute.”
Kirill’s eyes narrow slightly. “Borrow?”
“Mm-hm.” You lift his hands, kiss each knuckle one by one, slow and deliberate. “You are allowed to have a bad night and still be lovable. You are allowed to be disappointed and still be safe. You are allowed to come home and be held.”
His fingers curl around yours, tightening. Like he’s afraid you’ll take the words back.
“You sure?” he asks quietly, and it makes something ache in your chest because Kirill Kaprizov shouldn’t sound like he needs permission to be cared for.
You smile, soft and unwavering. “I’m very sure.”
He exhales, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. “Okay.”
“Okay,” you echo. “Now, do you want tea, or do you want hot chocolate?”
He considers it like it’s a serious strategic choice. “Both?”
You laugh, delighted. “That’s illegal.”
He shrugs, a little more alive. “I live dangerous.”
“Oh, do you?” You stand and tap his chin. “Stay. Blanket.”
He doesn’t argue. He pulls the blanket over his lap like a child who’s trying to pretend he isn’t comforted by it.
From the kitchen, you call, “Anything else, Your Highness?”
“Maybe…” His voice carries, tentative. “You sit with me?”
Your heart melts into a puddle immediately. “I was going to.”
You make his tea,sweetened just the way he likes, even if he pretends he doesn’t. You bring it back along with a little plate of cut fruit and the last of the cookies you hid in the back of the pantry for emergencies.
When you set everything down, Kirill’s eyebrows lift. “This is… a lot.”
“It’s called hospitality,” you say, sliding onto the couch beside him. “Also called ‘I love you and I know you forget to eat when you’re upset.’”
He looks at the cookies like they might be a trap. “You hide.”
“You’re welcome.”
He takes a sip of tea. His eyes flutter closed for a second, the tension in his face easing just a little.
You tuck yourself into his side, your head resting against his shoulder.
Kirill immediately shifts to pull you closer. His arm comes around you, hand settling at your waist like it belongs there. Like you’re the only thing that makes sense after a game that didn’t.
For a few minutes, you sit in quiet. The kind that isn’t awkward. The kind that’s healing.
Then Kirill murmurs, “I hate when I disappoint.”
You tilt your head up. “Who did you disappoint?”
He frowns. “Team. Fans. You.”
You blink. “Me?”
Kirill looks a little embarrassed, like admitting it is too vulnerable. “You come. You watch. I want… good for you.”
“Oh,” you whisper, and your chest squeezes.
You sit up, turning fully toward him. “Kirill, sweetheart.”
He makes a face at the pet name,mild protest, no real resistance.
“You don’t owe me a goal to earn my love,” you tell him, slow and clear. “I don’t love you because you’re perfect. I love you because you’re you. Even when you’re frustrated. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you come home and think the whole world is heavy.”
His eyes stay on yours, so serious it almost steals your breath.
“You still like me when I’m… grumpy?” he asks.
“Especially when you’re grumpy,” you say immediately.
Kirill squints. “Why.”
“Because then you do this,” you say, reaching up to pinch the little line between his eyebrows. “And you get all dramatic. Like a sad Russian prince.”
He stares at you for half a second.
Then his mouth tugs upward.
It’s small. It’s tired. But it’s real.
“You are making fun,” he says, but his voice is warmer now.
“I am making you smile,” you correct.
He huffs a laugh, finally, and it’s like the room brightens by a degree. “You succeed.”
“Always,” you say, smug, then soften instantly. “Come here.”
You open your arms.
Kirill moves into them without hesitation this time, folding over you. He tucks his face into your neck and breathes you in, a slow inhale like you’re oxygen.
Your fingers comb through his hair.
“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.
He stiffens slightly. “For what.”
“For showing up,” you say. “For trying even when it wasn’t easy. For caring so much. For coming home to me instead of shutting me out.”
His arms tighten. “I always come.”
“I know.” You kiss the side of his head. “And I’m always here.”
His voice is muffled against your skin. “I feel… stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“I should be better.”
You pull back enough to see his face. “You want to know a secret?”
He nods.
“You can want to be better,” you say, brushing your thumb along his cheek, “and still be kind to yourself tonight.”
Kirill looks at you like the concept is foreign. Like kindness is something he gives away easily but never thinks to keep for himself.
“Try,” you encourage gently. “Just for tonight. Let the game be the game. Let you be you.”
He swallows, eyes searching yours. “And you… still want me?”
You don’t laugh at the question, even though it’s sweet and heartbreaking and you want to wrap it in bubble wrap.
Instead, you answer like it’s the simplest truth on earth.
“I want you on your best nights,” you say. “And I want you on your worst nights. I want you when you score and when you don’t. I want you when you feel like the whole world is loud, and you just need somewhere quiet to land.”
Kirill’s breath catches. His lashes lower.
“You are my quiet,” he murmurs.
Your throat tightens. “Yeah?”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
You kiss him,soft, slow, nothing demanding. Just reassurance pressed into his lips. Just warmth.
When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For bringing home… bad mood.”
You smile, kissing his nose. “Kirill, you’re allowed to bring home your whole self. Not just the shiny parts.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “You make it easy.”
“That’s the point,” you whisper. “Home should be easy.”
He sits back, finally taking a cookie from the plate. He bites into it, eyes widening a little.
“Good,” he says, mouth full.
“You deserve good,” you tell him.
He chews thoughtfully, then reaches out and tugs you into his lap without warning. You squeak, startled, and his eyes crinkle with a hint of mischief.
“There,” he declares. “Now is best.”
You laugh, hands bracing on his shoulders. “Oh? Is this your recovery plan?”
“Yes,” he says very seriously. “Doctor Kaprizov prescribe: cuddle.”
“Sounds highly scientific,” you tease.
He nods gravely. “Very.”
You cup his face again, thumb smoothing the last of the worry from his brow. “Do you feel a little better?”
Kirill considers, then leans forward to press a kiss to your cheek. “A little.”
“A little is good,” you say.
He kisses your cheek again. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.
“More?” you ask, smiling.
“More,” he agrees, and his voice is softer now,no sharp edges, no self-criticism. Just him, here, with you.
You settle against him, listening to his heartbeat under your ear. Steady. Real.
Outside, the world keeps spinning,headlines, highlights, numbers and noise.
But in here, under this blanket, with his arms around you, Kirill is just a man who had a hard day and came home to someone who will always, always remind him:
He is enough.
late at night ⋆˚꩜ kk97
nsfw.
wildmin minnycule maxing on main ❤️
weird chthonic creatures
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Until you shake
SUMMARY: You hesitate to sit on Kirill Kaprizov’s face, worried about your size. He pulls your thick thighs over his shoulders anyway and doesn’t let you up until you’re shaking and coming on his tongue
WC: 1.95k
WARNINGS: Explicit sexual content (18+), plus-size reader, Face-sitting, body worship, praise kink, multiple orgasms, MDNI
Requested: Kirill Kaprizov + you hesitate to sit on his face, he pulls your thick thighs over his shoulders and doesn´t let you up until you're shaking
pregame kirill feat. the tooth gap 10.17.25
KARL URBAN in THE BOURNE SUPREMACY
