HOT COCOA // KINKMAS DAY SEVEN
SUMMARY. A simple, playful lick of whipped cream from your lip on a snowy night transforms a cozy evening with your boyfriend, Solo, into a passionate and consuming exploration of a newly discovered, intense desire.
PAIRING. Solo Sikoa x Reader
GENRE. š®ššš
WARNINGS. Intense make-out sessions, fingering, oral implications, slight tongue play, power dynamic undertones, strong language, overstimulation, etc.
On a bitterly cold, snowy December night, the inside of your warm, cozy apartment, is thick with the rich scent of melting chocolate and cinnamon.
Solo has just finished making two perfect mugs of hot cocoa, complete with a mountain of whipped cream and a dusting of cocoa powder and marshmallows. He carries them to the living room where you're curled up on the sofa under a thick blanket.
"Delivery for the most beautiful woman in the blizzard," he says with a wink, handing you a steaming mug.
He settles beside you, his large presence making the sofa feel small and intimate. You sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the snow fall outside the window, sipping your drinks.
You take a large, satisfying sip, forgetting the generous dollop of whipped cream on top. When you pull the mug away, a perfect, white foam mustache clings to your upper lip. You're completely unaware of it, your eyes half-closed in bliss.
Solo notices, and a slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. He leans in close, his voice a low, playful rumble. "You've got a little something..."
Before you can ask what, he closes the remaining distance. He deliberately, slowly, licks the foam mustache right off your lip with the flat of his tongue.
The effect on you is instantaneous and electric as a jolt, sharp and undeniable, shoots through you.
It's not just the surprise; it's the texture and warmth of his tongue ā the sheer, wet thickness of it ā against your sensitive skin. It's a ridiculously intimate, almost primal gesture that feels far more intense than it should.
A blush blooms hot and fast across your cheeks. You're mortified, not by the act itself, but by your body's immediate, traitorous excitement.
You pull back quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
"Solo!" you scold, trying to sound annoyed but your voice comes out breathless. "Tell me like a normal person!"
He just chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest, completely oblivious to the internal turmoil he's just caused.
"Where's the fun in that?" he takes a long drink from his own mug, then, to tease you, deliberately runs his tongue slowly over his own lips to catch a stray drop of cream. The sight, a mirror of the act that just sent you into a tailspin, makes your stomach clench.
Ten minutes later and you can't drink your cocoa anymore.
Every time you bring the mug to your lips, you're paralyzed by the memory of his tongue. You just hold it, the warmth seeping into your hands, your gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye. He drinks his, completely relaxed, occasionally licking his lips absentmindedly. Each small movement sends a fresh wave of heat through you, a frustrating loop of desire and embarrassment.
After a while, he notices your stillness. Solo nudges you gently with his shoulder. "Hey, you gonna drink that? It's probably cold by now."
You force a small smile. "I'm just savoring the moment," you lie, your voice a little too high.
He narrows his eyes, his playful expression softening into one of concern. He puts his mug down on the coffee table and turns to face you fully, his large body creating a cage around you.
"What's wrong? You've been quiet since... well, since I cleaned your face."
"Nothing's wrong," you say, a little too quickly. "I'm fine."
"Y/N," he says, his voice dropping to that serious, gentle tone you can never resist.
He reaches out and tucks a stray coil of your hair behind your ear. "Talk to me. Did I upset you? I was just playing around."
Your resolve crumbles under his sincere gaze. You can't tell him the truth ā that a simple, silly lick had you practically throbbing with arousal. It's too embarrassing, too vulnerable.
You shake your head, looking down at your hands. "No, you didn't upset me. It's just... silly."
He puts a finger under your chin and gently tilts your head up until you have to meet his eyes. "Hey. Nothing's silly if it's bothering you. Just tell me."
Finally, the dam breaks and a frustrated, mortified sigh escapes you. "Fine!" you whisper-hiss, your cheeks burning. "It's... it was when you... you know."
You gesture vaguely at your own lip. "The way you did it. It was... your tongue. It was... a lot."
He looks at you, genuinely confused for a second, and then understanding dawns in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches, but he wisely suppresses a laugh. Instead, his gaze becomes heated, dark.
āA lot," he repeats, his voice now a low, husky bass that vibrates right through you.
"It was just... so... thick," you mumble, the admission feeling like a confession. "And it... it shouldn't have felt like anything, but it did. And then you kept licking your own lips and I just... God, I can't even look at you right now."
He doesn't say anything for a long moment. He just looks at you, his eyes tracing your face, his expression unreadable. Then, he leans in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away.
You don't; youāre frozen, your heart hammering against your ribs.
He doesn't lick you this time, instead he whispers against your lips, his breath warm and smelling of chocolate.
āSo you're telling me," he murmurs, "that all I have to do to get you this flustered... is this?"
He closes the distance between you and does a deep, slow, wet lick across your lips which breaks into a kiss. His tongue is thick and warm and overwhelming as it sweeps into your mouth, tasting of chocolate and him.
It's every bit as intense as you imagined, a possessive, sensual exploration that steals the air from your lungs and sends a fresh gush of arousal between your thighs.
When he finally pulls back, you're breathless and dazed. He rests his forehead against yours, a triumphant, knowing smirk on his face.
"Good to know," he rumbles softly. "Now, finish your cocoa, Y/N. Before it gets completely cold."
But the cocoa is forgotten. The air between you crackles with a new, potent energy.
As much as he tried to fight it, Solo couldnāt help as he leans in again. This time there's no teasing, no hesitation. He captures your mouth in a searing kiss. It's hungry and deep, a stark contrast to the playful atmosphere from moments before.
His tongue, the source of your torment, is now the instrument of your undoing. It delves into your mouth, stroking, claiming. It's a wet, messy, demanding kiss, the kind that leaves no room for thought, let alone air.
You meet his intensity with your own. Your hands, which had been clutching your mug, now find their way into his hair, your fingers tangling in the thick strands. You kiss him back with a desperate fervor, your own tongue tangling with his.
His hands begin to roam. One large palm cups the back of your neck, holding you in place, his thumb stroking the skin there in a way that makes you shiver.
His other hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, his fingers pressing into your flesh through the thin fabric of your pajama pants.
He pulls you impossibly closer, until there's no space left between you, until you can feel the hard, solid lines of his chest against your own, along with the heat of him radiating through your clothes.
The kiss deepens, becoming more frantic. It's a conversation without words, a frantic, wet dance of tongues and teeth. He nips at your lower lip, then soothes the sting with his tongue, a small, dominant gesture that makes you moan softly into his mouth.
The sound seems to spur him on. He shifts, his leg sliding between yours, pressing firmly against the apex of your thighs. The pressure is a direct, delicious friction against your core, and you instinctively rock against him, seeking more.
He breaks the kiss, but only to trail his lips along your jawline, down the column of your throat. His tongue is hot against your skin, leaving a damp, cooling trail in its wake.
He's not just kissing you; he's devouring you, marking you. When he reaches the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, he sucks gently, his tongue swirling over the skin.
"Solo," you gasp, your head falling back to give him better access. Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
He responds by moving back to your mouth, kissing you with renewed urgency. The hand on your hip slides lower, cupping your ass and pulling you even tighter against his thigh.
The rhythm is unconscious, a slow, deliberate grind that builds a fire low in your belly. The blanket that was once draped against both of your laps has fallen forgotten to the floor, the mugs of cocoa are cooling on the table, and the world outside has ceased to exist.
His name is a breathless prayer on your lips as he grounds you against him, the friction sending waves of pleasure cresting through you. The hand that was holding your neck slides down, his fingers tracing the collar of your shirt before dipping lower, teasing the swell of your breast.
You arch into his touch, a silent plea for more, and he answers it. His thumb brushes over your hardened nipple through the fabric, a simple touch that feels like an electric shock.
He pulls back, panting, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are dark, almost black in the dim firelight, and they're filled with a raw, hungry need that mirrors your own.
āY/N," he rasps, his voice thick with desire. He says your name like it's a physical thing, something he can taste.
In one fluid motion, he shifts, lifting you up into his lap effortlessly. You gasp as your feet leave the floor, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support. He stands, holding you like you weigh nothing, and your legs wrap around his powerful waist.
The new position presses the heat of his core directly against yours, and you both groan at the contact. He holds you there for a moment, his muscles straining, his gaze locked on yours. Then he carries you the short distance to the thick, plush rug in front of the fireplace.
He lowers you down gently, his body following yours, covering you completely. The weight of him is glorious, a solid, grounding pressure that makes you feel completely and utterly possessed. He settles between your thighs, his hips cradled by yours, the hard length of him straining against his pants and pressing directly against your most sensitive spot.
He doesn't rush. He kisses you again, a slow, deep, thorough kiss that's meant to unravel you.
His hands are busy, sliding under the hem of your shirt, his large, warm palms gliding up the skin of your stomach and ribs. You shiver at the contact, your own hands tugging at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against yours.
He helps you, pulling back just long enough to yank the shirt over his head, revealing the broad, expanse of his chest and the powerful muscles of his shoulders.
Your hands roam over him, tracing the lines of his tattoos, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. He then hooks his fingers in the waistband of your pajama pants, looking at you for permission. You lift your hips in a silent, desperate yes.
He pulls them down, taking your underwear with them, and tosses them aside. He takes a moment to look at you, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.
It's reverent and hungry all at once. Then he's back on you, his skin hot against yours, his mouth reclaiming yours in a kiss that's wet and deep and absolutely consuming.
His hand slides back down your body, his fingers tracing patterns on your inner thigh, teasing, building the anticipation until you're writhing beneath him.
"Solo, please," you whimper against his mouth.
He finally gives you what you want. His fingers part your folds, finding you slick and swollen with need. He circles your clit with the rough pad of his thumb, and you cry out, your back arching off the rug.
He doesn't stop, his touch sure and confident, stoking the fire inside you until you're a trembling, begging mess. He slides one thick finger inside you, then another; the stretch a perfect, sweet ache. He curls them, stroking that spot deep inside that makes your vision go white.
He does this over and over again, humming and admiring the faces of pleasure you make.
āRight there baby?ā He asks, āIām making you feel that good, huh baby?ā
A choked moan is his only response which makes him chuckle, āMmm, donāt worry. I aināt stopping anytime soon.ā
Working your pussy, he leans down and licks the outer shell of your ear before licking and sucking at the sweet spot of your neck.
Heās relentless and stays right there, the pleasure from both your neck and pussy pushes you to an early release.
The orgasm that tears through you is violent and absolute. It's a blinding wave of pleasure that crashes over you, stealing your breath and leaving you shaking in its wake.
He works you through it, his mouth moving from your neck to your face, swallowing your cries; his fingers never stopping their relentless rhythm until you're completely spent, limp and boneless beneath him.
He even doesn't give you time to recover. He shifts, undoing his own pants and kicking them off. He settles back over you, his heavy, erect cock resting against your stomach. He looks down at you, his chest heaving, his eyes searching yours.
āIā¦ I know weāve never went this far before butā¦ā
You reach up, cupping his face in your hands. "Now, Solo," you whisper, your voice hoarse. "Please."
He nods, his expression softening with an emotion that goes far beyond lust. He positions himself at your entrance, and then, slowly, so slowly, he pushes inside you.
He fills you completely, a perfect, overwhelming stretch that borders on pain before melting into a profound, deep-seated pleasure. He bottoms out, his hips flush with yours, and stills, letting you adjust to the size of him.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. "Move," you command softly.
He does. He starts to move, his strokes long and deep and impossibly slow. It's not just fucking; it's a claiming. Each thrust is deliberate, powerful, a statement of possession that resonates deep in your soul.
The room is filled with the sounds of your bodies moving together, the crackle of the fire, and your breathless moans. He watches you as he moves, his eyes locked on yours, a silent communication passing between you that's more intimate than any words.
The pace builds, the slow, deep strokes becoming faster, more demanding. The friction is exquisite, building a second fire deep within you.
You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a perfect, primal rhythm. His hand slides down to grip your hip, angling you just so, and the new pressure sends you hurtling toward the edge once more.
He notices of course, almost gratefully due to not having to struggle to put off his own. "Come with me," he growls, his voice strained. āPlease, fuck I need you.ā
His words are your undoing. With a final, powerful thrust, you shatter, your orgasm ripping through you even more intensely than the first. He follows you over the edge with a broken sigh, burying himself deep inside you as he finds his own release, his body shuddering against yours.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding presence. You're both breathing heavily, your bodies slick with sweat and the remnants of your passion.
After a long moment, he rolls off you, pulling you into his side. He presses a soft, tender kiss to your temple, then to your lips. You curl against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. The Christmas light blink softly, casting a warm glow over the room.
You look over at the coffee table, at the two forgotten mugs of hot cocoa, now cold and a murky color. A tired, happy laugh escapes you.
"What's so funny?" Solo murmurs, his arm tightening around you.
"Nothing," you say, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I just think I've found a new favorite holiday tradition."
2025 Kinkmas Masterlist
