#i need to make ones with kit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tennessoui · 16 days ago

Text

wine party au morning after ficlet

thank you so much to the person who donated to my ko-fi and asked for a wine party au ficlet in exchange!! this fic takes place the morning after obikin's first meeting (and after they've fucked) - i hope you enjoy!!! (also btw i'm still doing fic trades for donations on my ko-fi because it's really stupidly expensive to get my laptop fixed and i need it for school stuff as well as fic stuff but im flat broke)

The first thing Anakin notices when he wakes up is the pleasant ache in his muscles along his back and in his thighs. It’s the sign of a good night, that feeling, and Anakin can admit it’s been a while since he’s felt it.

He wants to roll over on the disgustingly soft mattress, languish in the warm morning light wrapping around his bare shoulders, tangle his legs in the sickeningly plush duvet, and sleep for several more hours. It’s what he deserves after all he did for the owner of this bed last night.

Or, all he let the owner of this bed do to him last night. Whichever.

But he can’t, because the moment he cracks his eyes open to peer across the expanse of the mattress, he realizes that he’s alone, the other side of the bed gone cold.

The lack of Kenobi makes Anakin wake up all the way, one part indignant and another part…worried. Or, not worried, really, but something like it. His chest gets tighter as he scans the large room for signs of the other man and comes up empty. Doesn’t Kenobi know the first thing about sleeping with someone? You don’t let them wake up alone, unless you’re just an incredible asshole.

Which, well, Anakin knew Kenobi was, but he’d thought maybe Kenobi knew the basic etiquette of fucking someone.

He’d certainly pretended to last night, at least, after all the other guests had left and it was just Anakin and Obi-Wan sitting on the white patio furniture by the pool. It’d been almost a masterclass of unnecessary seduction, the way Kenobi had taken the wine glass from Anakin’s hand and set it on the table by his elbow; the way he’d slid closer, thigh to thigh, and tucked a loose bit of hair behind Anakin’s ear; the way he’d rested his hands so lightly on Anakin’s waist when he’d given the urge to swing himself into Obi-Wan’s lap….

It’d been weird, the sex. It’d been surprisingly gentle, when it happened, nothing at all like Anakin had expected by the way they’d treated each other fully clothed. He’d been the one to initiate, the one to push Obi-Wan into grabbing his hair and tugging him to his knees, manhandle him up the stairs to his bedroom. Kenobi had almost seemed like he’d be content with heady kisses by the poolside, sipping at his mouth like he’d sipped at the wine all night.

But it hadn’t been bad, the sex. Anakin can admit that in the safety of his mind and with Kenobi wherever he is. It had been good. All of it. Even when Kenobi touched him carefully, wouldn’t fuck into him without first opening him on four fingers, wanted him on his back with his legs around his waist instead of on his hands and knees like Anakin had been expecting since he met the man.

It had been good, and Anakin had gone to sleep still vaguely tipsy from the wine with Kenobi’s spit and come drying along his inner thighs and he’d felt fine. He’d felt good. Satisfied, the way only a really good one night stand can make him.

But all of that’s gone now, bled dry and wilted under the morning—early afternoon?---sun, scattered away the moment Anakin woke alone.

It’s just bad etiquette, Anakin thinks to himself as he grabs a shirt from the floor and pulls it on. It’s Kenobi’s, the same dark oxford he’d been wearing last night. It doesn’t fit, too tight in the shoulders, and Anakin doesn’t even try to button it up properly. The idea of stretching out one of Kenobi’s perfect shirts, probably tailored to his weirdly proportioned frame—lithe and muscular, defined chest and narrow shoulders, thick arms, thicker fingers—makes Anakin smile as he finishes dressing and leaves the room.

Kenobi’s house is as big in the daytime as it had been last night, maybe even bigger. Anakin has to take a double staircase down to get to the ground floor. Anakin didn’t even realize grand foyers even existed outside of palaces and movies anymore. To think, a house like this has existed in his town all this time. It’s disgusting is what it is, all this white paint and marble and—and sandstone.

It’d seemed beautiful last night, winding these corridors from the kitchen through the sunken living room, the foyer, then up to Kenobi’s bedroom. Obviously that’d been the wine and the lust talking, Anakin can see that now in the morning light. It’s just a waste of space and money now.

Obi-Wan probably doesn’t even use half this house. Certainly not the elevator.

Anakin’s made a list of twelve cutting remarks he can’t wait to tell Kenobi by the time he makes it to the kitchen.

All of them die on his lips the moment he actually enters the room and sees Kenobi there amongst the luxury, moving about among the appliances like this is his true home. He’s shirtless, clad only in a pair of loose pants that hang on his narrow hips like the only thing keeping them up is a wisp of a prayer. Anakin’s mouth goes embarrassingly dry as he watches Kenobi’s forearm flex as he mixes something in a bowl.

“Uh,” Anakin says, groping around in his mind for something to say. This Kenobi is not a Kenobi Anakin had expected to find. This Kenobi, with his soft, unflattering hair falling into his face, wearing thick-framed glasses and no shirt, humming to himself—it’s not any kind of Kenobi Anakin wants either. “What are you doing?”

Kenobi looks up at him, eyes soft and face unguarded for a moment before it smooths out. He arches an eyebrow. “Making breakfast.”

Anakin glances at the bowls around the man, taking another step into the kitchen and crossing his arms. Kenobi tracks the motion carefully, probably concerned over the state of his shirt.

“What, are you making the cereal from scratch?” Anakin asks, peering at the counter. He wrinkles his nose at the bunch of spinach sitting in one of the sinks.

Kenobi wrinkles his nose in return. “Don’t tell me you actually eat that,” he says in such a snobby manner that Anakin is pretty sure no jury made of his peers would actually convict him if he drowned the man in the yellow sauce Kenobi’s got in the bowl.

“What, should I be pairing it with a sauvignon blanc? A merlot?” The words taste awkward on his tongue, and he’s sure he’s butchering the pronunciation. Not that it matters. To be honest, Anakin’s surprised he remembers these names, surprised he learned anything at all last night. He’d spent half the time staring at Kenobi from various points in the room and the other half making fun of the room full of snobs in his head.

But he’d also apparently spent at least some of that time learning something about wine. Like its types.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kenobi is saying, but he also deposits the bowl on the counter beside his hip and crosses his arms over his bare chest. It’s distracting. “Your average cereal is so packed full of sugar, you’d want a dessert wine.”

His voice is scathing, but it’s like he’s speaking another language for all Anakin understands him. “Well, the average cereal’s about three bucks a box, so unless you’re about to offer me a job or whatever, I’ll stick to my Lucky Charms.”

Kenobi’s eyes narrow and he mouths out Lucky Charms as if the words personally offend him. “Eggs Florentin,” he finally says, which is a nonsequitor and also definitely not English.

“Is that another kind of wine?” Anakin asks, wary. He can’t imagine spinach and alcohol going well together, but maybe rich people have discovered a new level of hedonism.

“It’s breakfast,” Kenobi says. “It’s my understanding that one usually serves breakfast to their partner the…morning after.”

It’s Anakin’s turn to narrow his eyes as he looks from the counter to Kenobi and back to the stove. It looks, to his quite discerning eyes, like Kenobi has decided to make breakfast from scratch. Which is—not what one usually does.

The last time Anakin had had a one night stand, he’d slid the guy a bowl of cereal from across the counter, feeling all fancy that he could offer him either oat milk or regular milk.

“Oh,” he says. He was raised to be polite, but he doesn’t know what counts as polite in this scenario. He so obviously probably shouldn’t be touching anything, and it’s not like Kenobi needs help. It looks like Kenobi’s made his own bread. How long has he been up? How long has he been cooking? For Anakin?

His chest feels weird, and he rubs at it absentmindedly. “Alright,” he adds. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Kenobi repeats, eyebrows raising up again.

“Well, I’ll just—I mean…do you want…?”

Kenobi keeps his face unreadable, arms crossed, unhelpful and snobbish and incredibly attractive all the same.

“Help,” Anakin finishes lamely.

“That looked like it hurt,” Kenobi says, lips lifting like he’s trying to smile but only remembers how to smirk. Anakin sneers back automatically. It’s weird, being around Kenobi. Weirder than any other one night stand Anakin’s ever had.

Mostly because it feels like there’s still a fire burning under his skin, thousands of ants crawling all over him. Mostly because he thinks–he still wants to touch Kenobi. Usually he sleeps with someone and that’s that. It’s out of his system and he can treat them the way he’d treat a roommate, a stranger on the street. But with Kenobi, it’s like his hands are begging his brain to be allowed to touch him again and it’s weird.

“Well, fuck you then,” he says faux-cheerfully, tugging at the edge of Kenobi’s shirt in hopes of stretching it out further and ruining it beyond repair. “I’m gonna take a shower. Still got, you know. Stuff. On me.”

“Please do,” Kenobi agrees, voice tight, turning his back on him as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “It’ll be on the table in twenty.”

Anakin doesn’t think he’s ever been so summarily dismissed in his life; he’d be impressed if it didn’t send him reeling into a foul mood.

Fine, maybe Kenobi understands one-night stand etiquette, but he definitely doesn’t understand how to be human. How to not be a dick. Treat others the way he wants to be treated and all.

Anakin doesn’t even know where the fucking bathroom is, let alone a towel. And he’s not gonna ask, that’s for sure.

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t take a shower, he thinks as he stalks away from the kitchen. Maybe it’d serve Kenobi right to have someone dirtied up with dried sweat and come sitting at his pristine table. He’s probably never had to deal with that before. Serves him right.

Two wrong turns take him out to the poolside, where the party had been last night. It looks…well, familiar in a way that settles something in Anakin. Maybe he can’t help Obi-Wan making a fancy breakfast and maybe he can’t navigate his way through this fancy marble mausoleum of a mansion, but this—he knows this. This is what every morning after a party looks like, in the history of the world maybe. There are empty bottles of wine laying about, pieces of litter and dirty plates. Cups still, on the side tables, displaced cushions on the ground, someone’s forgotten sunglasses discarded on a sofa.

Maybe Anakin doesn’t know anything about wine; maybe he doesn’t know anything about making bread from scratch. But he does know how to clean up after a good party.

So he starts doing that instead.

An indeterminable amount of time later, he’s interrupted by a throat clearing behind him. He sits up on his knees, abandoning his effort to sweep under one of the sofas, and turns his head up to look at Kenobi.

“I have people for that,” Kenobi points out, eyebrows furrowed as he stares down at him. There's something considering in his face, like Anakin's genuinely surprised him.

“Wasn’t doing anything,” Anakin mutters with a shrug.

It’s hard not to think about the last time he was on his knees in front of Kenobi, just last night. It’s hard not to think about what happened. About how it felt to reach up and untug Kenobi’s belt from his pants, unbutton them and roll his briefs down his hips to free his cock.

Kenobi clears his throat like he’s having a hard time thinking of anything else too, and Anakin’s eyes flash up to his.

The fire beneath his skin is back.

“I’ve plated the food,” Kenobi says. “We can eat out here, if you would like.”

Anakin blinks and clambers to his feet. He wants to ask Kenobi if this is it. If, when they’re finished with breakfast, Anakin will be kicked out the way Anakin’s kicked out all of his own one-night stands at the conclusion of the post-sex meal. It’s the etiquette.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

Anakin wants more of Kenobi. More of his touch, more of his sneers and smirks. He doesn’t have the words to ask for it though. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, I just cleaned though. So you can’t be messy or spill anything on the cushions or anything.”

Kenobi blinks, and then his face lightens, his mouth tugging up into a smile as he recognizes the same words he’d said to Anakin the night before. “No promises,” he says.

#kit's fics #obikin #wine party au #i love this obikin because they could very easily have a relationship straight off the bat #but they have too many preconceived notions about the other #and about what the other must think of them #to be the first one to move to a romantic relationship #they need pretense and pretend #but you know breakfast ends with anakin fucking obi-wan over his fancy sofa #and making a crack about him making a mess when he gets his spend all over the cushions #and anakin feels good about leaving then #or he pretends to #and then the next wine party is two weeks later #and padmé is asked specifically to bring anakin #because obi-wan wants him again but of course didnt ask for his number

68 notes · View notes