sabrinasopposite

[sabrinasopposite]

i would be down for a q&a 🩷 so if u wanna ask me random questions, like abt manchild or anything else… hmu 🩷🩷🩷

[sabrinasopposite]

i literally miss peter parker

[sabrinasopposite]

ahhhhh, just seen you posted yesterday!!!! 😱😱🤭🤭 i swear you deserve a big kiss on the forehead

AHHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH MY SWEETS!!! u the coolest person ever

[sabrinasopposite]

yall… dolly or princess?

manchild; chapter four: midnights became my afternoons, like stars become films.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

words: 2,657

previous chapter: cigarettes, milkshake and an agreement.

chapter four: midnights became my afternoons, like stars become films.

Stars are simple. Quiet, distant things that never ask for attention but always seem to have it. They hang above us, loyal and constant, following us through cities, through breakups, through gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. Sometimes they're bold, bright as confessionals. Other times, they hide behind clouds like secrets we’re not ready to know. They don’t move for us, but they always feel like they’re waiting.

There’s something achingly poetic about them. Maybe that’s why we keep writing them into songs, pinning them into film frames, scribbling them into poems when words fail. We talk about stars like we know them, like they’re part of us. But really, they’re just there. Watching. Unreachable. Eternal.

We romanticize stars because they stay when everything else doesn’t. And maybe, deep down, we’re all just trying to find someone who stays like that.

Sometimes, the best places to stargaze are the ones that don’t make sense. Not mountaintops or observatories—but strange, in-between places. Gas station lots. Cracked pavement under buzzing neon. Places where the air smells like gasoline and someone else’s bad decisions.

Like tonight.

Y/n lay across the hood of Anakin’s car, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, the cherry glowing soft against the shadows. The radio hummed faintly through the open car window, playing some oldie off a dusty 60s greatest hits chart, smoky voices and twangy guitars. It felt far away, like a memory playing on loop.

The stars stretched above her—sharp and silent. Each one like a pinprick in the sky, a quiet witness to whatever this was becoming.

Anakin stood below, leaning against the passenger side door, one foot kicked back against the tire. He looked up at her—bare legs swinging lazily off the hood, curls wild from the humid night air. She looked like someone from a record sleeve, the kind of girl you'd name a car after or write a sad love song about.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. "Comfy up there, princess?" he asked, smoke curling from his lips.

Y/n didn’t look at him. Just watched the sky, eyes soft, voice even softer. "Very much. You joining, or rooting yourself to the asphalt like a sad little greaser?"

Anakin chuckled under his breath, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Think I prefer the view down here," he murmured. And he meant it.

Her skin glowed under the fluorescent buzz of the gas station sign. She looked more like a film than a person. Her silhouette against the night—framed by smoke, stars, and the thrum of a dying radio—was something unreal. A wildcat girl from someone’s best mistake. A hurricane in a halter top. He exhaled smoke and grinned. "You know you look like you just stepped out of someone’s dirty daydream, right?"

Y/n turned her head slowly toward him, grinning through the cigarette smoke. "I’ll be the actress starring in your dreams from now on, Skywalker."

Anakin scoffed, but his smirk said everything. "You got that Dolly Parton thing going on again."

Y/n flicked ash from her cigarette, arching a brow. "And you got that desperate ex energy again.“ It was teasing, but light. Like the flick of a match.

They laughed—low, unbothered, like the world outside this strange gas station bubble didn’t exist. And for a moment, it didn’t. Just stars, smoke, and two lost people. 

Anakin laughs, head tilted back, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head slowly, eyes flicking up to her lounging on the car like some vintage siren pulled from an old vinyl cover. "Yeah, but I’m not the one lying across my car like a pin-up girl," he retorts, voice low and amused.

Y/n props herself up on her elbows, cigarette still hanging from her lips, eyes narrowing with unfiltered sass. The cherry glow lights her cheekbones. "Boys would definitely love the look of me," she deadpans.

Anakin smirks, leaning back against the side of the car, arms crossed, watching her with a gaze that lingers a little too long. "Trust me, princess. They’re not the only ones.“ His tone dips lower—half tease, half trouble.

She raises a brow but lets it roll off her with a grin, letting her head fall back against the cool metal. Her bare legs catch the diner lights—gold against the chrome. "Girls too, huh?"

Anakin laughs softly, his smirk deepening. "Everyone. Hell, even I have to admit you look good like that."

Y/n slides closer and reaches up to ruffle his curls, fingers tangling briefly in the gelled mess. His hair fluffs out under her touch—boyish, soft. "It's messy, Skywalker, you flirting with me when you're still desperate for your ex," she teases, scrunching her nose.

Anakin swats her hand away playfully, but the laugh that slips out is too real to fake. "Hey, I’m just stating facts, Dolly."

She pauses, then cocks her head. "Dolly? You calling me Dolly now?"

He grins, eyes glinting. "Yeah, Dolly. It suits you."

Y/n looks away with exaggerated drama, flicking her cigarette ash. "It’s the blowout and cherry lipstick, isn’t it?"

Anakin chuckles. "That and those legs. You’re basically a walking record sleeve."

Y/n squints at him. "And you look like you’re about to star in Rebel Without a Cause," she shoots back.

But instead of a roast, Anakin bursts out laughing, clearly caught off guard. "Ha! Good one." He’s beaming now. She frowns. "Wait—no. Don’t tell me that’s your favorite movie?"The whine in her voice is genuine, and Anakin grins like a kid caught with candy in his pocket. "It is. Why? How’d you even know that?"

Y/n shrugs, cigarette now balanced between her fingers again. "It’s a cliché favorite. Just like anything Stanley Kubrick. You know—male gaze cinema."

Anakin laughs, nodding. "Fair. But I actually like it. Like, unironically."

Y/n squints. "I mean, the movie is good—but it's a red flag when boys say it’s their favorite. Means they think they are James Dean. All tragic and misunderstood with a savior complex."

She doesn’t even notice how fast she’s talking now, or how lit up her face is when she rants about cinema. She truly loved movies. Not just for the stories, but for the silence they brought—the kind that wrapped around her like a blanket when the lights dimmed and the screen lit up. It was the only place where the world paused. Where she could disappear into something else entirely: perfect cities, beautiful disasters, aching truths dressed in dialogue.

Cinema had always been sacred. Every Saturday night, her mother used to take her to the theater. It didn’t matter what was playing—comedies, thrillers, black-and-white dramas. The ritual was the point. Popcorn fingers, leaning heads, the hush that fell right before the opening credits. It was theirs, just them and the screen. A world within a world.

Now she goes alone.

Not because there’s no one else to go with—but because there shouldn’t be. That seat beside her wasn’t just empty. It was reserved. And no one else got to sit in that space where her mother once did. It felt like a betrayal to share it. So she buys one ticket. Sits in the back. And lets the film carry her for a while—until the lights come back on, and she’s just a girl again. A little lonelier. A little quieter. But still holding the ending like a secret.

Anakin listens to her. And he doesn’t stop her. "Damn, Dolly. I didn’t know you were a nerd."

Y/n’s eyes go wide. She laughs awkwardly. "I’m not a nerd.“ She glances around like someone might overhear her confession. "I just… paid attention. That’s all."

Anakin raises both hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Alright. Sure. But I’m onto you now, dolly."

She groans and points at him like she might actually throw hands. "If I hear one word about this—like, if you ever tell someone I care about movies—I’ll haunt you."

"Scout’s honor," Anakin says, still smirking. "Your secret’s safe with me, cinephile."

Y/n rolls her eyes and flicks her cigarette, embers flying into the night. Then, more serious now, she adds— "Besides. Barbarella is one of the greatest feminine films ever made. Like—I’d do anything to look like Jane Fonda.“ She opens the car door, defiant and certain in that strange, holy way girls are when they love something fiercely and don't care if you understand.

Anakin watches her, still half-laughing, still half-stunned. She wasn’t just pretty chaos anymore. She was real. A full-color, technicolor, starlit mess of soul and sass and cinema dreams. And suddenly, he didn't care about Padmé or the party or whatever he'd thought this night was supposed to be.

He cared about this. Whatever this was.

Anakin grinned, still riding the high of her movie ramble, his voice dipped low with teasing. "Oh really? You’d do anything to look like her, huh?“ He tilted his head, watching as she tugged open the passenger door.

“Anything,” Y/n echoed proudly, sliding into the seat and crossing her arms like some intergalactic diva. “I mean… have you seen Jane Fonda in Barbarella?”

Anakin chuckled under his breath, the sound lazy and fond. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. She’s… yeah. Definitely something. So, what, you got a thing for space chicks?”

Y/n’s eyes widened, electric and absurd. “No. I wanna be a space chick. And make out with space angels.” She nodded with unshakable commitment, like it was gospel.

Anakin burst out laughing, throwing his head back as the sound echoed in the near-empty lot. “Space angels, huh? That’s a new one. So you wanna drift through the stars kissing celestial beings. You’ve got your priorities straight, clearly.”

Y/n waved him off like he was annoying background noise. “God, I liked you more when you were cold and broody. At least then, you were more fun to piss off.”

Anakin placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “Ouch. Brutal. Here I am, being soft and charming, and you just shank me like that.”

She gave him a slow glare, amused. “We’re having a moment, Skyguy. Don’t get lost in orbit.”

He shook his head, grin still etched across his lips. “You’re something else, you know that, princess?”

She looked over at him—and for a second, the moment slowed. Anakin, all black denim and silver rings, hair a wild mess, smiling like a drunk idiot. He looked like every movie rebel rolled into one. Y/n wanted to take a picture, just to trap the way he looked in that exact second. Maybe put the picture on her dirty mirror or in a yearbook.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, voice airy and full of herself, but in a way that made him smile wider.

He looked at her again, legs up on the dash, skin glowing in the pale diner lights. She looked like chaos in technicolor—untouchable and golden. And he was just glad he got to be here in this weird, in-between hour.

She yawned, glancing at the clock on the dash. 2:30 AM. The diner behind them had long since shut down, the glow of its sign flickering. “How’re we feelin’, Skyguy? Still drunk?”

Anakin shrugged, that same sly smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m better. I think. But you know… we don’t have to go home yet.”

Y/n raised a brow, letting out a breathy laugh. “Chill— you’ll see me more than enough now. I’m your fake girlfriend, remember? You’re stuck with me.”

He chuckled, low and amused. “Oh, I don’t plan on getting rid of you anytime soon.”

“Good,” she replied with a grin. Then, more seriously: “But I do plan on getting rid of you—for now. I’m tired. Hop hop, driver boy. Take me home.”

Anakin groaned dramatically but slipped into the driver’s seat. “Fine. I’ll drive you, but only because I’m a gentleman.”

The car hummed to life, and the road stretched out in front of them like a promise. Minutes in, Y/n had her legs dangling out the window, her body half-curled into the seat. She dozed off mid-ramble, the night catching her like a lullaby.

Anakin kept stealing glances.

She was out cold, mouth parted slightly, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other wrapped around her own torso like she was holding herself together in sleep. She snorted faintly, a soft, human sound that tugged something warm in his chest.

He drove slower. Took turns softer. She looked too peaceful to jolt awake.

When they finally pulled up in front of her house, he lingered a second, debating. Then he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Dolly,” he whispered. “Wakey wakey.”

She stirred with a groan, rubbing her eyes like a grumpy kid. “The fuck…”

Anakin chuckled softly. “We’re here. Time to crawl back to your planet, space chick.”

Y/n blinked at him sleepily but managed a lopsided smile. “Thanks, Skyguy. Drive safe. Call me if you need, like… a fake red carpet date or something.”

He laughed, hand still resting lightly on her shoulder. “Will do. And thanks for the…company.”

She gave a lazy salute, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “Told you. I’m a fun girl to hang with. And hey—it’s kinda nice spending time with you again.”

She slipped out of the car and shut the door.

Neither of them mentioned the years between twelve and thirteen. The years where they disappeared from each other’s lives. If they ever did talk about it, it would probably end in a fight. Distance maybe or just stars to disappear.  So they didn’t. Not now.

Anakin watched her walk up to her front door. She turned and waved once, her silhouette framed in the porch light. He waved back before driving off into the stillness of the night.

Y/n tiptoed inside, barefoot and quiet, only to find the TV still on—soft static playing over a late-night movie. Bail was passed out on the couch, one arm flung over his chest. She leaned against the wall, watching him for a second. Her face softened.

Bail had promised her mother he’d raise her like his own. And he had. Every chaotic, reckless, heartbreak-ridden version of her. She walked over and knelt beside him, placing a hand gently on his back. He stirred, mumbling something half-asleep, then blinked open his eyes.

He looked down at her, and despite the haze in his gaze, he smiled. Soft. Warm. Fatherly.

“You left the TV on, genius,” she whispered with a teasing smile. “Go to bed, old man.”

He chuckled, groaning as he sat up. “Damn. Must’ve passed out watching something. You just get in?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “Just some party stuff. Got a ride home.”

She never told Bail the full stories. Not about the boys. Not about her recklessness or the impulsive girl she truly is. Not about the chaos. He trusted her. And she kept that trust like a secret tucked inside her chest.

He ruffled her hair, eyes knowing but gentle. “Be careful, kid.”

She smiled, then without thinking, wrapped her arms around him. Placed her head to his chest. “Of course. I was raised by you and mom, remember? I know how to survive this world.”

He hugged her back, tighter than usual. “Yeah. You’re strong. Just like your mom.”

They didn’t talk about her mom much. It hurt too much.

Y/n pulled away, yawning. “C’mon. Let’s get some sleep. I need my beauty rest.”

Bail laughed. “Can’t have you waking up lookin’ like a troll.”

She rolled her eyes, genuinely amused. She waved goodnight and padded toward her bedroom, the quiet humming behind her like the final end of a song. 

💋hi everyone! sorry for this short filler, but there is a beautiful thing about the love for cinema that I have and get inspired by it the whole time. also it is one step forward to y/n's character.

also, in my cinematic universe... I don't care if the cinema lore fits to my story because of the timeline, like Quentin Tarantino is in the 90s, but for me they are all in the 70s for now on!

also.... what should we call y/n: dolly or princess.

💋taglist:

@blackynsupremacy @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @user-3113s-blog @iloveneilperry @crisis-unaverted-recs @purplerose291 @sythethecarrot @wizzerreblogs @tsuki8844 @antifeetsoldier @canny1902 @idk-11s-blog @another-side-blog-again @damoclescallmeback @kappakappabara @littlemsenvyi @ficsineedtoreadlater @fictionalinspo2 @harryshorizon @wizzerreblogs @5secondsofmoxley @anakinslovergirl @throughparisallthroughrome @kers505 @suniika @slyhersophia @veronaspencil @invisible-mori @flowerlanaa @berryonasummerevening @loliskywalker @lortheswiftie

[sabrinasopposite]

manchild; chapter four: midnights became my afternoons, like stars become films.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

words: 2,657

previous chapter: cigarettes, milkshake and an agreement.

chapter four: midnights became my afternoons, like stars become films.

Stars are simple. Quiet, distant things that never ask for attention but always seem to have it. They hang above us, loyal and constant, following us through cities, through breakups, through gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. Sometimes they're bold, bright as confessionals. Other times, they hide behind clouds like secrets we’re not ready to know. They don’t move for us, but they always feel like they’re waiting.

There’s something achingly poetic about them. Maybe that’s why we keep writing them into songs, pinning them into film frames, scribbling them into poems when words fail. We talk about stars like we know them, like they’re part of us. But really, they’re just there. Watching. Unreachable. Eternal.

We romanticize stars because they stay when everything else doesn’t. And maybe, deep down, we’re all just trying to find someone who stays like that.

Sometimes, the best places to stargaze are the ones that don’t make sense. Not mountaintops or observatories—but strange, in-between places. Gas station lots. Cracked pavement under buzzing neon. Places where the air smells like gasoline and someone else’s bad decisions.

Like tonight.

Y/n lay across the hood of Anakin’s car, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, the cherry glowing soft against the shadows. The radio hummed faintly through the open car window, playing some oldie off a dusty 60s greatest hits chart, smoky voices and twangy guitars. It felt far away, like a memory playing on loop.

The stars stretched above her—sharp and silent. Each one like a pinprick in the sky, a quiet witness to whatever this was becoming.

Anakin stood below, leaning against the passenger side door, one foot kicked back against the tire. He looked up at her—bare legs swinging lazily off the hood, curls wild from the humid night air. She looked like someone from a record sleeve, the kind of girl you'd name a car after or write a sad love song about.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. "Comfy up there, princess?" he asked, smoke curling from his lips.

Y/n didn’t look at him. Just watched the sky, eyes soft, voice even softer. "Very much. You joining, or rooting yourself to the asphalt like a sad little greaser?"

Anakin chuckled under his breath, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Think I prefer the view down here," he murmured. And he meant it.

Her skin glowed under the fluorescent buzz of the gas station sign. She looked more like a film than a person. Her silhouette against the night—framed by smoke, stars, and the thrum of a dying radio—was something unreal. A wildcat girl from someone’s best mistake. A hurricane in a halter top. He exhaled smoke and grinned. "You know you look like you just stepped out of someone’s dirty daydream, right?"

Y/n turned her head slowly toward him, grinning through the cigarette smoke. "I’ll be the actress starring in your dreams from now on, Skywalker."

Anakin scoffed, but his smirk said everything. "You got that Dolly Parton thing going on again."

Y/n flicked ash from her cigarette, arching a brow. "And you got that desperate ex energy again.“ It was teasing, but light. Like the flick of a match.

They laughed—low, unbothered, like the world outside this strange gas station bubble didn’t exist. And for a moment, it didn’t. Just stars, smoke, and two lost people. 

Anakin laughs, head tilted back, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head slowly, eyes flicking up to her lounging on the car like some vintage siren pulled from an old vinyl cover. "Yeah, but I’m not the one lying across my car like a pin-up girl," he retorts, voice low and amused.

Y/n props herself up on her elbows, cigarette still hanging from her lips, eyes narrowing with unfiltered sass. The cherry glow lights her cheekbones. "Boys would definitely love the look of me," she deadpans.

Anakin smirks, leaning back against the side of the car, arms crossed, watching her with a gaze that lingers a little too long. "Trust me, princess. They’re not the only ones.“ His tone dips lower—half tease, half trouble.

She raises a brow but lets it roll off her with a grin, letting her head fall back against the cool metal. Her bare legs catch the diner lights—gold against the chrome. "Girls too, huh?"

Anakin laughs softly, his smirk deepening. "Everyone. Hell, even I have to admit you look good like that."

Y/n slides closer and reaches up to ruffle his curls, fingers tangling briefly in the gelled mess. His hair fluffs out under her touch—boyish, soft. "It's messy, Skywalker, you flirting with me when you're still desperate for your ex," she teases, scrunching her nose.

Anakin swats her hand away playfully, but the laugh that slips out is too real to fake. "Hey, I’m just stating facts, Dolly."

She pauses, then cocks her head. "Dolly? You calling me Dolly now?"

He grins, eyes glinting. "Yeah, Dolly. It suits you."

Y/n looks away with exaggerated drama, flicking her cigarette ash. "It’s the blowout and cherry lipstick, isn’t it?"

Anakin chuckles. "That and those legs. You’re basically a walking record sleeve."

Y/n squints at him. "And you look like you’re about to star in Rebel Without a Cause," she shoots back.

But instead of a roast, Anakin bursts out laughing, clearly caught off guard. "Ha! Good one." He’s beaming now. She frowns. "Wait—no. Don’t tell me that’s your favorite movie?"The whine in her voice is genuine, and Anakin grins like a kid caught with candy in his pocket. "It is. Why? How’d you even know that?"

Y/n shrugs, cigarette now balanced between her fingers again. "It’s a cliché favorite. Just like anything Stanley Kubrick. You know—male gaze cinema."

Anakin laughs, nodding. "Fair. But I actually like it. Like, unironically."

Y/n squints. "I mean, the movie is good—but it's a red flag when boys say it’s their favorite. Means they think they are James Dean. All tragic and misunderstood with a savior complex."

She doesn’t even notice how fast she’s talking now, or how lit up her face is when she rants about cinema. She truly loved movies. Not just for the stories, but for the silence they brought—the kind that wrapped around her like a blanket when the lights dimmed and the screen lit up. It was the only place where the world paused. Where she could disappear into something else entirely: perfect cities, beautiful disasters, aching truths dressed in dialogue.

Cinema had always been sacred. Every Saturday night, her mother used to take her to the theater. It didn’t matter what was playing—comedies, thrillers, black-and-white dramas. The ritual was the point. Popcorn fingers, leaning heads, the hush that fell right before the opening credits. It was theirs, just them and the screen. A world within a world.

Now she goes alone.

Not because there’s no one else to go with—but because there shouldn’t be. That seat beside her wasn’t just empty. It was reserved. And no one else got to sit in that space where her mother once did. It felt like a betrayal to share it. So she buys one ticket. Sits in the back. And lets the film carry her for a while—until the lights come back on, and she’s just a girl again. A little lonelier. A little quieter. But still holding the ending like a secret.

Anakin listens to her. And he doesn’t stop her. "Damn, Dolly. I didn’t know you were a nerd."

Y/n’s eyes go wide. She laughs awkwardly. "I’m not a nerd.“ She glances around like someone might overhear her confession. "I just… paid attention. That’s all."

Anakin raises both hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Alright. Sure. But I’m onto you now, dolly."

She groans and points at him like she might actually throw hands. "If I hear one word about this—like, if you ever tell someone I care about movies—I’ll haunt you."

"Scout’s honor," Anakin says, still smirking. "Your secret’s safe with me, cinephile."

Y/n rolls her eyes and flicks her cigarette, embers flying into the night. Then, more serious now, she adds— "Besides. Barbarella is one of the greatest feminine films ever made. Like—I’d do anything to look like Jane Fonda.“ She opens the car door, defiant and certain in that strange, holy way girls are when they love something fiercely and don't care if you understand.

Anakin watches her, still half-laughing, still half-stunned. She wasn’t just pretty chaos anymore. She was real. A full-color, technicolor, starlit mess of soul and sass and cinema dreams. And suddenly, he didn't care about Padmé or the party or whatever he'd thought this night was supposed to be.

He cared about this. Whatever this was.

Anakin grinned, still riding the high of her movie ramble, his voice dipped low with teasing. "Oh really? You’d do anything to look like her, huh?“ He tilted his head, watching as she tugged open the passenger door.

“Anything,” Y/n echoed proudly, sliding into the seat and crossing her arms like some intergalactic diva. “I mean… have you seen Jane Fonda in Barbarella?”

Anakin chuckled under his breath, the sound lazy and fond. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. She’s… yeah. Definitely something. So, what, you got a thing for space chicks?”

Y/n’s eyes widened, electric and absurd. “No. I wanna be a space chick. And make out with space angels.” She nodded with unshakable commitment, like it was gospel.

Anakin burst out laughing, throwing his head back as the sound echoed in the near-empty lot. “Space angels, huh? That’s a new one. So you wanna drift through the stars kissing celestial beings. You’ve got your priorities straight, clearly.”

Y/n waved him off like he was annoying background noise. “God, I liked you more when you were cold and broody. At least then, you were more fun to piss off.”

Anakin placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “Ouch. Brutal. Here I am, being soft and charming, and you just shank me like that.”

She gave him a slow glare, amused. “We’re having a moment, Skyguy. Don’t get lost in orbit.”

He shook his head, grin still etched across his lips. “You’re something else, you know that, princess?”

She looked over at him—and for a second, the moment slowed. Anakin, all black denim and silver rings, hair a wild mess, smiling like a drunk idiot. He looked like every movie rebel rolled into one. Y/n wanted to take a picture, just to trap the way he looked in that exact second. Maybe put the picture on her dirty mirror or in a yearbook.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, voice airy and full of herself, but in a way that made him smile wider.

He looked at her again, legs up on the dash, skin glowing in the pale diner lights. She looked like chaos in technicolor—untouchable and golden. And he was just glad he got to be here in this weird, in-between hour.

She yawned, glancing at the clock on the dash. 2:30 AM. The diner behind them had long since shut down, the glow of its sign flickering. “How’re we feelin’, Skyguy? Still drunk?”

Anakin shrugged, that same sly smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m better. I think. But you know… we don’t have to go home yet.”

Y/n raised a brow, letting out a breathy laugh. “Chill— you’ll see me more than enough now. I’m your fake girlfriend, remember? You’re stuck with me.”

He chuckled, low and amused. “Oh, I don’t plan on getting rid of you anytime soon.”

“Good,” she replied with a grin. Then, more seriously: “But I do plan on getting rid of you—for now. I’m tired. Hop hop, driver boy. Take me home.”

Anakin groaned dramatically but slipped into the driver’s seat. “Fine. I’ll drive you, but only because I’m a gentleman.”

The car hummed to life, and the road stretched out in front of them like a promise. Minutes in, Y/n had her legs dangling out the window, her body half-curled into the seat. She dozed off mid-ramble, the night catching her like a lullaby.

Anakin kept stealing glances.

She was out cold, mouth parted slightly, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other wrapped around her own torso like she was holding herself together in sleep. She snorted faintly, a soft, human sound that tugged something warm in his chest.

He drove slower. Took turns softer. She looked too peaceful to jolt awake.

When they finally pulled up in front of her house, he lingered a second, debating. Then he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Dolly,” he whispered. “Wakey wakey.”

She stirred with a groan, rubbing her eyes like a grumpy kid. “The fuck…”

Anakin chuckled softly. “We’re here. Time to crawl back to your planet, space chick.”

Y/n blinked at him sleepily but managed a lopsided smile. “Thanks, Skyguy. Drive safe. Call me if you need, like… a fake red carpet date or something.”

He laughed, hand still resting lightly on her shoulder. “Will do. And thanks for the…company.”

She gave a lazy salute, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “Told you. I’m a fun girl to hang with. And hey—it’s kinda nice spending time with you again.”

She slipped out of the car and shut the door.

Neither of them mentioned the years between twelve and thirteen. The years where they disappeared from each other’s lives. If they ever did talk about it, it would probably end in a fight. Distance maybe or just stars to disappear.  So they didn’t. Not now.

Anakin watched her walk up to her front door. She turned and waved once, her silhouette framed in the porch light. He waved back before driving off into the stillness of the night.

Y/n tiptoed inside, barefoot and quiet, only to find the TV still on—soft static playing over a late-night movie. Bail was passed out on the couch, one arm flung over his chest. She leaned against the wall, watching him for a second. Her face softened.

Bail had promised her mother he’d raise her like his own. And he had. Every chaotic, reckless, heartbreak-ridden version of her. She walked over and knelt beside him, placing a hand gently on his back. He stirred, mumbling something half-asleep, then blinked open his eyes.

He looked down at her, and despite the haze in his gaze, he smiled. Soft. Warm. Fatherly.

“You left the TV on, genius,” she whispered with a teasing smile. “Go to bed, old man.”

He chuckled, groaning as he sat up. “Damn. Must’ve passed out watching something. You just get in?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “Just some party stuff. Got a ride home.”

She never told Bail the full stories. Not about the boys. Not about her recklessness or the impulsive girl she truly is. Not about the chaos. He trusted her. And she kept that trust like a secret tucked inside her chest.

He ruffled her hair, eyes knowing but gentle. “Be careful, kid.”

She smiled, then without thinking, wrapped her arms around him. Placed her head to his chest. “Of course. I was raised by you and mom, remember? I know how to survive this world.”

He hugged her back, tighter than usual. “Yeah. You’re strong. Just like your mom.”

They didn’t talk about her mom much. It hurt too much.

Y/n pulled away, yawning. “C’mon. Let’s get some sleep. I need my beauty rest.”

Bail laughed. “Can’t have you waking up lookin’ like a troll.”

She rolled her eyes, genuinely amused. She waved goodnight and padded toward her bedroom, the quiet humming behind her like the final end of a song. 

💋hi everyone! sorry for this short filler, but there is a beautiful thing about the love for cinema that I have and get inspired by it the whole time. also it is one step forward to y/n's character.

also, in my cinematic universe... I don't care if the cinema lore fits to my story because of the timeline, like Quentin Tarantino is in the 90s, but for me they are all in the 70s for now on!

also.... what should we call y/n: dolly or princess.

💋taglist:

@blackynsupremacy @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @user-3113s-blog @iloveneilperry @crisis-unaverted-recs @purplerose291 @sythethecarrot @wizzerreblogs @tsuki8844 @antifeetsoldier @canny1902 @idk-11s-blog @another-side-blog-again @damoclescallmeback @kappakappabara @littlemsenvyi @ficsineedtoreadlater @fictionalinspo2 @harryshorizon @wizzerreblogs @5secondsofmoxley @anakinslovergirl @throughparisallthroughrome @kers505 @suniika @slyhersophia @veronaspencil @invisible-mori @flowerlanaa @berryonasummerevening @loliskywalker @lortheswiftie

[sabrinasopposite]

manchild; chapter four: midnights became my afternoons, like stars become films.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

words: 2,657

previous chapter: cigarettes, milkshake and an agreement.

chapter four: midnights became my afternoons, like stars become films.

Stars are simple. Quiet, distant things that never ask for attention but always seem to have it. They hang above us, loyal and constant, following us through cities, through breakups, through gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. Sometimes they're bold, bright as confessionals. Other times, they hide behind clouds like secrets we’re not ready to know. They don’t move for us, but they always feel like they’re waiting.

There’s something achingly poetic about them. Maybe that’s why we keep writing them into songs, pinning them into film frames, scribbling them into poems when words fail. We talk about stars like we know them, like they’re part of us. But really, they’re just there. Watching. Unreachable. Eternal.

We romanticize stars because they stay when everything else doesn’t. And maybe, deep down, we’re all just trying to find someone who stays like that.

Sometimes, the best places to stargaze are the ones that don’t make sense. Not mountaintops or observatories—but strange, in-between places. Gas station lots. Cracked pavement under buzzing neon. Places where the air smells like gasoline and someone else’s bad decisions.

Like tonight.

Y/n lay across the hood of Anakin’s car, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, the cherry glowing soft against the shadows. The radio hummed faintly through the open car window, playing some oldie off a dusty 60s greatest hits chart, smoky voices and twangy guitars. It felt far away, like a memory playing on loop.

The stars stretched above her—sharp and silent. Each one like a pinprick in the sky, a quiet witness to whatever this was becoming.

Anakin stood below, leaning against the passenger side door, one foot kicked back against the tire. He looked up at her—bare legs swinging lazily off the hood, curls wild from the humid night air. She looked like someone from a record sleeve, the kind of girl you'd name a car after or write a sad love song about.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. "Comfy up there, princess?" he asked, smoke curling from his lips.

Y/n didn’t look at him. Just watched the sky, eyes soft, voice even softer. "Very much. You joining, or rooting yourself to the asphalt like a sad little greaser?"

Anakin chuckled under his breath, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Think I prefer the view down here," he murmured. And he meant it.

Her skin glowed under the fluorescent buzz of the gas station sign. She looked more like a film than a person. Her silhouette against the night—framed by smoke, stars, and the thrum of a dying radio—was something unreal. A wildcat girl from someone’s best mistake. A hurricane in a halter top. He exhaled smoke and grinned. "You know you look like you just stepped out of someone’s dirty daydream, right?"

Y/n turned her head slowly toward him, grinning through the cigarette smoke. "I’ll be the actress starring in your dreams from now on, Skywalker."

Anakin scoffed, but his smirk said everything. "You got that Dolly Parton thing going on again."

Y/n flicked ash from her cigarette, arching a brow. "And you got that desperate ex energy again.“ It was teasing, but light. Like the flick of a match.

They laughed—low, unbothered, like the world outside this strange gas station bubble didn’t exist. And for a moment, it didn’t. Just stars, smoke, and two lost people. 

Anakin laughs, head tilted back, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head slowly, eyes flicking up to her lounging on the car like some vintage siren pulled from an old vinyl cover. "Yeah, but I’m not the one lying across my car like a pin-up girl," he retorts, voice low and amused.

Y/n props herself up on her elbows, cigarette still hanging from her lips, eyes narrowing with unfiltered sass. The cherry glow lights her cheekbones. "Boys would definitely love the look of me," she deadpans.

Anakin smirks, leaning back against the side of the car, arms crossed, watching her with a gaze that lingers a little too long. "Trust me, princess. They’re not the only ones.“ His tone dips lower—half tease, half trouble.

She raises a brow but lets it roll off her with a grin, letting her head fall back against the cool metal. Her bare legs catch the diner lights—gold against the chrome. "Girls too, huh?"

Anakin laughs softly, his smirk deepening. "Everyone. Hell, even I have to admit you look good like that."

Y/n slides closer and reaches up to ruffle his curls, fingers tangling briefly in the gelled mess. His hair fluffs out under her touch—boyish, soft. "It's messy, Skywalker, you flirting with me when you're still desperate for your ex," she teases, scrunching her nose.

Anakin swats her hand away playfully, but the laugh that slips out is too real to fake. "Hey, I’m just stating facts, Dolly."

She pauses, then cocks her head. "Dolly? You calling me Dolly now?"

He grins, eyes glinting. "Yeah, Dolly. It suits you."

Y/n looks away with exaggerated drama, flicking her cigarette ash. "It’s the blowout and cherry lipstick, isn’t it?"

Anakin chuckles. "That and those legs. You’re basically a walking record sleeve."

Y/n squints at him. "And you look like you’re about to star in Rebel Without a Cause," she shoots back.

But instead of a roast, Anakin bursts out laughing, clearly caught off guard. "Ha! Good one." He’s beaming now. She frowns. "Wait—no. Don’t tell me that’s your favorite movie?"The whine in her voice is genuine, and Anakin grins like a kid caught with candy in his pocket. "It is. Why? How’d you even know that?"

Y/n shrugs, cigarette now balanced between her fingers again. "It’s a cliché favorite. Just like anything Stanley Kubrick. You know—male gaze cinema."

Anakin laughs, nodding. "Fair. But I actually like it. Like, unironically."

Y/n squints. "I mean, the movie is good—but it's a red flag when boys say it’s their favorite. Means they think they are James Dean. All tragic and misunderstood with a savior complex."

She doesn’t even notice how fast she’s talking now, or how lit up her face is when she rants about cinema. She truly loved movies. Not just for the stories, but for the silence they brought—the kind that wrapped around her like a blanket when the lights dimmed and the screen lit up. It was the only place where the world paused. Where she could disappear into something else entirely: perfect cities, beautiful disasters, aching truths dressed in dialogue.

Cinema had always been sacred. Every Saturday night, her mother used to take her to the theater. It didn’t matter what was playing—comedies, thrillers, black-and-white dramas. The ritual was the point. Popcorn fingers, leaning heads, the hush that fell right before the opening credits. It was theirs, just them and the screen. A world within a world.

Now she goes alone.

Not because there’s no one else to go with—but because there shouldn’t be. That seat beside her wasn’t just empty. It was reserved. And no one else got to sit in that space where her mother once did. It felt like a betrayal to share it. So she buys one ticket. Sits in the back. And lets the film carry her for a while—until the lights come back on, and she’s just a girl again. A little lonelier. A little quieter. But still holding the ending like a secret.

Anakin listens to her. And he doesn’t stop her. "Damn, Dolly. I didn’t know you were a nerd."

Y/n’s eyes go wide. She laughs awkwardly. "I’m not a nerd.“ She glances around like someone might overhear her confession. "I just… paid attention. That’s all."

Anakin raises both hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Alright. Sure. But I’m onto you now, dolly."

She groans and points at him like she might actually throw hands. "If I hear one word about this—like, if you ever tell someone I care about movies—I’ll haunt you."

"Scout’s honor," Anakin says, still smirking. "Your secret’s safe with me, cinephile."

Y/n rolls her eyes and flicks her cigarette, embers flying into the night. Then, more serious now, she adds— "Besides. Barbarella is one of the greatest feminine films ever made. Like—I’d do anything to look like Jane Fonda.“ She opens the car door, defiant and certain in that strange, holy way girls are when they love something fiercely and don't care if you understand.

Anakin watches her, still half-laughing, still half-stunned. She wasn’t just pretty chaos anymore. She was real. A full-color, technicolor, starlit mess of soul and sass and cinema dreams. And suddenly, he didn't care about Padmé or the party or whatever he'd thought this night was supposed to be.

He cared about this. Whatever this was.

Anakin grinned, still riding the high of her movie ramble, his voice dipped low with teasing. "Oh really? You’d do anything to look like her, huh?“ He tilted his head, watching as she tugged open the passenger door.

“Anything,” Y/n echoed proudly, sliding into the seat and crossing her arms like some intergalactic diva. “I mean… have you seen Jane Fonda in Barbarella?”

Anakin chuckled under his breath, the sound lazy and fond. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. She’s… yeah. Definitely something. So, what, you got a thing for space chicks?”

Y/n’s eyes widened, electric and absurd. “No. I wanna be a space chick. And make out with space angels.” She nodded with unshakable commitment, like it was gospel.

Anakin burst out laughing, throwing his head back as the sound echoed in the near-empty lot. “Space angels, huh? That’s a new one. So you wanna drift through the stars kissing celestial beings. You’ve got your priorities straight, clearly.”

Y/n waved him off like he was annoying background noise. “God, I liked you more when you were cold and broody. At least then, you were more fun to piss off.”

Anakin placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “Ouch. Brutal. Here I am, being soft and charming, and you just shank me like that.”

She gave him a slow glare, amused. “We’re having a moment, Skyguy. Don’t get lost in orbit.”

He shook his head, grin still etched across his lips. “You’re something else, you know that, princess?”

She looked over at him—and for a second, the moment slowed. Anakin, all black denim and silver rings, hair a wild mess, smiling like a drunk idiot. He looked like every movie rebel rolled into one. Y/n wanted to take a picture, just to trap the way he looked in that exact second. Maybe put the picture on her dirty mirror or in a yearbook.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, voice airy and full of herself, but in a way that made him smile wider.

He looked at her again, legs up on the dash, skin glowing in the pale diner lights. She looked like chaos in technicolor—untouchable and golden. And he was just glad he got to be here in this weird, in-between hour.

She yawned, glancing at the clock on the dash. 2:30 AM. The diner behind them had long since shut down, the glow of its sign flickering. “How’re we feelin’, Skyguy? Still drunk?”

Anakin shrugged, that same sly smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m better. I think. But you know… we don’t have to go home yet.”

Y/n raised a brow, letting out a breathy laugh. “Chill— you’ll see me more than enough now. I’m your fake girlfriend, remember? You’re stuck with me.”

He chuckled, low and amused. “Oh, I don’t plan on getting rid of you anytime soon.”

“Good,” she replied with a grin. Then, more seriously: “But I do plan on getting rid of you—for now. I’m tired. Hop hop, driver boy. Take me home.”

Anakin groaned dramatically but slipped into the driver’s seat. “Fine. I’ll drive you, but only because I’m a gentleman.”

The car hummed to life, and the road stretched out in front of them like a promise. Minutes in, Y/n had her legs dangling out the window, her body half-curled into the seat. She dozed off mid-ramble, the night catching her like a lullaby.

Anakin kept stealing glances.

She was out cold, mouth parted slightly, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other wrapped around her own torso like she was holding herself together in sleep. She snorted faintly, a soft, human sound that tugged something warm in his chest.

He drove slower. Took turns softer. She looked too peaceful to jolt awake.

When they finally pulled up in front of her house, he lingered a second, debating. Then he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Dolly,” he whispered. “Wakey wakey.”

She stirred with a groan, rubbing her eyes like a grumpy kid. “The fuck…”

Anakin chuckled softly. “We’re here. Time to crawl back to your planet, space chick.”

Y/n blinked at him sleepily but managed a lopsided smile. “Thanks, Skyguy. Drive safe. Call me if you need, like… a fake red carpet date or something.”

He laughed, hand still resting lightly on her shoulder. “Will do. And thanks for the…company.”

She gave a lazy salute, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “Told you. I’m a fun girl to hang with. And hey—it’s kinda nice spending time with you again.”

She slipped out of the car and shut the door.

Neither of them mentioned the years between twelve and thirteen. The years where they disappeared from each other’s lives. If they ever did talk about it, it would probably end in a fight. Distance maybe or just stars to disappear.  So they didn’t. Not now.

Anakin watched her walk up to her front door. She turned and waved once, her silhouette framed in the porch light. He waved back before driving off into the stillness of the night.

Y/n tiptoed inside, barefoot and quiet, only to find the TV still on—soft static playing over a late-night movie. Bail was passed out on the couch, one arm flung over his chest. She leaned against the wall, watching him for a second. Her face softened.

Bail had promised her mother he’d raise her like his own. And he had. Every chaotic, reckless, heartbreak-ridden version of her. She walked over and knelt beside him, placing a hand gently on his back. He stirred, mumbling something half-asleep, then blinked open his eyes.

He looked down at her, and despite the haze in his gaze, he smiled. Soft. Warm. Fatherly.

“You left the TV on, genius,” she whispered with a teasing smile. “Go to bed, old man.”

He chuckled, groaning as he sat up. “Damn. Must’ve passed out watching something. You just get in?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “Just some party stuff. Got a ride home.”

She never told Bail the full stories. Not about the boys. Not about her recklessness or the impulsive girl she truly is. Not about the chaos. He trusted her. And she kept that trust like a secret tucked inside her chest.

He ruffled her hair, eyes knowing but gentle. “Be careful, kid.”

She smiled, then without thinking, wrapped her arms around him. Placed her head to his chest. “Of course. I was raised by you and mom, remember? I know how to survive this world.”

He hugged her back, tighter than usual. “Yeah. You’re strong. Just like your mom.”

They didn’t talk about her mom much. It hurt too much.

Y/n pulled away, yawning. “C’mon. Let’s get some sleep. I need my beauty rest.”

Bail laughed. “Can’t have you waking up lookin’ like a troll.”

She rolled her eyes, genuinely amused. She waved goodnight and padded toward her bedroom, the quiet humming behind her like the final end of a song. 

💋hi everyone! sorry for this short filler, but there is a beautiful thing about the love for cinema that I have and get inspired by it the whole time. also it is one step forward to y/n's character.

also, in my cinematic universe... I don't care if the cinema lore fits to my story because of the timeline, like Quentin Tarantino is in the 90s, but for me they are all in the 70s for now on!

also.... what should we call y/n: dolly or princess.

💋taglist:

@blackynsupremacy @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @user-3113s-blog @iloveneilperry @crisis-unaverted-recs @purplerose291 @sythethecarrot @wizzerreblogs @tsuki8844 @antifeetsoldier @canny1902 @idk-11s-blog @another-side-blog-again @damoclescallmeback @kappakappabara @littlemsenvyi @ficsineedtoreadlater @fictionalinspo2 @harryshorizon @wizzerreblogs @5secondsofmoxley @anakinslovergirl @throughparisallthroughrome @kers505 @suniika @slyhersophia @veronaspencil @invisible-mori @flowerlanaa @berryonasummerevening @loliskywalker @lortheswiftie

[sabrinasopposite]

Jane Fonda as Kitty Twist in WALK ON THE WILD SIDE (1962) dir. Edward Dmytryk

[sabrinasopposite]

currently writing...

[sabrinasopposite]

loves! i wont make it with the chapter today, but i will work on it tomorrow :)

i have next week my last school week and then SUMMER TIME WHICH MEANS MORE CHAPTERSss

[sabrinasopposite]

it’s like you see the future, sabrina posted to the song gypsy on ig after you posted your chapter 😯

maybe because i am her 😼 (joking)

[sabrinasopposite]

nellie where are you, we’re missing you girl 🥹🥹

🥺🥺 thats so cute omg— dont worry im still here! i try to release tomorrow a chapter 🩷

[sabrinasopposite]

lacy… oh lacy…

[sabrinasopposite]

I love when I've clarified I don't want part of the fandom drama in any way ten trillion times and the anons completely gloss over that to send more paragraphs😍 yassss active listenerssss

Anyways here's Hayden in a suit he looks yummy

[sabrinasopposite]

clark kent saying things like golly and gosh? clark kent saving dogs and squirrels? clark kent drinking coco? cunty lex luthor? cunty lois lane? dc you are so back.

[sabrinasopposite]

manchild; chapter three: cigarettes, milkshakes and an agreement.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

words: 6.008

previous chapter: west end girl.

chapter three: cigarettes, milkshakes and an agreement.

Arrangements are usually made in quiet corners. A whisper in a hallway. A folded napkin with a time scrawled on it. Some get the red booth at a diner, others get backroom deals that smell like cigars and cold threats—The Godfather kind. You know the type.mBut then there are arrangements that aren’t made. They’re born. Mid-chaos. Mid-heartbreak. Mid-beat of a disco song where the bass rattles your bones and someone’s laughing too hard a few feet away.

That was Y/n and Anakin’s arrangement. Talked about once, under low lights and low blood sugar. A throwaway joke with teeth. Y/n suggested it like she suggests trouble—casually, like she wouldn’t flinch if the world caught fire. Anakin, all stubborn principles and sad eyes, turned it down. Said something about honesty, and doing things right.

But hearts don’t always stay good.

And sometimes, they snap in the span of a second. Sometimes all it takes is seeing the girl you love, who said she needed space, with her hand on Clovis’ chest like it belonged there.

That was all it took for Anakin.

So there they were, under string lights and disco shadows, standing in an arrangement. One that had no signature, no contract, just two people playing with a match they weren’t supposed to hold.

His lips were on hers. Not soft. Not slow. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that asked. It took. A fast, hard collision of want and revenge. Anakin held her like a secret slipping out—tight at the waist, the other hand cradling the back of her neck like it was the only tether keeping him from flying off this earth.

Y/n’s eyes flew open—like she’d been dunked in cold water. Her brows pulled together in a blur of what the hell? and wait a minute. But then she blinked once, and the tequila hit, and she thought: whatever. And she kissed him back.

Because chaos loves company.

Her arms snaked around his neck, fingers curling in his hair like they’d done this before. Like maybe this kiss wasn’t just about Padmé. Like maybe it was about something else too—burning, breaking, the deep ache of being wanted for the wrong reasons.

And across the garden, the world stopped.

Ahsoka froze mid-step, her drink halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened like saucers, lips parted in complete, unfiltered disbelief. Rex stood beside her, his jaw practically on the floor. He dropped his Solo cup without noticing. The splash of soda fizzed out by his boots, forgotten.

“What the hell is that?” he breathed, voice caught between a laugh and a scream.

Ahsoka didn’t answer. Her jaw clenched.

Because this wasn’t just a bad idea. This was nuclear.

Ahsoka loved Y/n like a sister. She’d carried her home from parties. Held her hand through moments. And she knew—knew that Y/n was reckless but had rules. And she knew Anakin. His moods, his grief, his guilt. And she knew this was a car crash happening in slow motion.

And still, the kiss didn’t stop.

People started to notice. Heads turned. Someone near the speaker let out a low whistle. A murmur of “is that Skywalker?” passed like wind through the crowd.

And Padmé—Padmé was watching, her smile cracked like old porcelain. Clovis said something in her ear but she didn’t hear it. Her gaze was locked on Anakin. On his hands. On her—the girl pressed against him like they were made of the same kind of ruin.

Just like Jett Valorum, he was in astonishment and shock. Dramatic as he is, straight from a theater play of Shakespeare. 

Y/n finally pulled back, just a fraction—her lips flushed, eyes half-lidded like she was still somewhere in the middle of that kiss. Her breath caught in her throat, chest rising and falling. That kiss wasn’t meant to feel like anything. Just drama. Just a show.

But damn. His lips. 

They were good. Soft in the right places, firm where it mattered. Like they knew exactly where hers would land.

She blinked once, then twice, her fingers still loosely curled around his shoulder. Her voice came out in a whisper, dazed and breathless. “What the fuck, Skywalker!”

It wasn’t angry. It was clueless. It was the kind of sentence you say when the ground tilts beneath you and you’re not sure if it’s the tequila or the boy who just kissed you like he meant it.

Anakin didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His eyes were locked on her like she was the only anchor in a storm he couldn’t control. The alcohol was humming in his bloodstream, but the kiss sobered something inside him. Maybe the ache. Maybe the rage. “Just… go with it,” he muttered, voice hoarse, mouth barely an inch from hers. His grip on her hip tightened like she might float off if he let go.

Y/n turned her head, slowly, eyes scanning past him—and there she was. Padmé. Standing frozen beside Clovis, holding a drink she clearly forgot was in her hand. Her lips were still, her smile erased, eyes locked on them.

Bingo.

Y/n turned back to Anakin, lips curling into a slow, sly smile. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Oh… so I was right after all?”

Anakin’s gaze darkened with a smirk to match hers. He didn’t deny it, didn’t soften it. He just stared at her like she was the last piece of his plan. “Yeah,” he said low, that scratch in his voice making it sound like a confession. “Seems like you were right.” His hand was still on her waist, thumb brushing slowly up and down—too casual for what they’d just done. Too familiar. Too not fake.

Y/n looked at him with a kind of proud mischief. She wasn’t mad. Not now. Maybe earlier. But this? This was fun. This was her arena. Wreckage dressed in glitter and lip gloss.

But before she could speak again, she heard it—loud, dramatic, grating.

“Y/N-BELL??!”

She closed her eyes slowly like the sound physically hurt her. God. That nickname.

She turned her head and, of course, there he was: Jett. In his polo shirt and heartbreak eyes, acting like she hadn’t ghosted his calls for two weeks and left him for another four.

Her face twisted in a theatrical grimace. “Not you again,” she muttered, arms still draped around Anakin’s neck like she couldn’t be bothered to let go yet.

Jett looked between them, his mouth opening in pure, performative shock. “You’re—wait. You’re kissing him? Since when do you do greaser boys? I thought I was your—”

Y/n cut him off with a deadpan look. “You thought wrong, sweetheart.” She smirked, tilting her head. “I do surprises.”

Anakin didn’t even blink. He just tightened his hold on her and gave Jett the calmest, most satisfied look in the galaxy. Like he’d just won a game no one else realized they were playing.

“Nice to meet you,” Anakin said dryly, extending zero effort to hide the smug in his tone.

Jett scoffed, dramatically shaking his head. “This is insane. I—this is insane.”

Y/n turned her head to Anakin and whispered, just loud enough for Jett to hear, “God, I love when they spiral.”

Anakin chuckled low in his chest, leaning down until his lips were right near her ear.

“You’re evil,” he said, amused.

“Damn right,” she whispered back, still smiling, still close.

Jett was still standing there, staring like the ground just gave out beneath him. Offended. Betrayed. Like this was the final act in a tragedy only he thought was still playing. “I thought we were going to be together again?” His voice cracked on the last word. “Y/n Bell?”

Y/n rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. Her annoyance wasn’t loud—it was quiet, mean, the kind of fed-up that only comes from a guy who doesn’t get it. “Absolutely fucking not,” she said, voice flat. “Don’t you see I’ve moved on?”

She wrapped her arm tighter around Anakin’s middle, tilting her head like this was all just a joke and she was the punchline.

Jett’s expression shifted, that first sting of betrayal morphing fast into something uglier—anger. His eyes found Anakin, holding her like she belonged to him. “Moved on to greaser boy?” Jett scoffed, venom curling around every syllable. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Y/n didn’t blink. She just gave a bored shrug, eyes half-lidded and unimpressed. “He tastes like cigarettes,” she said calmly, dragging her words like smoke. “I like it.”

That hit. Jett’s whole face twitched, his jaw locking up as jealousy bloomed in the pit of his gut.

“You like that? Seriously?” he snapped.

Y/n nodded like she was confirming a weather report. “I thought that was obvious.” Then she paused—smirked—and with absolute nonchalance reached down her shirt and pulled cigarettes from her bra. She placed one between her lips. Then one between Anakin’s. “Speaking of that…” she said, voice lilting, sugarcoated spite. “If you’ll excuse me, I wanna make out.”

She grabbed Anakin by the front of his shirt and pulled him away like a getaway driver peeling out of a crime scene. He followed without a word.

But Anakin looked back.

His eyes scanned the crowd—until they found her. Padmé. Still with Clovis, still holding her drink like it weighed more than it should. Her expression was hard to read. But her eyes? They didn’t lie. There was something in them. Something tight. 

Tension. A quiet storm.

She watched Anakin like he was something slipping through her fingers. Her lips were pursed. Her body still. A woman out of place, unsure if she wanted to scream or stay composed.

Anakin and Y/n? Y/n—the wild one. The girl who talks too loud and kisses too fast and burns through boys like gasoline.

Padmé was kind to her. They were friendly. But she knew what Y/n was. She knew the shape of her chaos. And now that chaos had him.

Y/n didn’t stop dragging Anakin until they were at the back of the house, near the cars parked under low amber streetlamps. The party noise was still humming behind them—bass thudding like a distant heart.

She spun around. Stopped. Arms crossed, breath still quick from the scene. “Okay. What the fuck,” she said.

Anakin leaned back against the car, head tilted slightly up like he was trying to collect his thoughts—like they’d been flung out into the night and were now floating somewhere above them. The alcohol in his system was catching up, making everything softer around the edges, but heavier too.

Y/n pulled a silver lighter from her boot, lit her cigarette without blinking, and stared at him through the smoke. “You gonna speak?”

He took the lighter from her, fingers brushing hers just briefly. Lighting up his cigarette. Inhaled. Exhaled slowly. That familiar drag of nicotine giving him a second to stall. “I… don’t know what to say,” he said finally, voice low and wrecked.

Y/n ran a hand through her curls, blowing smoke sideways like a woman who’s been through three lifetimes of this same boy trouble. She shrugged, almost mockingly calm. “Well—I was right, after all,” she said, pride wrapped in silk.

Anakin let out a rough, tired laugh, tinged with something else—maybe shame. “Yeah. You were right.” He took another drag, flicking ash off his cigarette like it was the only stable thing in the world right now. “God, I’m sorry. That was so—wrong. So unhinged.”

Y/n blinked, then squinted at him like he’d just insulted her favorite record. “What?? No, no, no—that was actually the first rational thing you’ve done all night.”

She put a hand dramatically over her chest. “Only thing I’m mad about is that you didn’t warn me,” she added, eyes gleaming. “I could’ve popped a peppermint beforehand. Maybe wore some lip gloss that doesn’t taste like strawberry chapstick and guilt.”

Anakin chuckled, head falling forward. He looked at her through his lashes, cigarette between two fingers. “You’re insane.”

She grinned. “You kissed me first, Skyguy. Welcome to the circus.”

And the smoke curled between them like something sacred and doomed. 

Anakin was still dazed, lulled into silence by the slow nicotine burn and the dizzying effects of everything—alcohol, jealousy, her. He leaned against the side of his car like the world was moving underwater. He barely noticed Y/n drop her cigarette and start walking toward the driver’s side.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, flipping her hair off her shoulder, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m hungry.” Anakin blinked, slow. “Uh—why? Also, I can’t drive yet, because I’m… drunk.” He hiccuped, slurring the last word, and gave a sheepish little grin.

Y/n turned to him with the face of a woman who’d just been told her favorite movie was getting remade by people who didn’t understand it. “Good lord. Okay, hand me your keys.”

She wasn’t exactly sober, but she was more functional, and it was 2:30 AM—the roads were dead, and she didn’t care about things like logic when her craving for fries hit. He chuckled at her dramatics, fumbling in his jacket until he found his keys, holding them up like a prize.

“No crashes, princess.”

Y/n snatched them. “You sit your drunk Skywalker ass in the passenger seat, princess.”

She got into the driver’s side with a grunt. He rolled his eyes but let her push him toward the other door. He stumbled in exaggerated steps, sighing like this was the greatest inconvenience of his life—but the smirk didn’t leave his face. He slid into the seat and buckled himself in like it took all the strength in the galaxy.

She tried the engine.

Nothing.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

She squinted at the dashboard. “Your piece of junk car—”

“Hey!” Anakin lifted a finger, looking personally attacked. “She’s not a piece of junk. She just needs a little persuasion.” He leaned forward and gave the dash a gentle but firm tap. “C’mon, baby.”

Y/n stared at him like he was nuts. “Then train her better, mechanic boy.” The engine coughed to life. “Yay,” she whispered, eyes wide with sarcasm.

They pulled out of the mansion’s driveway, gravel kicking up in little clouds behind them. Wind streamed through the open windows, lifting her hair like a film reel caught in a breeze. Dolly Parton’s voice crackled through the static of the radio, her twang and wisdom filling the car with melancholy joy.

“You don’t have to drive like a maniac, you know,” Anakin muttered, slouched deep into his seat like a sleepy lion, watching her with one eye open.

“This is the only way,” Y/n replied, rolling the window down further. “Music, wind, car, cigarettes, desert. Hell, that’s cinema.”

Anakin looked at her, a half-laugh pulling at his mouth. The curls, the wildness, the absolute chaos she carried in her chest like a charm. She was so opposite to what he was used to. It was intoxicating in the way a bad idea is—you know better, but you do it anyway.

She hummed along to Dolly as the headlights cut through the stretch of empty road.

He blinked slowly, still buzzed, then spoke, voice lazy. “Why are we even driving somewhere to eat? We could’ve just eaten at the party…”

Before he could finish, her hand slapped over his mouth. “Pssh-pssh—” She looked at the road again, steering one-handed like she owned it. “Okay, one: party food is trash. I want something greasy and terrible, like fries and a thick milkshake I can cry into if I need to. Two: everyone at that party thinks we’re off somewhere hooking up right now. Including your ex.”

Anakin blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Duh. We disappeared together after a dramatic kiss scene. This is high school, Skyguy. People live for that kind of gossip. Padmé’s probably staring at her drink like it betrayed her.”

Anakin exhaled through his nose, and the ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips. A weird mix of guilt, victory, and confusion brewed in his chest.

Y/n looked at him sideways. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He turned to her, raising a brow. “For what?”

She grinned, dramatic as ever. “For being the hottest revenge plot in a leather jacket.”

He laughed, head falling back against the seat. And for the first time that night, he didn’t feel like exploding. He just felt… weightless.

Y/n’s grin curled slow, lazy like smoke rising from a cigarette left burning too long in a motel ashtray. “See?” she said, eyes on the road but head tilted slightly toward him, voice smug in the most endearing way. “I may be lost and a bit crazy, but I’m a genius after all.”

The yellowish light from the diner signs and empty freeway lamps cast her in flickering amber—like film grain come alive. She leaned closer, close enough for Anakin to feel the heat of her shoulder, her wild curls dancing around his peripheral like they had minds of their own. “Hit me up with a cigarette.”

Anakin, lips parted in amusement, fished into the inner pocket of his worn jacket. He pulled the pack like muscle memory, a ritual by now. With slow fingers, he slipped a cigarette between her lips. His hand brushed her cheek as he lit it, the flame flickering between them like a dare. Her lips curled around the filter, and she inhaled like she’d just won something.

It was an intimate kind of quiet. The kind where you could still hear her breathing under the hum of the car and the faraway chirp of the desert night. The smoke curled out from her nose as she took the next turn like she was born behind the wheel—reckless, smooth, and just barely holding on.

She started singing again. “Jolene… Jolene… Joooooleeeeeene…” her voice cracked, off-key, no shame in the world.

Anakin laughed. Not mockingly. Just… in disbelief. At her. At this moment. At the way she was humming Fleetwood Mac, then Dolly Parton, like the sky was her ceiling and nothing mattered except the wind and nicotine and the freedom of pretending nothing could touch her.

Her hair caught the wind like a flag in rebellion. Her yellow outfit clung to her skin like sunlight trapped in fabric. She looked like she didn’t belong in real life. She belonged in film. And he—he was the accidental co-star in her midnight heist against growing up.

He was so caught in her orbit he didn’t notice she was slamming on the brakes until the tires screeched slightly on the gravel.

“Jesus—” He lurched forward, catching himself on the dashboard.

Y/n laughed, wide-eyed. “That was better than last time!”

He blinked at the glowing neon sign in front of them, the letters flickering like they weren’t sure whether to be on or off: Lou’s Diner. It buzzed like it was alive. Like it had stories tucked into its booths and ghosts hiding behind its syrup-sticky counters.

“You’re insane, you know that?” Anakin muttered, still breathless from the stop.

Y/n slid out of the car, slamming the door behind her like punctuation. She turned around, tossing her curls out of her face with a wink. “Not the first time someone called me that.”

She walked with that same chaotic grace—somewhere between a ballet dancer and a girl ready to steal a car.

Anakin followed, legs still slightly unsteady from the booze and the adrenaline. The parking lot was dead quiet except for the buzz of insects and the wind dragging dust across the pavement.

The diner looked like it hadn’t changed since 1962, and didn’t want to. Y/n held the door open with her back and tossed a look over her shoulder. “Ladies first.”

Anakin raised a brow. “You calling me a lady, princess?”

“I drove you here,” she said, smirking. “You’re a princess now.”

He walked past her, the door jingling above their heads. The smell inside was fried oil, burnt coffee, vinyl, and just a little bit of ashtray nostalgia. It felt like walking into someone else’s dream.

Y/n pointed to a booth by the window—cracked red leather, the kind that stuck to your thighs in summer. “Go sit down.” He obeyed, dragging his palm across the table surface, still sticky from syrup ghosts. He leaned into the seat, head tilted, letting the neon lights spill across his face like cheap stage lighting.

Y/n disappeared behind the counter, tossing a few words to the sleepy old waitress behind it. She came back minutes later, balancing a tray of food and two milkshakes like she was in her own movie. It felt like she belonged to this diner, she knew it all too well, as if she could tell you where the fresh sticky bubblegum was sticking under a table. But the truth was, it was Y/N favorite diner, a diner that holds memories like pancakes at 8 pm with her mother. ahsoka is maybe the only one who knows y/n, but not completely. there are two sides of y/n, one that everyone knows, and the one side only she know.

She dropped it onto the table and without a word, wandered toward the jukebox.

Coins clinked. Buttons clicked.

Fleetwood Mac crackled through the old machine. “You can go your own way…”

She turned back toward him, the light hitting her in all the right ways—her curls catching pink and blue neon like a halo gone rogue. She walked slowly, milkshake straw already between her lips.

Anakin watched her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

She slid into the booth and pulled a fry from the plate. “Yeah, it’s my favorite diner. Try the fries. They’re the best.”

He raised a brow but humored her. Took a bite. “Oh, hell. You weren’t lying.”

Y/n grinned. “Told you. But maybe you’re just drunk and in love with the idea of deep-fried potatoes.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, licking salt from his fingers. “But even sober, these would still slap.”

There was a lull then. A soft silence.

Fleetwood Mac. Milkshake slurps. Stars outside, glowing hard like they wanted someone to notice. The world quieted around them like it knew this was something sacred.

Y/n leaned forward slightly, playing with the straw in her milkshake. “So… I assume we’ll fake date now?”

Anakin chuckled under his breath, the sound soft and low. “Yeah. Looks like it. Got any rules?”

She tilted her head, expression serious but still laced with mischief. “Hm, yeah. You gotta take me everywhere. Beaches. Diners. Late-night drives. All that dumb romantic crap.”

“Why me?”

She looked out the window like the answer was written in the stars. “I like drives. I like silence. And I like pretending I belong somewhere.”

Anakin leaned back in the booth, nodding slowly, watching her like he was still trying to figure her out. “Alright. But you’re paying for gas. And you better bring good mixtapes.”

Y/n grinned, her teeth pink from the strawberry milkshake. “I have cassettes. Hundreds. The car is gonna smell like nostalgia and roadkill.”

Then, her voice lowered just a bit. The grin softened into something else. “If we’re doing this… fake dating… we have to make it real. You know? Not halfway. Like… really make it believable. Be seen. Show up together. Kiss at the right moments. Laugh at the wrong ones.”

Anakin stared at her—half-drunk, half-dazed, but very much present. For a second, the whole world outside the diner—the war, the lies, the complicated shadows trailing behind him—fell away. All that existed was her eyes, glittering with something wild and unsaid.

The line between fake and real blurred in the neon haze.

He nodded slowly, like it meant something heavier than it should. “Yeah. You’re right. We gotta make it believable.” His voice dropped into something smooth, teasing but edged. “I can be a hell of an actor.”

Y/n sipped her milkshake like it was a glass of champagne. “I gotta see it, then.” She tilted her head, watching him with one brow cocked, curls falling into her eyes. “Also—we need a plausible breakup plan. You know, for when Padmé finds out.”

Anakin leaned back, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. “Right… say we didn’t work out. Too different, blah blah. No drama. Just didn’t click.”

Y/n nodded, biting into a fry like it was a nonchalant agreement, not the bones of a future heartbreak. “Yup. That works.”

Then, she glanced out the window, her voice more casual than it should’ve been. “Any rules I should follow?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her for a long, quiet beat. Like he was trying to read a warning label on her heart. “Yeah,” he said finally, tone flat, firm.

“Just one, don’t catch feelings.”

Y/n didn’t blink. She just smirked, slow and sharp. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, hair falling like shadows. Her eyes met his, unwavering, fire meeting fire. “I’m good with that.”

Anakin’s mouth curled at the corner. Something dark and amused flashed in his eyes. He leaned forward too, their faces now inches apart in the diner booth glow. “Good. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

Y/n had never really fallen in love. Not the staying kind. She liked the crash—the chase, the mess, the bruised knees and lipstick-stained aftermath. She liked drama like some people liked dessert. She burned fast and left before she melted.

She held out her hand across the table, palm open like a dare. “Shall we seal the deal?”

Anakin stared at her hand for a second—paint-chipped nails, a silver ring she probably stole from a gas station. It was all part of her: this beautiful, chaotic promise wrapped in cigarette smoke and Fleetwood Mac lyrics.

He reached out and took it. His grip was warm, rough with callouses. “Deal.”

They held the shake a second longer than necessary.

Then Y/n pulled back, grin playful but voice suddenly blunt: “Oh, and—we definitely don’t hook up. Like… no sleeping together.”

She planted both palms on the table like she was setting a boundary with a knife. Anakin laughed lightly, nodding. “Yeah. That’s a given. Too messy.”

“Exactly.” She sat back, arms folded now, her expression mock-proud. “Feel honored, by the way. I stay loyal now. No guys. All for the cause.”

“Oh yeah?” he teased. “Should I feel special?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but her smile was glowing under the diner light. “No, but it’s all part of the act. And I’m very committed to performance art.”

Anakin shook his head, amused. “You’re already doing great as my jealous girlfriend.”

She smirked and glanced down, fingers fidgeting with the strings of her shirt. Something softened in her. “Never thought I’d be someone’s girlfriend. Even a fake one. It already feels… weird.”

Anakin’s eyes followed her hands, then met her gaze. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone sees you as the relationship type.”

Y/n scoffed, but her laugh was real. Full, echoing between them. “I want to fight you on that, but you’re goddamn right.”

And the thing was—Y/n didn’t just feel things. She embodied them. Rage, love, lust, sorrow—none of it subtle. When she fell, it was a freefall. She didn’t tiptoe into emotion. She dove, reckless and grinning, even when it tore her apart. But no one ever saw that. They just saw the lipstick, the late-night escapes, the carefree girl in the passenger seat of someone else’s story. They didn’t know that sometimes she cried in gas station bathrooms or that she had a playlist just for pretending she didn’t care.

Anakin caught something in her eyes—something flickering just beneath the smirk—and he nodded, smirking back like he knew he’d grazed a nerve. “See? I’m always right, princess.”

Y/n reached across the table and tapped his nose with her straw. A tiny puff of whipped cream stuck to it. She blinked, caught off guard, and laughed. “Whoops.”

Anakin stared at her, mock offended. “Did you just—?”

He grabbed a napkin and wiped his nose, but he was smiling, his whole face softened. Not by the alcohol anymore, but by her. Then she stood abruptly, eyes scanning the room. Walked straight to the counter and swiped a pen, tearing a piece of paper from an old receipt roll. Anakin watched, head tilted, curiosity rising.

Y/n slid back into the booth and wrote quickly. Her name. A heart. A phone number. She placed it in front of him like a final clause in their chaotic contract. “Here. My home number. If your friends invite you to something and girls are involved, you call me. I’ll be there.”

Anakin took the paper. The ink smudged a little from her hand. He stared at it longer than necessary. “Oh yeah?” he smirked. “Gonna play my jealous girlfriend role to the max?”

Y/n ran her hand through her hair, tossing it like a commercial. “Nah. I just want the girls to be jealous I look hot.”

Anakin laughed, real and low. “Oh, princess. You don’t need me for that.”

Y/n laughed too—loud and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that made people look over and wish they were part of the joke. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, pride and chaos glowing in her smile.

“Whatever. It’s all part of the gig.”

Anakin leaned back, still watching her with something unreadable in his eyes. “Yeah. And you’re killing it already.”

She looked down again, fingers twisting her shirt strings into tiny knots. “Never thought I’d be someone’s girlfriend,” she repeated softly, almost to herself. “Even a fake one.”

Anakin leaned forward, elbows on the table, head tilted. “Why not?”

She looked up, smile small now. “Because I like to run before anyone can leave. And fake love still counts as risk.”

He didn’t say anything. He just watched her, memorizing the way she looked when she wasn’t trying so hard to be untouchable.

Fleetwood Mac kept playing. The fries had gone cold, forgotten on the sticky table. And somewhere between the hum of old neon and the diner’s cracked leather booths, a fake relationship was starting to feel like the opening scene of a movie neither of them knew the ending to.

Y/n clapped her hands once, sudden and bright. Her head snapped toward the jukebox like she’d just heard God whisper. “Oh my god—it’s Gypsy!” she gasped, eyes wide, already half-rising from the booth. “This is my jam!”

Anakin blinked, caught off guard by the burst of energy. His lips curled into a lazy smirk as he leaned back in the booth, arms sprawled along the top. “Really, princess? This your favorite?”

She didn’t answer. Just spun on her heel, feet already moving. The diner was mostly empty—just a few night owls, old couples sipping weak coffee—but she didn’t care. Not even a little. She twirled right past them, hair catching the light, limbs loose and golden in the glow. She danced like no one was watching, and yet like she knew everyone was.

She sang along to Stevie like she’d lived the lyrics—drifting, untethered, always a little out of reach.

Anakin couldn’t stop watching her. There was something about the way she moved—like she was burning through every second before it slipped away. Her joy was loud and messy and magnetic. The kind that made you forget you were pretending.

She grabbed the hand of an older man sitting with his wife—his flannel sleeves rolled up, face lined with years—and spun him in a slow, clumsy circle. He laughed, startled but delighted, his wife clapping along. The whole diner shifted, from sleepy to electric, like she’d flipped some hidden switch.

Anakin laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Jesus,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

Behind the counter, a woman in her fifties—blonde bangs, pink lipstick, eyes like she’d seen everything twice—watched it all unfold. She was balancing a tray of half-cleared plates and chuckled, turning her gaze on Anakin. “Your girlfriend?” she asked, voice low and amused.

Anakin looked up at her, still half-focused on Y/n twirling past a jukebox. He laughed softly. “Uh… no. We’re just friends.”

The waitress raised an eyebrow, still watching Y/n. “Wildcat like that? You better catch her before she trips over her own fire.” He smirked. “Yeah. She’s a handful, alright.”

The woman winked at him before disappearing into the back. A moment later, she returned—not with food, but a Polaroid camera. Y/n was still dancing, spinning with her arms outstretched like she was trying to fly. A click and a whirr. The film ejected and began to develop in the waitress’s hands.

She looked over the counter at Anakin, holding it up between two fingers. “Young man,” she called. “You want this? Of your… friend?”

He hesitated. Then shrugged, standing slowly. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

He took it gently, the Polaroid still warm. In it, Y/n was mid-spin, hair flying, eyes shut, laughing like nothing had ever hurt her. His lips twitched, and for a second, something too soft flickered across his face. He slid the photo into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Right then, Y/n slid back into the booth like a storm landing. She was panting, cheeks flushed, a grin stretching across her face like a dare. “That was fun,” she breathed. “You should’ve joined us, but I know—you like to sit there all mysterious and greaser-like.”

Anakin chuckled, shaking his head. “Someone’s gotta keep the booth warm, princess.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you sobered up enough to take me home? ’Cause I hell don’t know where you live anymore.”

He laughed, head tilted back. “Nah, I’m still drunk. Just not drunk enough to dance like a fool in front of strangers.”

Y/n groaned, dramatic as ever, and stood again, adjusting her shirt and tugging at her shorts. “Well, guess we’re stuck here ‘til you’re sober enough not to get us killed.”

“Sounds about right.” Anakin reached for his drink, then paused. “Don’t wanna end up wandering off into the night.” She shrugged. “Happened to me once. Made friends with a guy who looked like a serial killer. Told him I was into girls so he’d back off.”

She was already halfway to the door before he could laugh, tossing the line over her shoulder like a grenade.“Sounds about right for you, princess,” he called after her, still chuckling as he stood and followed. Outside, the world was hushed. The diner buzzed behind them in neon pinks and reds, a little glowing oasis in the dark. The sky stretched wide and black above them, star-punched and alive.

Y/n looked up, hands on her hips. “Well,” she said, digging in her pocket. “I say we stargaze. Until your blood’s got less whiskey or tequila in it.”

She pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, handed one to him.

Anakin took it wordlessly, lighting it with a flick of his silver Zippo. He exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl into the air. “Stargazing, huh? Kinda poetic.”

She lit hers too, the flame reflecting in her eyes. “You got a better idea?”

He looked at her. Really looked. Wild hair, chipped nails, bruised knees from something she wouldn’t explain. Smoke curling from her lips like secrets she’d never say out loud.

“No,” he said. “Stars and cigarettes sound good enough.”

💋hi everyone! I hope you liked this chapter, things are going to get messsyyy but fun! see you soon my loves

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its out! :))

manchild; chapter three: cigarettes, milkshakes and an agreement.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

words: 6.008

previous chapter: west end girl.

chapter three: cigarettes, milkshakes and an agreement.

Arrangements are usually made in quiet corners. A whisper in a hallway. A folded napkin with a time scrawled on it. Some get the red booth at a diner, others get backroom deals that smell like cigars and cold threats—The Godfather kind. You know the type.mBut then there are arrangements that aren’t made. They’re born. Mid-chaos. Mid-heartbreak. Mid-beat of a disco song where the bass rattles your bones and someone’s laughing too hard a few feet away.

That was Y/n and Anakin’s arrangement. Talked about once, under low lights and low blood sugar. A throwaway joke with teeth. Y/n suggested it like she suggests trouble—casually, like she wouldn’t flinch if the world caught fire. Anakin, all stubborn principles and sad eyes, turned it down. Said something about honesty, and doing things right.

But hearts don’t always stay good.

And sometimes, they snap in the span of a second. Sometimes all it takes is seeing the girl you love, who said she needed space, with her hand on Clovis’ chest like it belonged there.

That was all it took for Anakin.

So there they were, under string lights and disco shadows, standing in an arrangement. One that had no signature, no contract, just two people playing with a match they weren’t supposed to hold.

His lips were on hers. Not soft. Not slow. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that asked. It took. A fast, hard collision of want and revenge. Anakin held her like a secret slipping out—tight at the waist, the other hand cradling the back of her neck like it was the only tether keeping him from flying off this earth.

Y/n’s eyes flew open—like she’d been dunked in cold water. Her brows pulled together in a blur of what the hell? and wait a minute. But then she blinked once, and the tequila hit, and she thought: whatever. And she kissed him back.

Because chaos loves company.

Her arms snaked around his neck, fingers curling in his hair like they’d done this before. Like maybe this kiss wasn’t just about Padmé. Like maybe it was about something else too—burning, breaking, the deep ache of being wanted for the wrong reasons.

And across the garden, the world stopped.

Ahsoka froze mid-step, her drink halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened like saucers, lips parted in complete, unfiltered disbelief. Rex stood beside her, his jaw practically on the floor. He dropped his Solo cup without noticing. The splash of soda fizzed out by his boots, forgotten.

“What the hell is that?” he breathed, voice caught between a laugh and a scream.

Ahsoka didn’t answer. Her jaw clenched.

Because this wasn’t just a bad idea. This was nuclear.

Ahsoka loved Y/n like a sister. She’d carried her home from parties. Held her hand through moments. And she knew—knew that Y/n was reckless but had rules. And she knew Anakin. His moods, his grief, his guilt. And she knew this was a car crash happening in slow motion.

And still, the kiss didn’t stop.

People started to notice. Heads turned. Someone near the speaker let out a low whistle. A murmur of “is that Skywalker?” passed like wind through the crowd.

And Padmé—Padmé was watching, her smile cracked like old porcelain. Clovis said something in her ear but she didn’t hear it. Her gaze was locked on Anakin. On his hands. On her—the girl pressed against him like they were made of the same kind of ruin.

Just like Jett Valorum, he was in astonishment and shock. Dramatic as he is, straight from a theater play of Shakespeare. 

Y/n finally pulled back, just a fraction—her lips flushed, eyes half-lidded like she was still somewhere in the middle of that kiss. Her breath caught in her throat, chest rising and falling. That kiss wasn’t meant to feel like anything. Just drama. Just a show.

But damn. His lips. 

They were good. Soft in the right places, firm where it mattered. Like they knew exactly where hers would land.

She blinked once, then twice, her fingers still loosely curled around his shoulder. Her voice came out in a whisper, dazed and breathless. “What the fuck, Skywalker!”

It wasn’t angry. It was clueless. It was the kind of sentence you say when the ground tilts beneath you and you’re not sure if it’s the tequila or the boy who just kissed you like he meant it.

Anakin didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His eyes were locked on her like she was the only anchor in a storm he couldn’t control. The alcohol was humming in his bloodstream, but the kiss sobered something inside him. Maybe the ache. Maybe the rage. “Just… go with it,” he muttered, voice hoarse, mouth barely an inch from hers. His grip on her hip tightened like she might float off if he let go.

Y/n turned her head, slowly, eyes scanning past him—and there she was. Padmé. Standing frozen beside Clovis, holding a drink she clearly forgot was in her hand. Her lips were still, her smile erased, eyes locked on them.

Bingo.

Y/n turned back to Anakin, lips curling into a slow, sly smile. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Oh… so I was right after all?”

Anakin’s gaze darkened with a smirk to match hers. He didn’t deny it, didn’t soften it. He just stared at her like she was the last piece of his plan. “Yeah,” he said low, that scratch in his voice making it sound like a confession. “Seems like you were right.” His hand was still on her waist, thumb brushing slowly up and down—too casual for what they’d just done. Too familiar. Too not fake.

Y/n looked at him with a kind of proud mischief. She wasn’t mad. Not now. Maybe earlier. But this? This was fun. This was her arena. Wreckage dressed in glitter and lip gloss.

But before she could speak again, she heard it—loud, dramatic, grating.

“Y/N-BELL??!”

She closed her eyes slowly like the sound physically hurt her. God. That nickname.

She turned her head and, of course, there he was: Jett. In his polo shirt and heartbreak eyes, acting like she hadn’t ghosted his calls for two weeks and left him for another four.

Her face twisted in a theatrical grimace. “Not you again,” she muttered, arms still draped around Anakin’s neck like she couldn’t be bothered to let go yet.

Jett looked between them, his mouth opening in pure, performative shock. “You’re—wait. You’re kissing him? Since when do you do greaser boys? I thought I was your—”

Y/n cut him off with a deadpan look. “You thought wrong, sweetheart.” She smirked, tilting her head. “I do surprises.”

Anakin didn’t even blink. He just tightened his hold on her and gave Jett the calmest, most satisfied look in the galaxy. Like he’d just won a game no one else realized they were playing.

“Nice to meet you,” Anakin said dryly, extending zero effort to hide the smug in his tone.

Jett scoffed, dramatically shaking his head. “This is insane. I—this is insane.”

Y/n turned her head to Anakin and whispered, just loud enough for Jett to hear, “God, I love when they spiral.”

Anakin chuckled low in his chest, leaning down until his lips were right near her ear.

“You’re evil,” he said, amused.

“Damn right,” she whispered back, still smiling, still close.

Jett was still standing there, staring like the ground just gave out beneath him. Offended. Betrayed. Like this was the final act in a tragedy only he thought was still playing. “I thought we were going to be together again?” His voice cracked on the last word. “Y/n Bell?”

Y/n rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. Her annoyance wasn’t loud—it was quiet, mean, the kind of fed-up that only comes from a guy who doesn’t get it. “Absolutely fucking not,” she said, voice flat. “Don’t you see I’ve moved on?”

She wrapped her arm tighter around Anakin’s middle, tilting her head like this was all just a joke and she was the punchline.

Jett’s expression shifted, that first sting of betrayal morphing fast into something uglier—anger. His eyes found Anakin, holding her like she belonged to him. “Moved on to greaser boy?” Jett scoffed, venom curling around every syllable. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Y/n didn’t blink. She just gave a bored shrug, eyes half-lidded and unimpressed. “He tastes like cigarettes,” she said calmly, dragging her words like smoke. “I like it.”

That hit. Jett’s whole face twitched, his jaw locking up as jealousy bloomed in the pit of his gut.

“You like that? Seriously?” he snapped.

Y/n nodded like she was confirming a weather report. “I thought that was obvious.” Then she paused—smirked—and with absolute nonchalance reached down her shirt and pulled cigarettes from her bra. She placed one between her lips. Then one between Anakin’s. “Speaking of that…” she said, voice lilting, sugarcoated spite. “If you’ll excuse me, I wanna make out.”

She grabbed Anakin by the front of his shirt and pulled him away like a getaway driver peeling out of a crime scene. He followed without a word.

But Anakin looked back.

His eyes scanned the crowd—until they found her. Padmé. Still with Clovis, still holding her drink like it weighed more than it should. Her expression was hard to read. But her eyes? They didn’t lie. There was something in them. Something tight. 

Tension. A quiet storm.

She watched Anakin like he was something slipping through her fingers. Her lips were pursed. Her body still. A woman out of place, unsure if she wanted to scream or stay composed.

Anakin and Y/n? Y/n—the wild one. The girl who talks too loud and kisses too fast and burns through boys like gasoline.

Padmé was kind to her. They were friendly. But she knew what Y/n was. She knew the shape of her chaos. And now that chaos had him.

Y/n didn’t stop dragging Anakin until they were at the back of the house, near the cars parked under low amber streetlamps. The party noise was still humming behind them—bass thudding like a distant heart.

She spun around. Stopped. Arms crossed, breath still quick from the scene. “Okay. What the fuck,” she said.

Anakin leaned back against the car, head tilted slightly up like he was trying to collect his thoughts—like they’d been flung out into the night and were now floating somewhere above them. The alcohol in his system was catching up, making everything softer around the edges, but heavier too.

Y/n pulled a silver lighter from her boot, lit her cigarette without blinking, and stared at him through the smoke. “You gonna speak?”

He took the lighter from her, fingers brushing hers just briefly. Lighting up his cigarette. Inhaled. Exhaled slowly. That familiar drag of nicotine giving him a second to stall. “I… don’t know what to say,” he said finally, voice low and wrecked.

Y/n ran a hand through her curls, blowing smoke sideways like a woman who’s been through three lifetimes of this same boy trouble. She shrugged, almost mockingly calm. “Well—I was right, after all,” she said, pride wrapped in silk.

Anakin let out a rough, tired laugh, tinged with something else—maybe shame. “Yeah. You were right.” He took another drag, flicking ash off his cigarette like it was the only stable thing in the world right now. “God, I’m sorry. That was so—wrong. So unhinged.”

Y/n blinked, then squinted at him like he’d just insulted her favorite record. “What?? No, no, no—that was actually the first rational thing you’ve done all night.”

She put a hand dramatically over her chest. “Only thing I’m mad about is that you didn’t warn me,” she added, eyes gleaming. “I could’ve popped a peppermint beforehand. Maybe wore some lip gloss that doesn’t taste like strawberry chapstick and guilt.”

Anakin chuckled, head falling forward. He looked at her through his lashes, cigarette between two fingers. “You’re insane.”

She grinned. “You kissed me first, Skyguy. Welcome to the circus.”

And the smoke curled between them like something sacred and doomed. 

Anakin was still dazed, lulled into silence by the slow nicotine burn and the dizzying effects of everything—alcohol, jealousy, her. He leaned against the side of his car like the world was moving underwater. He barely noticed Y/n drop her cigarette and start walking toward the driver’s side.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, flipping her hair off her shoulder, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m hungry.” Anakin blinked, slow. “Uh—why? Also, I can’t drive yet, because I’m… drunk.” He hiccuped, slurring the last word, and gave a sheepish little grin.

Y/n turned to him with the face of a woman who’d just been told her favorite movie was getting remade by people who didn’t understand it. “Good lord. Okay, hand me your keys.”

She wasn’t exactly sober, but she was more functional, and it was 2:30 AM—the roads were dead, and she didn’t care about things like logic when her craving for fries hit. He chuckled at her dramatics, fumbling in his jacket until he found his keys, holding them up like a prize.

“No crashes, princess.”

Y/n snatched them. “You sit your drunk Skywalker ass in the passenger seat, princess.”

She got into the driver’s side with a grunt. He rolled his eyes but let her push him toward the other door. He stumbled in exaggerated steps, sighing like this was the greatest inconvenience of his life—but the smirk didn’t leave his face. He slid into the seat and buckled himself in like it took all the strength in the galaxy.

She tried the engine.

Nothing.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

She squinted at the dashboard. “Your piece of junk car—”

“Hey!” Anakin lifted a finger, looking personally attacked. “She’s not a piece of junk. She just needs a little persuasion.” He leaned forward and gave the dash a gentle but firm tap. “C’mon, baby.”

Y/n stared at him like he was nuts. “Then train her better, mechanic boy.” The engine coughed to life. “Yay,” she whispered, eyes wide with sarcasm.

They pulled out of the mansion’s driveway, gravel kicking up in little clouds behind them. Wind streamed through the open windows, lifting her hair like a film reel caught in a breeze. Dolly Parton’s voice crackled through the static of the radio, her twang and wisdom filling the car with melancholy joy.

“You don’t have to drive like a maniac, you know,” Anakin muttered, slouched deep into his seat like a sleepy lion, watching her with one eye open.

“This is the only way,” Y/n replied, rolling the window down further. “Music, wind, car, cigarettes, desert. Hell, that’s cinema.”

Anakin looked at her, a half-laugh pulling at his mouth. The curls, the wildness, the absolute chaos she carried in her chest like a charm. She was so opposite to what he was used to. It was intoxicating in the way a bad idea is—you know better, but you do it anyway.

She hummed along to Dolly as the headlights cut through the stretch of empty road.

He blinked slowly, still buzzed, then spoke, voice lazy. “Why are we even driving somewhere to eat? We could’ve just eaten at the party…”

Before he could finish, her hand slapped over his mouth. “Pssh-pssh—” She looked at the road again, steering one-handed like she owned it. “Okay, one: party food is trash. I want something greasy and terrible, like fries and a thick milkshake I can cry into if I need to. Two: everyone at that party thinks we’re off somewhere hooking up right now. Including your ex.”

Anakin blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Duh. We disappeared together after a dramatic kiss scene. This is high school, Skyguy. People live for that kind of gossip. Padmé’s probably staring at her drink like it betrayed her.”

Anakin exhaled through his nose, and the ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips. A weird mix of guilt, victory, and confusion brewed in his chest.

Y/n looked at him sideways. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He turned to her, raising a brow. “For what?”

She grinned, dramatic as ever. “For being the hottest revenge plot in a leather jacket.”

He laughed, head falling back against the seat. And for the first time that night, he didn’t feel like exploding. He just felt… weightless.

Y/n’s grin curled slow, lazy like smoke rising from a cigarette left burning too long in a motel ashtray. “See?” she said, eyes on the road but head tilted slightly toward him, voice smug in the most endearing way. “I may be lost and a bit crazy, but I’m a genius after all.”

The yellowish light from the diner signs and empty freeway lamps cast her in flickering amber—like film grain come alive. She leaned closer, close enough for Anakin to feel the heat of her shoulder, her wild curls dancing around his peripheral like they had minds of their own. “Hit me up with a cigarette.”

Anakin, lips parted in amusement, fished into the inner pocket of his worn jacket. He pulled the pack like muscle memory, a ritual by now. With slow fingers, he slipped a cigarette between her lips. His hand brushed her cheek as he lit it, the flame flickering between them like a dare. Her lips curled around the filter, and she inhaled like she’d just won something.

It was an intimate kind of quiet. The kind where you could still hear her breathing under the hum of the car and the faraway chirp of the desert night. The smoke curled out from her nose as she took the next turn like she was born behind the wheel—reckless, smooth, and just barely holding on.

She started singing again. “Jolene… Jolene… Joooooleeeeeene…” her voice cracked, off-key, no shame in the world.

Anakin laughed. Not mockingly. Just… in disbelief. At her. At this moment. At the way she was humming Fleetwood Mac, then Dolly Parton, like the sky was her ceiling and nothing mattered except the wind and nicotine and the freedom of pretending nothing could touch her.

Her hair caught the wind like a flag in rebellion. Her yellow outfit clung to her skin like sunlight trapped in fabric. She looked like she didn’t belong in real life. She belonged in film. And he—he was the accidental co-star in her midnight heist against growing up.

He was so caught in her orbit he didn’t notice she was slamming on the brakes until the tires screeched slightly on the gravel.

“Jesus—” He lurched forward, catching himself on the dashboard.

Y/n laughed, wide-eyed. “That was better than last time!”

He blinked at the glowing neon sign in front of them, the letters flickering like they weren’t sure whether to be on or off: Lou’s Diner. It buzzed like it was alive. Like it had stories tucked into its booths and ghosts hiding behind its syrup-sticky counters.

“You’re insane, you know that?” Anakin muttered, still breathless from the stop.

Y/n slid out of the car, slamming the door behind her like punctuation. She turned around, tossing her curls out of her face with a wink. “Not the first time someone called me that.”

She walked with that same chaotic grace—somewhere between a ballet dancer and a girl ready to steal a car.

Anakin followed, legs still slightly unsteady from the booze and the adrenaline. The parking lot was dead quiet except for the buzz of insects and the wind dragging dust across the pavement.

The diner looked like it hadn’t changed since 1962, and didn’t want to. Y/n held the door open with her back and tossed a look over her shoulder. “Ladies first.”

Anakin raised a brow. “You calling me a lady, princess?”

“I drove you here,” she said, smirking. “You’re a princess now.”

He walked past her, the door jingling above their heads. The smell inside was fried oil, burnt coffee, vinyl, and just a little bit of ashtray nostalgia. It felt like walking into someone else’s dream.

Y/n pointed to a booth by the window—cracked red leather, the kind that stuck to your thighs in summer. “Go sit down.” He obeyed, dragging his palm across the table surface, still sticky from syrup ghosts. He leaned into the seat, head tilted, letting the neon lights spill across his face like cheap stage lighting.

Y/n disappeared behind the counter, tossing a few words to the sleepy old waitress behind it. She came back minutes later, balancing a tray of food and two milkshakes like she was in her own movie. It felt like she belonged to this diner, she knew it all too well, as if she could tell you where the fresh sticky bubblegum was sticking under a table. But the truth was, it was Y/N favorite diner, a diner that holds memories like pancakes at 8 pm with her mother. ahsoka is maybe the only one who knows y/n, but not completely. there are two sides of y/n, one that everyone knows, and the one side only she know.

She dropped it onto the table and without a word, wandered toward the jukebox.

Coins clinked. Buttons clicked.

Fleetwood Mac crackled through the old machine. “You can go your own way…”

She turned back toward him, the light hitting her in all the right ways—her curls catching pink and blue neon like a halo gone rogue. She walked slowly, milkshake straw already between her lips.

Anakin watched her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

She slid into the booth and pulled a fry from the plate. “Yeah, it’s my favorite diner. Try the fries. They’re the best.”

He raised a brow but humored her. Took a bite. “Oh, hell. You weren’t lying.”

Y/n grinned. “Told you. But maybe you’re just drunk and in love with the idea of deep-fried potatoes.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, licking salt from his fingers. “But even sober, these would still slap.”

There was a lull then. A soft silence.

Fleetwood Mac. Milkshake slurps. Stars outside, glowing hard like they wanted someone to notice. The world quieted around them like it knew this was something sacred.

Y/n leaned forward slightly, playing with the straw in her milkshake. “So… I assume we’ll fake date now?”

Anakin chuckled under his breath, the sound soft and low. “Yeah. Looks like it. Got any rules?”

She tilted her head, expression serious but still laced with mischief. “Hm, yeah. You gotta take me everywhere. Beaches. Diners. Late-night drives. All that dumb romantic crap.”

“Why me?”

She looked out the window like the answer was written in the stars. “I like drives. I like silence. And I like pretending I belong somewhere.”

Anakin leaned back in the booth, nodding slowly, watching her like he was still trying to figure her out. “Alright. But you’re paying for gas. And you better bring good mixtapes.”

Y/n grinned, her teeth pink from the strawberry milkshake. “I have cassettes. Hundreds. The car is gonna smell like nostalgia and roadkill.”

Then, her voice lowered just a bit. The grin softened into something else. “If we’re doing this… fake dating… we have to make it real. You know? Not halfway. Like… really make it believable. Be seen. Show up together. Kiss at the right moments. Laugh at the wrong ones.”

Anakin stared at her—half-drunk, half-dazed, but very much present. For a second, the whole world outside the diner—the war, the lies, the complicated shadows trailing behind him—fell away. All that existed was her eyes, glittering with something wild and unsaid.

The line between fake and real blurred in the neon haze.

He nodded slowly, like it meant something heavier than it should. “Yeah. You’re right. We gotta make it believable.” His voice dropped into something smooth, teasing but edged. “I can be a hell of an actor.”

Y/n sipped her milkshake like it was a glass of champagne. “I gotta see it, then.” She tilted her head, watching him with one brow cocked, curls falling into her eyes. “Also—we need a plausible breakup plan. You know, for when Padmé finds out.”

Anakin leaned back, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. “Right… say we didn’t work out. Too different, blah blah. No drama. Just didn’t click.”

Y/n nodded, biting into a fry like it was a nonchalant agreement, not the bones of a future heartbreak. “Yup. That works.”

Then, she glanced out the window, her voice more casual than it should’ve been. “Any rules I should follow?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her for a long, quiet beat. Like he was trying to read a warning label on her heart. “Yeah,” he said finally, tone flat, firm.

“Just one, don’t catch feelings.”

Y/n didn’t blink. She just smirked, slow and sharp. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, hair falling like shadows. Her eyes met his, unwavering, fire meeting fire. “I’m good with that.”

Anakin’s mouth curled at the corner. Something dark and amused flashed in his eyes. He leaned forward too, their faces now inches apart in the diner booth glow. “Good. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

Y/n had never really fallen in love. Not the staying kind. She liked the crash—the chase, the mess, the bruised knees and lipstick-stained aftermath. She liked drama like some people liked dessert. She burned fast and left before she melted.

She held out her hand across the table, palm open like a dare. “Shall we seal the deal?”

Anakin stared at her hand for a second—paint-chipped nails, a silver ring she probably stole from a gas station. It was all part of her: this beautiful, chaotic promise wrapped in cigarette smoke and Fleetwood Mac lyrics.

He reached out and took it. His grip was warm, rough with callouses. “Deal.”

They held the shake a second longer than necessary.

Then Y/n pulled back, grin playful but voice suddenly blunt: “Oh, and—we definitely don’t hook up. Like… no sleeping together.”

She planted both palms on the table like she was setting a boundary with a knife. Anakin laughed lightly, nodding. “Yeah. That’s a given. Too messy.”

“Exactly.” She sat back, arms folded now, her expression mock-proud. “Feel honored, by the way. I stay loyal now. No guys. All for the cause.”

“Oh yeah?” he teased. “Should I feel special?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but her smile was glowing under the diner light. “No, but it’s all part of the act. And I’m very committed to performance art.”

Anakin shook his head, amused. “You’re already doing great as my jealous girlfriend.”

She smirked and glanced down, fingers fidgeting with the strings of her shirt. Something softened in her. “Never thought I’d be someone’s girlfriend. Even a fake one. It already feels… weird.”

Anakin’s eyes followed her hands, then met her gaze. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone sees you as the relationship type.”

Y/n scoffed, but her laugh was real. Full, echoing between them. “I want to fight you on that, but you’re goddamn right.”

And the thing was—Y/n didn’t just feel things. She embodied them. Rage, love, lust, sorrow—none of it subtle. When she fell, it was a freefall. She didn’t tiptoe into emotion. She dove, reckless and grinning, even when it tore her apart. But no one ever saw that. They just saw the lipstick, the late-night escapes, the carefree girl in the passenger seat of someone else’s story. They didn’t know that sometimes she cried in gas station bathrooms or that she had a playlist just for pretending she didn’t care.

Anakin caught something in her eyes—something flickering just beneath the smirk—and he nodded, smirking back like he knew he’d grazed a nerve. “See? I’m always right, princess.”

Y/n reached across the table and tapped his nose with her straw. A tiny puff of whipped cream stuck to it. She blinked, caught off guard, and laughed. “Whoops.”

Anakin stared at her, mock offended. “Did you just—?”

He grabbed a napkin and wiped his nose, but he was smiling, his whole face softened. Not by the alcohol anymore, but by her. Then she stood abruptly, eyes scanning the room. Walked straight to the counter and swiped a pen, tearing a piece of paper from an old receipt roll. Anakin watched, head tilted, curiosity rising.

Y/n slid back into the booth and wrote quickly. Her name. A heart. A phone number. She placed it in front of him like a final clause in their chaotic contract. “Here. My home number. If your friends invite you to something and girls are involved, you call me. I’ll be there.”

Anakin took the paper. The ink smudged a little from her hand. He stared at it longer than necessary. “Oh yeah?” he smirked. “Gonna play my jealous girlfriend role to the max?”

Y/n ran her hand through her hair, tossing it like a commercial. “Nah. I just want the girls to be jealous I look hot.”

Anakin laughed, real and low. “Oh, princess. You don’t need me for that.”

Y/n laughed too—loud and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that made people look over and wish they were part of the joke. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, pride and chaos glowing in her smile.

“Whatever. It’s all part of the gig.”

Anakin leaned back, still watching her with something unreadable in his eyes. “Yeah. And you’re killing it already.”

She looked down again, fingers twisting her shirt strings into tiny knots. “Never thought I’d be someone’s girlfriend,” she repeated softly, almost to herself. “Even a fake one.”

Anakin leaned forward, elbows on the table, head tilted. “Why not?”

She looked up, smile small now. “Because I like to run before anyone can leave. And fake love still counts as risk.”

He didn’t say anything. He just watched her, memorizing the way she looked when she wasn’t trying so hard to be untouchable.

Fleetwood Mac kept playing. The fries had gone cold, forgotten on the sticky table. And somewhere between the hum of old neon and the diner’s cracked leather booths, a fake relationship was starting to feel like the opening scene of a movie neither of them knew the ending to.

Y/n clapped her hands once, sudden and bright. Her head snapped toward the jukebox like she’d just heard God whisper. “Oh my god—it’s Gypsy!” she gasped, eyes wide, already half-rising from the booth. “This is my jam!”

Anakin blinked, caught off guard by the burst of energy. His lips curled into a lazy smirk as he leaned back in the booth, arms sprawled along the top. “Really, princess? This your favorite?”

She didn’t answer. Just spun on her heel, feet already moving. The diner was mostly empty—just a few night owls, old couples sipping weak coffee—but she didn’t care. Not even a little. She twirled right past them, hair catching the light, limbs loose and golden in the glow. She danced like no one was watching, and yet like she knew everyone was.

She sang along to Stevie like she’d lived the lyrics—drifting, untethered, always a little out of reach.

Anakin couldn’t stop watching her. There was something about the way she moved—like she was burning through every second before it slipped away. Her joy was loud and messy and magnetic. The kind that made you forget you were pretending.

She grabbed the hand of an older man sitting with his wife—his flannel sleeves rolled up, face lined with years—and spun him in a slow, clumsy circle. He laughed, startled but delighted, his wife clapping along. The whole diner shifted, from sleepy to electric, like she’d flipped some hidden switch.

Anakin laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Jesus,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

Behind the counter, a woman in her fifties—blonde bangs, pink lipstick, eyes like she’d seen everything twice—watched it all unfold. She was balancing a tray of half-cleared plates and chuckled, turning her gaze on Anakin. “Your girlfriend?” she asked, voice low and amused.

Anakin looked up at her, still half-focused on Y/n twirling past a jukebox. He laughed softly. “Uh… no. We’re just friends.”

The waitress raised an eyebrow, still watching Y/n. “Wildcat like that? You better catch her before she trips over her own fire.” He smirked. “Yeah. She’s a handful, alright.”

The woman winked at him before disappearing into the back. A moment later, she returned—not with food, but a Polaroid camera. Y/n was still dancing, spinning with her arms outstretched like she was trying to fly. A click and a whirr. The film ejected and began to develop in the waitress’s hands.

She looked over the counter at Anakin, holding it up between two fingers. “Young man,” she called. “You want this? Of your… friend?”

He hesitated. Then shrugged, standing slowly. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

He took it gently, the Polaroid still warm. In it, Y/n was mid-spin, hair flying, eyes shut, laughing like nothing had ever hurt her. His lips twitched, and for a second, something too soft flickered across his face. He slid the photo into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Right then, Y/n slid back into the booth like a storm landing. She was panting, cheeks flushed, a grin stretching across her face like a dare. “That was fun,” she breathed. “You should’ve joined us, but I know—you like to sit there all mysterious and greaser-like.”

Anakin chuckled, shaking his head. “Someone’s gotta keep the booth warm, princess.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you sobered up enough to take me home? ’Cause I hell don’t know where you live anymore.”

He laughed, head tilted back. “Nah, I’m still drunk. Just not drunk enough to dance like a fool in front of strangers.”

Y/n groaned, dramatic as ever, and stood again, adjusting her shirt and tugging at her shorts. “Well, guess we’re stuck here ‘til you’re sober enough not to get us killed.”

“Sounds about right.” Anakin reached for his drink, then paused. “Don’t wanna end up wandering off into the night.” She shrugged. “Happened to me once. Made friends with a guy who looked like a serial killer. Told him I was into girls so he’d back off.”

She was already halfway to the door before he could laugh, tossing the line over her shoulder like a grenade.“Sounds about right for you, princess,” he called after her, still chuckling as he stood and followed. Outside, the world was hushed. The diner buzzed behind them in neon pinks and reds, a little glowing oasis in the dark. The sky stretched wide and black above them, star-punched and alive.

Y/n looked up, hands on her hips. “Well,” she said, digging in her pocket. “I say we stargaze. Until your blood’s got less whiskey or tequila in it.”

She pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, handed one to him.

Anakin took it wordlessly, lighting it with a flick of his silver Zippo. He exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl into the air. “Stargazing, huh? Kinda poetic.”

She lit hers too, the flame reflecting in her eyes. “You got a better idea?”

He looked at her. Really looked. Wild hair, chipped nails, bruised knees from something she wouldn’t explain. Smoke curling from her lips like secrets she’d never say out loud.

“No,” he said. “Stars and cigarettes sound good enough.”

💋hi everyone! I hope you liked this chapter, things are going to get messsyyy but fun! see you soon my loves

💋taglist:

@blackynsupremacy @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @user-3113s-blog @iloveneilperry @crisis-unaverted-recs @purplerose291 @sythethecarrot @wizzerreblogs @tsuki8844 @antifeetsoldier @canny1902 @idk-11s-blog @another-side-blog-again @damoclescallmeback @kappakappabara @littlemsenvyi @ficsineedtoreadlater @fictionalinspo2 @harryshorizon @wizzerreblogs @5secondsofmoxley @anakinslovergirl @throughparisallthroughrome @kers505 @suniika @slyhersophia @veronaspencil @invisible-mori @flowerlanaa @berryonasummerevening @loliskywalker @lortheswiftie

[sabrinasopposite]

manchild; chapter three: cigarettes, milkshakes and an agreement.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

words: 6.008

previous chapter: west end girl.

chapter three: cigarettes, milkshakes and an agreement.

Arrangements are usually made in quiet corners. A whisper in a hallway. A folded napkin with a time scrawled on it. Some get the red booth at a diner, others get backroom deals that smell like cigars and cold threats—The Godfather kind. You know the type.mBut then there are arrangements that aren’t made. They’re born. Mid-chaos. Mid-heartbreak. Mid-beat of a disco song where the bass rattles your bones and someone’s laughing too hard a few feet away.

That was Y/n and Anakin’s arrangement. Talked about once, under low lights and low blood sugar. A throwaway joke with teeth. Y/n suggested it like she suggests trouble—casually, like she wouldn’t flinch if the world caught fire. Anakin, all stubborn principles and sad eyes, turned it down. Said something about honesty, and doing things right.

But hearts don’t always stay good.

And sometimes, they snap in the span of a second. Sometimes all it takes is seeing the girl you love, who said she needed space, with her hand on Clovis’ chest like it belonged there.

That was all it took for Anakin.

So there they were, under string lights and disco shadows, standing in an arrangement. One that had no signature, no contract, just two people playing with a match they weren’t supposed to hold.

His lips were on hers. Not soft. Not slow. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that asked. It took. A fast, hard collision of want and revenge. Anakin held her like a secret slipping out—tight at the waist, the other hand cradling the back of her neck like it was the only tether keeping him from flying off this earth.

Y/n’s eyes flew open—like she’d been dunked in cold water. Her brows pulled together in a blur of what the hell? and wait a minute. But then she blinked once, and the tequila hit, and she thought: whatever. And she kissed him back.

Because chaos loves company.

Her arms snaked around his neck, fingers curling in his hair like they’d done this before. Like maybe this kiss wasn’t just about Padmé. Like maybe it was about something else too—burning, breaking, the deep ache of being wanted for the wrong reasons.

And across the garden, the world stopped.

Ahsoka froze mid-step, her drink halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened like saucers, lips parted in complete, unfiltered disbelief. Rex stood beside her, his jaw practically on the floor. He dropped his Solo cup without noticing. The splash of soda fizzed out by his boots, forgotten.

“What the hell is that?” he breathed, voice caught between a laugh and a scream.

Ahsoka didn’t answer. Her jaw clenched.

Because this wasn’t just a bad idea. This was nuclear.

Ahsoka loved Y/n like a sister. She’d carried her home from parties. Held her hand through moments. And she knew—knew that Y/n was reckless but had rules. And she knew Anakin. His moods, his grief, his guilt. And she knew this was a car crash happening in slow motion.

And still, the kiss didn’t stop.

People started to notice. Heads turned. Someone near the speaker let out a low whistle. A murmur of “is that Skywalker?” passed like wind through the crowd.

And Padmé—Padmé was watching, her smile cracked like old porcelain. Clovis said something in her ear but she didn’t hear it. Her gaze was locked on Anakin. On his hands. On her—the girl pressed against him like they were made of the same kind of ruin.

Just like Jett Valorum, he was in astonishment and shock. Dramatic as he is, straight from a theater play of Shakespeare. 

Y/n finally pulled back, just a fraction—her lips flushed, eyes half-lidded like she was still somewhere in the middle of that kiss. Her breath caught in her throat, chest rising and falling. That kiss wasn’t meant to feel like anything. Just drama. Just a show.

But damn. His lips. 

They were good. Soft in the right places, firm where it mattered. Like they knew exactly where hers would land.

She blinked once, then twice, her fingers still loosely curled around his shoulder. Her voice came out in a whisper, dazed and breathless. “What the fuck, Skywalker!”

It wasn’t angry. It was clueless. It was the kind of sentence you say when the ground tilts beneath you and you’re not sure if it’s the tequila or the boy who just kissed you like he meant it.

Anakin didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His eyes were locked on her like she was the only anchor in a storm he couldn’t control. The alcohol was humming in his bloodstream, but the kiss sobered something inside him. Maybe the ache. Maybe the rage. “Just… go with it,” he muttered, voice hoarse, mouth barely an inch from hers. His grip on her hip tightened like she might float off if he let go.

Y/n turned her head, slowly, eyes scanning past him—and there she was. Padmé. Standing frozen beside Clovis, holding a drink she clearly forgot was in her hand. Her lips were still, her smile erased, eyes locked on them.

Bingo.

Y/n turned back to Anakin, lips curling into a slow, sly smile. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Oh… so I was right after all?”

Anakin’s gaze darkened with a smirk to match hers. He didn’t deny it, didn’t soften it. He just stared at her like she was the last piece of his plan. “Yeah,” he said low, that scratch in his voice making it sound like a confession. “Seems like you were right.” His hand was still on her waist, thumb brushing slowly up and down—too casual for what they’d just done. Too familiar. Too not fake.

Y/n looked at him with a kind of proud mischief. She wasn’t mad. Not now. Maybe earlier. But this? This was fun. This was her arena. Wreckage dressed in glitter and lip gloss.

But before she could speak again, she heard it—loud, dramatic, grating.

“Y/N-BELL??!”

She closed her eyes slowly like the sound physically hurt her. God. That nickname.

She turned her head and, of course, there he was: Jett. In his polo shirt and heartbreak eyes, acting like she hadn’t ghosted his calls for two weeks and left him for another four.

Her face twisted in a theatrical grimace. “Not you again,” she muttered, arms still draped around Anakin’s neck like she couldn’t be bothered to let go yet.

Jett looked between them, his mouth opening in pure, performative shock. “You’re—wait. You’re kissing him? Since when do you do greaser boys? I thought I was your—”

Y/n cut him off with a deadpan look. “You thought wrong, sweetheart.” She smirked, tilting her head. “I do surprises.”

Anakin didn’t even blink. He just tightened his hold on her and gave Jett the calmest, most satisfied look in the galaxy. Like he’d just won a game no one else realized they were playing.

“Nice to meet you,” Anakin said dryly, extending zero effort to hide the smug in his tone.

Jett scoffed, dramatically shaking his head. “This is insane. I—this is insane.”

Y/n turned her head to Anakin and whispered, just loud enough for Jett to hear, “God, I love when they spiral.”

Anakin chuckled low in his chest, leaning down until his lips were right near her ear.

“You’re evil,” he said, amused.

“Damn right,” she whispered back, still smiling, still close.

Jett was still standing there, staring like the ground just gave out beneath him. Offended. Betrayed. Like this was the final act in a tragedy only he thought was still playing. “I thought we were going to be together again?” His voice cracked on the last word. “Y/n Bell?”

Y/n rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. Her annoyance wasn’t loud—it was quiet, mean, the kind of fed-up that only comes from a guy who doesn’t get it. “Absolutely fucking not,” she said, voice flat. “Don’t you see I’ve moved on?”

She wrapped her arm tighter around Anakin’s middle, tilting her head like this was all just a joke and she was the punchline.

Jett’s expression shifted, that first sting of betrayal morphing fast into something uglier—anger. His eyes found Anakin, holding her like she belonged to him. “Moved on to greaser boy?” Jett scoffed, venom curling around every syllable. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Y/n didn’t blink. She just gave a bored shrug, eyes half-lidded and unimpressed. “He tastes like cigarettes,” she said calmly, dragging her words like smoke. “I like it.”

That hit. Jett’s whole face twitched, his jaw locking up as jealousy bloomed in the pit of his gut.

“You like that? Seriously?” he snapped.

Y/n nodded like she was confirming a weather report. “I thought that was obvious.” Then she paused—smirked—and with absolute nonchalance reached down her shirt and pulled cigarettes from her bra. She placed one between her lips. Then one between Anakin’s. “Speaking of that…” she said, voice lilting, sugarcoated spite. “If you’ll excuse me, I wanna make out.”

She grabbed Anakin by the front of his shirt and pulled him away like a getaway driver peeling out of a crime scene. He followed without a word.

But Anakin looked back.

His eyes scanned the crowd—until they found her. Padmé. Still with Clovis, still holding her drink like it weighed more than it should. Her expression was hard to read. But her eyes? They didn’t lie. There was something in them. Something tight. 

Tension. A quiet storm.

She watched Anakin like he was something slipping through her fingers. Her lips were pursed. Her body still. A woman out of place, unsure if she wanted to scream or stay composed.

Anakin and Y/n? Y/n—the wild one. The girl who talks too loud and kisses too fast and burns through boys like gasoline.

Padmé was kind to her. They were friendly. But she knew what Y/n was. She knew the shape of her chaos. And now that chaos had him.

Y/n didn’t stop dragging Anakin until they were at the back of the house, near the cars parked under low amber streetlamps. The party noise was still humming behind them—bass thudding like a distant heart.

She spun around. Stopped. Arms crossed, breath still quick from the scene. “Okay. What the fuck,” she said.

Anakin leaned back against the car, head tilted slightly up like he was trying to collect his thoughts—like they’d been flung out into the night and were now floating somewhere above them. The alcohol in his system was catching up, making everything softer around the edges, but heavier too.

Y/n pulled a silver lighter from her boot, lit her cigarette without blinking, and stared at him through the smoke. “You gonna speak?”

He took the lighter from her, fingers brushing hers just briefly. Lighting up his cigarette. Inhaled. Exhaled slowly. That familiar drag of nicotine giving him a second to stall. “I… don’t know what to say,” he said finally, voice low and wrecked.

Y/n ran a hand through her curls, blowing smoke sideways like a woman who’s been through three lifetimes of this same boy trouble. She shrugged, almost mockingly calm. “Well—I was right, after all,” she said, pride wrapped in silk.

Anakin let out a rough, tired laugh, tinged with something else—maybe shame. “Yeah. You were right.” He took another drag, flicking ash off his cigarette like it was the only stable thing in the world right now. “God, I’m sorry. That was so—wrong. So unhinged.”

Y/n blinked, then squinted at him like he’d just insulted her favorite record. “What?? No, no, no—that was actually the first rational thing you’ve done all night.”

She put a hand dramatically over her chest. “Only thing I’m mad about is that you didn’t warn me,” she added, eyes gleaming. “I could’ve popped a peppermint beforehand. Maybe wore some lip gloss that doesn’t taste like strawberry chapstick and guilt.”

Anakin chuckled, head falling forward. He looked at her through his lashes, cigarette between two fingers. “You’re insane.”

She grinned. “You kissed me first, Skyguy. Welcome to the circus.”

And the smoke curled between them like something sacred and doomed. 

Anakin was still dazed, lulled into silence by the slow nicotine burn and the dizzying effects of everything—alcohol, jealousy, her. He leaned against the side of his car like the world was moving underwater. He barely noticed Y/n drop her cigarette and start walking toward the driver’s side.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, flipping her hair off her shoulder, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m hungry.” Anakin blinked, slow. “Uh—why? Also, I can’t drive yet, because I’m… drunk.” He hiccuped, slurring the last word, and gave a sheepish little grin.

Y/n turned to him with the face of a woman who’d just been told her favorite movie was getting remade by people who didn’t understand it. “Good lord. Okay, hand me your keys.”

She wasn’t exactly sober, but she was more functional, and it was 2:30 AM—the roads were dead, and she didn’t care about things like logic when her craving for fries hit. He chuckled at her dramatics, fumbling in his jacket until he found his keys, holding them up like a prize.

“No crashes, princess.”

Y/n snatched them. “You sit your drunk Skywalker ass in the passenger seat, princess.”

She got into the driver’s side with a grunt. He rolled his eyes but let her push him toward the other door. He stumbled in exaggerated steps, sighing like this was the greatest inconvenience of his life—but the smirk didn’t leave his face. He slid into the seat and buckled himself in like it took all the strength in the galaxy.

She tried the engine.

Nothing.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

She squinted at the dashboard. “Your piece of junk car—”

“Hey!” Anakin lifted a finger, looking personally attacked. “She’s not a piece of junk. She just needs a little persuasion.” He leaned forward and gave the dash a gentle but firm tap. “C’mon, baby.”

Y/n stared at him like he was nuts. “Then train her better, mechanic boy.” The engine coughed to life. “Yay,” she whispered, eyes wide with sarcasm.

They pulled out of the mansion’s driveway, gravel kicking up in little clouds behind them. Wind streamed through the open windows, lifting her hair like a film reel caught in a breeze. Dolly Parton’s voice crackled through the static of the radio, her twang and wisdom filling the car with melancholy joy.

“You don’t have to drive like a maniac, you know,” Anakin muttered, slouched deep into his seat like a sleepy lion, watching her with one eye open.

“This is the only way,” Y/n replied, rolling the window down further. “Music, wind, car, cigarettes, desert. Hell, that’s cinema.”

Anakin looked at her, a half-laugh pulling at his mouth. The curls, the wildness, the absolute chaos she carried in her chest like a charm. She was so opposite to what he was used to. It was intoxicating in the way a bad idea is—you know better, but you do it anyway.

She hummed along to Dolly as the headlights cut through the stretch of empty road.

He blinked slowly, still buzzed, then spoke, voice lazy. “Why are we even driving somewhere to eat? We could’ve just eaten at the party…”

Before he could finish, her hand slapped over his mouth. “Pssh-pssh—” She looked at the road again, steering one-handed like she owned it. “Okay, one: party food is trash. I want something greasy and terrible, like fries and a thick milkshake I can cry into if I need to. Two: everyone at that party thinks we’re off somewhere hooking up right now. Including your ex.”

Anakin blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Duh. We disappeared together after a dramatic kiss scene. This is high school, Skyguy. People live for that kind of gossip. Padmé’s probably staring at her drink like it betrayed her.”

Anakin exhaled through his nose, and the ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips. A weird mix of guilt, victory, and confusion brewed in his chest.

Y/n looked at him sideways. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He turned to her, raising a brow. “For what?”

She grinned, dramatic as ever. “For being the hottest revenge plot in a leather jacket.”

He laughed, head falling back against the seat. And for the first time that night, he didn’t feel like exploding. He just felt… weightless.

Y/n’s grin curled slow, lazy like smoke rising from a cigarette left burning too long in a motel ashtray. “See?” she said, eyes on the road but head tilted slightly toward him, voice smug in the most endearing way. “I may be lost and a bit crazy, but I’m a genius after all.”

The yellowish light from the diner signs and empty freeway lamps cast her in flickering amber—like film grain come alive. She leaned closer, close enough for Anakin to feel the heat of her shoulder, her wild curls dancing around his peripheral like they had minds of their own. “Hit me up with a cigarette.”

Anakin, lips parted in amusement, fished into the inner pocket of his worn jacket. He pulled the pack like muscle memory, a ritual by now. With slow fingers, he slipped a cigarette between her lips. His hand brushed her cheek as he lit it, the flame flickering between them like a dare. Her lips curled around the filter, and she inhaled like she’d just won something.

It was an intimate kind of quiet. The kind where you could still hear her breathing under the hum of the car and the faraway chirp of the desert night. The smoke curled out from her nose as she took the next turn like she was born behind the wheel—reckless, smooth, and just barely holding on.

She started singing again. “Jolene… Jolene… Joooooleeeeeene…” her voice cracked, off-key, no shame in the world.

Anakin laughed. Not mockingly. Just… in disbelief. At her. At this moment. At the way she was humming Fleetwood Mac, then Dolly Parton, like the sky was her ceiling and nothing mattered except the wind and nicotine and the freedom of pretending nothing could touch her.

Her hair caught the wind like a flag in rebellion. Her yellow outfit clung to her skin like sunlight trapped in fabric. She looked like she didn’t belong in real life. She belonged in film. And he—he was the accidental co-star in her midnight heist against growing up.

He was so caught in her orbit he didn’t notice she was slamming on the brakes until the tires screeched slightly on the gravel.

“Jesus—” He lurched forward, catching himself on the dashboard.

Y/n laughed, wide-eyed. “That was better than last time!”

He blinked at the glowing neon sign in front of them, the letters flickering like they weren’t sure whether to be on or off: Lou’s Diner. It buzzed like it was alive. Like it had stories tucked into its booths and ghosts hiding behind its syrup-sticky counters.

“You’re insane, you know that?” Anakin muttered, still breathless from the stop.

Y/n slid out of the car, slamming the door behind her like punctuation. She turned around, tossing her curls out of her face with a wink. “Not the first time someone called me that.”

She walked with that same chaotic grace—somewhere between a ballet dancer and a girl ready to steal a car.

Anakin followed, legs still slightly unsteady from the booze and the adrenaline. The parking lot was dead quiet except for the buzz of insects and the wind dragging dust across the pavement.

The diner looked like it hadn’t changed since 1962, and didn’t want to. Y/n held the door open with her back and tossed a look over her shoulder. “Ladies first.”

Anakin raised a brow. “You calling me a lady, princess?”

“I drove you here,” she said, smirking. “You’re a princess now.”

He walked past her, the door jingling above their heads. The smell inside was fried oil, burnt coffee, vinyl, and just a little bit of ashtray nostalgia. It felt like walking into someone else’s dream.

Y/n pointed to a booth by the window—cracked red leather, the kind that stuck to your thighs in summer. “Go sit down.” He obeyed, dragging his palm across the table surface, still sticky from syrup ghosts. He leaned into the seat, head tilted, letting the neon lights spill across his face like cheap stage lighting.

Y/n disappeared behind the counter, tossing a few words to the sleepy old waitress behind it. She came back minutes later, balancing a tray of food and two milkshakes like she was in her own movie. It felt like she belonged to this diner, she knew it all too well, as if she could tell you where the fresh sticky bubblegum was sticking under a table. But the truth was, it was Y/N favorite diner, a diner that holds memories like pancakes at 8 pm with her mother. ahsoka is maybe the only one who knows y/n, but not completely. there are two sides of y/n, one that everyone knows, and the one side only she know.

She dropped it onto the table and without a word, wandered toward the jukebox.

Coins clinked. Buttons clicked.

Fleetwood Mac crackled through the old machine. “You can go your own way…”

She turned back toward him, the light hitting her in all the right ways—her curls catching pink and blue neon like a halo gone rogue. She walked slowly, milkshake straw already between her lips.

Anakin watched her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

She slid into the booth and pulled a fry from the plate. “Yeah, it’s my favorite diner. Try the fries. They’re the best.”

He raised a brow but humored her. Took a bite. “Oh, hell. You weren’t lying.”

Y/n grinned. “Told you. But maybe you’re just drunk and in love with the idea of deep-fried potatoes.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, licking salt from his fingers. “But even sober, these would still slap.”

There was a lull then. A soft silence.

Fleetwood Mac. Milkshake slurps. Stars outside, glowing hard like they wanted someone to notice. The world quieted around them like it knew this was something sacred.

Y/n leaned forward slightly, playing with the straw in her milkshake. “So… I assume we’ll fake date now?”

Anakin chuckled under his breath, the sound soft and low. “Yeah. Looks like it. Got any rules?”

She tilted her head, expression serious but still laced with mischief. “Hm, yeah. You gotta take me everywhere. Beaches. Diners. Late-night drives. All that dumb romantic crap.”

“Why me?”

She looked out the window like the answer was written in the stars. “I like drives. I like silence. And I like pretending I belong somewhere.”

Anakin leaned back in the booth, nodding slowly, watching her like he was still trying to figure her out. “Alright. But you’re paying for gas. And you better bring good mixtapes.”

Y/n grinned, her teeth pink from the strawberry milkshake. “I have cassettes. Hundreds. The car is gonna smell like nostalgia and roadkill.”

Then, her voice lowered just a bit. The grin softened into something else. “If we’re doing this… fake dating… we have to make it real. You know? Not halfway. Like… really make it believable. Be seen. Show up together. Kiss at the right moments. Laugh at the wrong ones.”

Anakin stared at her—half-drunk, half-dazed, but very much present. For a second, the whole world outside the diner—the war, the lies, the complicated shadows trailing behind him—fell away. All that existed was her eyes, glittering with something wild and unsaid.

The line between fake and real blurred in the neon haze.

He nodded slowly, like it meant something heavier than it should. “Yeah. You’re right. We gotta make it believable.” His voice dropped into something smooth, teasing but edged. “I can be a hell of an actor.”

Y/n sipped her milkshake like it was a glass of champagne. “I gotta see it, then.” She tilted her head, watching him with one brow cocked, curls falling into her eyes. “Also—we need a plausible breakup plan. You know, for when Padmé finds out.”

Anakin leaned back, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. “Right… say we didn’t work out. Too different, blah blah. No drama. Just didn’t click.”

Y/n nodded, biting into a fry like it was a nonchalant agreement, not the bones of a future heartbreak. “Yup. That works.”

Then, she glanced out the window, her voice more casual than it should’ve been. “Any rules I should follow?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her for a long, quiet beat. Like he was trying to read a warning label on her heart. “Yeah,” he said finally, tone flat, firm.

“Just one, don’t catch feelings.”

Y/n didn’t blink. She just smirked, slow and sharp. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, hair falling like shadows. Her eyes met his, unwavering, fire meeting fire. “I’m good with that.”

Anakin’s mouth curled at the corner. Something dark and amused flashed in his eyes. He leaned forward too, their faces now inches apart in the diner booth glow. “Good. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

Y/n had never really fallen in love. Not the staying kind. She liked the crash—the chase, the mess, the bruised knees and lipstick-stained aftermath. She liked drama like some people liked dessert. She burned fast and left before she melted.

She held out her hand across the table, palm open like a dare. “Shall we seal the deal?”

Anakin stared at her hand for a second—paint-chipped nails, a silver ring she probably stole from a gas station. It was all part of her: this beautiful, chaotic promise wrapped in cigarette smoke and Fleetwood Mac lyrics.

He reached out and took it. His grip was warm, rough with callouses. “Deal.”

They held the shake a second longer than necessary.

Then Y/n pulled back, grin playful but voice suddenly blunt: “Oh, and—we definitely don’t hook up. Like… no sleeping together.”

She planted both palms on the table like she was setting a boundary with a knife. Anakin laughed lightly, nodding. “Yeah. That’s a given. Too messy.”

“Exactly.” She sat back, arms folded now, her expression mock-proud. “Feel honored, by the way. I stay loyal now. No guys. All for the cause.”

“Oh yeah?” he teased. “Should I feel special?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but her smile was glowing under the diner light. “No, but it’s all part of the act. And I’m very committed to performance art.”

Anakin shook his head, amused. “You’re already doing great as my jealous girlfriend.”

She smirked and glanced down, fingers fidgeting with the strings of her shirt. Something softened in her. “Never thought I’d be someone’s girlfriend. Even a fake one. It already feels… weird.”

Anakin’s eyes followed her hands, then met her gaze. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone sees you as the relationship type.”

Y/n scoffed, but her laugh was real. Full, echoing between them. “I want to fight you on that, but you’re goddamn right.”

And the thing was—Y/n didn’t just feel things. She embodied them. Rage, love, lust, sorrow—none of it subtle. When she fell, it was a freefall. She didn’t tiptoe into emotion. She dove, reckless and grinning, even when it tore her apart. But no one ever saw that. They just saw the lipstick, the late-night escapes, the carefree girl in the passenger seat of someone else’s story. They didn’t know that sometimes she cried in gas station bathrooms or that she had a playlist just for pretending she didn’t care.

Anakin caught something in her eyes—something flickering just beneath the smirk—and he nodded, smirking back like he knew he’d grazed a nerve. “See? I’m always right, princess.”

Y/n reached across the table and tapped his nose with her straw. A tiny puff of whipped cream stuck to it. She blinked, caught off guard, and laughed. “Whoops.”

Anakin stared at her, mock offended. “Did you just—?”

He grabbed a napkin and wiped his nose, but he was smiling, his whole face softened. Not by the alcohol anymore, but by her. Then she stood abruptly, eyes scanning the room. Walked straight to the counter and swiped a pen, tearing a piece of paper from an old receipt roll. Anakin watched, head tilted, curiosity rising.

Y/n slid back into the booth and wrote quickly. Her name. A heart. A phone number. She placed it in front of him like a final clause in their chaotic contract. “Here. My home number. If your friends invite you to something and girls are involved, you call me. I’ll be there.”

Anakin took the paper. The ink smudged a little from her hand. He stared at it longer than necessary. “Oh yeah?” he smirked. “Gonna play my jealous girlfriend role to the max?”

Y/n ran her hand through her hair, tossing it like a commercial. “Nah. I just want the girls to be jealous I look hot.”

Anakin laughed, real and low. “Oh, princess. You don’t need me for that.”

Y/n laughed too—loud and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that made people look over and wish they were part of the joke. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, pride and chaos glowing in her smile.

“Whatever. It’s all part of the gig.”

Anakin leaned back, still watching her with something unreadable in his eyes. “Yeah. And you’re killing it already.”

She looked down again, fingers twisting her shirt strings into tiny knots. “Never thought I’d be someone’s girlfriend,” she repeated softly, almost to herself. “Even a fake one.”

Anakin leaned forward, elbows on the table, head tilted. “Why not?”

She looked up, smile small now. “Because I like to run before anyone can leave. And fake love still counts as risk.”

He didn’t say anything. He just watched her, memorizing the way she looked when she wasn’t trying so hard to be untouchable.

Fleetwood Mac kept playing. The fries had gone cold, forgotten on the sticky table. And somewhere between the hum of old neon and the diner’s cracked leather booths, a fake relationship was starting to feel like the opening scene of a movie neither of them knew the ending to.

Y/n clapped her hands once, sudden and bright. Her head snapped toward the jukebox like she’d just heard God whisper. “Oh my god—it’s Gypsy!” she gasped, eyes wide, already half-rising from the booth. “This is my jam!”

Anakin blinked, caught off guard by the burst of energy. His lips curled into a lazy smirk as he leaned back in the booth, arms sprawled along the top. “Really, princess? This your favorite?”

She didn’t answer. Just spun on her heel, feet already moving. The diner was mostly empty—just a few night owls, old couples sipping weak coffee—but she didn’t care. Not even a little. She twirled right past them, hair catching the light, limbs loose and golden in the glow. She danced like no one was watching, and yet like she knew everyone was.

She sang along to Stevie like she’d lived the lyrics—drifting, untethered, always a little out of reach.

Anakin couldn’t stop watching her. There was something about the way she moved—like she was burning through every second before it slipped away. Her joy was loud and messy and magnetic. The kind that made you forget you were pretending.

She grabbed the hand of an older man sitting with his wife—his flannel sleeves rolled up, face lined with years—and spun him in a slow, clumsy circle. He laughed, startled but delighted, his wife clapping along. The whole diner shifted, from sleepy to electric, like she’d flipped some hidden switch.

Anakin laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Jesus,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

Behind the counter, a woman in her fifties—blonde bangs, pink lipstick, eyes like she’d seen everything twice—watched it all unfold. She was balancing a tray of half-cleared plates and chuckled, turning her gaze on Anakin. “Your girlfriend?” she asked, voice low and amused.

Anakin looked up at her, still half-focused on Y/n twirling past a jukebox. He laughed softly. “Uh… no. We’re just friends.”

The waitress raised an eyebrow, still watching Y/n. “Wildcat like that? You better catch her before she trips over her own fire.” He smirked. “Yeah. She’s a handful, alright.”

The woman winked at him before disappearing into the back. A moment later, she returned—not with food, but a Polaroid camera. Y/n was still dancing, spinning with her arms outstretched like she was trying to fly. A click and a whirr. The film ejected and began to develop in the waitress’s hands.

She looked over the counter at Anakin, holding it up between two fingers. “Young man,” she called. “You want this? Of your… friend?”

He hesitated. Then shrugged, standing slowly. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

He took it gently, the Polaroid still warm. In it, Y/n was mid-spin, hair flying, eyes shut, laughing like nothing had ever hurt her. His lips twitched, and for a second, something too soft flickered across his face. He slid the photo into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Right then, Y/n slid back into the booth like a storm landing. She was panting, cheeks flushed, a grin stretching across her face like a dare. “That was fun,” she breathed. “You should’ve joined us, but I know—you like to sit there all mysterious and greaser-like.”

Anakin chuckled, shaking his head. “Someone’s gotta keep the booth warm, princess.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you sobered up enough to take me home? ’Cause I hell don’t know where you live anymore.”

He laughed, head tilted back. “Nah, I’m still drunk. Just not drunk enough to dance like a fool in front of strangers.”

Y/n groaned, dramatic as ever, and stood again, adjusting her shirt and tugging at her shorts. “Well, guess we’re stuck here ‘til you’re sober enough not to get us killed.”

“Sounds about right.” Anakin reached for his drink, then paused. “Don’t wanna end up wandering off into the night.” She shrugged. “Happened to me once. Made friends with a guy who looked like a serial killer. Told him I was into girls so he’d back off.”

She was already halfway to the door before he could laugh, tossing the line over her shoulder like a grenade.“Sounds about right for you, princess,” he called after her, still chuckling as he stood and followed. Outside, the world was hushed. The diner buzzed behind them in neon pinks and reds, a little glowing oasis in the dark. The sky stretched wide and black above them, star-punched and alive.

Y/n looked up, hands on her hips. “Well,” she said, digging in her pocket. “I say we stargaze. Until your blood’s got less whiskey or tequila in it.”

She pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, handed one to him.

Anakin took it wordlessly, lighting it with a flick of his silver Zippo. He exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl into the air. “Stargazing, huh? Kinda poetic.”

She lit hers too, the flame reflecting in her eyes. “You got a better idea?”

He looked at her. Really looked. Wild hair, chipped nails, bruised knees from something she wouldn’t explain. Smoke curling from her lips like secrets she’d never say out loud.

“No,” he said. “Stars and cigarettes sound good enough.”

💋hi everyone! I hope you liked this chapter, things are going to get messsyyy but fun! see you soon my loves

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