#cyber-nya

a/n: regencypiningregencypiningregencypin-

(from here!)

79’s is loud and bumping this evening, packed to the brim with both civilians and soldiers, dates and friends. The music throbs, and you stumble back from the bar, weaving through the crowd and towards your friends.

Clone bars are not your scene. It’s not that you have anything against clones or bars, it’s just typically, your head sees this as a mainly clone environment. And you are decidedly not a clone.

And for the most part, 79’s is filled with clones of all types tonight. But your friends pulled you along, swearing 79’s has the best alcohol.

It does, you have to admit, reasoning it comes from an attempt to make the GAR’s finest as content as possible in small ways.

The pulsing music slows, then switches to a cheesy slow piece, sung by one of the many pop stars Coruscant’s given rise to. You watch as couples pair off.

There’s a tap on your shoulder.

You turn, expecting to see one of your friends. Instead, it’s a clone trooper. He’s attractive, devastatingly so, with a number five tattooed on his temple.

“Um, hi?” You say, surprised when your voice doesn’t come out as a squeak. He smiles then, one eyebrow raised.

“I think I need to call the Coruscant Guard,” he says, and your heart jumps to your throat. Why? Are you doing something wrong? “Because you just stole my heart.”

It takes a beat for the rest of his words to hit you, but when they finally do, your mouth drops open in surprise.

Oh.

Your nose scrunches up, and you laugh, biting your lip when you see his confusion.

“That is the cheesiest pick-up line I’ve ever heard,” you tell him. He rubs the back of his neck, then shrugs, smile returning.

“But it’s true. Wanna dance?” he asks. You roll your eyes.

“Why not?” It is very nice, dancing with this trooper. He seems to know what he’s doing, and when he doesn’t he’s good at making it up. He has you laughing, and by the time the song is over, you’re actually a little disappointed.

He walks you back to your spot when the music has returned to its regular, ear-splitting schedule. You can see your friends in the distance, ready to head out.

The trooper takes his hand in yours, lifting it to his mouth. He presses a gentle kiss onto the knuckles, lips lingering.

“Name’s Fives,” he says, eyes soft. You swallow hard, glancing between your still-tingling fingers and his gaze.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say. He smiles gently, squeezing your fingers one more time before letting go.

DUDE I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU BINGED ALL THAT IN TWO DAYS. 

Thank you so very, very much! I’m absolutely thrilled that you enjoyed–and that you enjoyed it enough to read it all at once! I’m so very glad it happened upon your dash at just the right moment (thanks, Okie!) to bring you here!

OH GOODNESS THANK YOU! Research is one of my absolute favorite things, and I love that you enjoyed seeing it as much as I enjoyed including it! 

From @dualomniblades:

NSFW MEME —

A good girl shouldn’t feel their face flush at such an enticing invitation.

A good girl wouldn’t have accepted the company of a handsome, unwed man in the first place. A good girl would realize his intentions or fear for one’s safety - you’d hardly known him for a week, and yet you felt desperate to please him. It was like magic.

The effort it took to gather your skirts and drop to your knees was well worth the groan you got in response, large hand cupping your jaw while his free hand reached towards his trousers.

You’re grinning, shooing him into the apartment as you traipse behind him.

“C’mon, get in.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

Francisco shrugs his jacket off, tossing it over the back end of your couch before popping his hands to his hips and serving you a look. Under the brim of his ball cap, you can see the workings of amusement beginning to tug at the ends of his mustache. 

“So?”

“So,” you chirp, raising a finger, “You wait right here, and I’ll be back. Because I’ve got something for you.”

Frankie rolls his eyes, adjusting his hat. “Angel, what on earth --”

“Ah! No. No complaints from the birthday boy --”

“I’m not complaining, I just told you that you didn’t have t’ get me anythin’ --”

You’re not listening. You’ve darted into the other room, socks hiding your movements. If Frankie listens carefully, though, he can hear you rummaging through your closet. You curse softly, a bag of sorts rustling quietly. When you emerge from your bedroom, you’ve got a sparkly blue bag in your hands. 

Frankie laughs.

“What the hell.”

“C’mon, Frankie, sit down and open it up.”

He does as he’s told, only because seeing the way you absolutely light up is worth it -- you love seeing him happy, he’s realized, and the pilot thinks maybe he’s the luckiest man in the world. He takes a moment, face going a bit soft as he watches you chew your lip and fight a smile.

“Come on, you sit.”

Frankie shifts a bit on the couch cushions as you curl up beside him. Your knees knock his elbow. You’re peaking over his shoulder as he begins to dig into the bag.

The proximity is nice. Safe. Grounding.

“If you got me somethin’ expensive, I’ll kill ya.”

“Yea, yea,” you chirp, “C’mon, old man, open it up.”

Frankie’s hands dive into the bag.

They hit metal.

And, when he pulls out a custom trophy for Best Dad of the Year, his laugh is so loud to strikes a fire in your heart. The sound alone makes you beam ear to ear, hands skimming his back as he doubles over laughing. You’re glad, since the pilot had been strung out these last few months beyond belief. Having an infant around, a baby girl, was hard, especially with work and the divorce and everything in-between. Frankie had been beyond stressed, and after one particularly bad night, he’d made an off-hand comment about winning award for worst dad of the year. Since then, you’d set out on disproving that.

Frankie plants the trophy on the coffee table to admire it, his laughter still hanging in the air. 

“You really -- oh my god, angel, you’re too funny.”

“Someone’s gotta remind you that you’re doing a good job.”