Padme lives. She runs. -- Leia is growing in fits and spurts, eating greedily and crying loudly. She stays in a sling on Padme’s chest when they move, Luke held snug in a sling around Obi Wan’s. Luke gets a whole head of thick brown hair while Leia’s is still patchy and bald, but he never matches his sister’s powerful lungs. When Padme had been sitting in her high senatorial apartment on Corsucant, holding Anakin’s sweaty hand, she had never imagined she’d be murmuring desperately soothing noises to her fussy daughter while she shot around a corner at stormtroopers, while R2D2 meddles with a ship’s blast doors behind her. Luke starts teething on a hot jungle planet where they hunker down for three weeks, sleeping in an abandoned old temple and catching the local wildlife for dinner. Leia takes her first steps in the belly of a Corellian freighter they’ve stowed away on. She wobbles between Padme’s outstretched hands and Obi Wan’s knees and boxes of smuggled luxuries. When she falls down, Obi Wan surges forward, heart in his throat, but Leia laughs.

Nicky quickly typed 'Need to reschedule, the children need me tonight' before re-pocketing his phone and turning to an expectant André. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to go home and cook us dinner,” Nicky started, and André made an excited noise. “And you,” Nicky continued, “are going to bring Tom over to my house at 8 and we’ll all spend some time together.” A guide by the two dads of the Washington Capitals.

There's a tumblr post that's literally all about 'things your OTP could do that make people think they're married if they aren't' and instead of writing one, I wrote them all. OR, Dad and Papa are a perfect, healthy, happy couple. But, they're not a couple at all.

Having babies gives you dad power. Dad power helps put hockey teams on the road to Sir Stanley. Sid sired a herd of little Penguins before Pittsburgh won its Cup. Toews might as well be running a Blackhawks baby factory. Now it's Ovi's turn. If only someone had told him that impregnating your fuckbuddy might make things a little weird.

At 27, Sidney's divorced, sharing custody of his daughter with his ex-wife, and has a reputation for renovating historic homes. He's just doing what he loves, but an audition tape he doesn't remember submitting to HGTV lands him a job offer in Pittsburgh. A few years later, it brings him the client that will change his life.

For the record: Travis does hook up. A completely normal amount, even.

Auston’s ex-girlfriend didn’t need to warn him off. He’s never met a girl who was so obviously, so completely, so spectacularly out of his league as Mitch Marner.

It's a stupid thing to care about. But it seems like every time Dylan sees Alex with a teammate, he’s putting his hands on their back to dig the tension out of them. And for whatever reason, he never does that with Dylan.

Dylan snorts. “Nice game you have going on there,” he calls. Kaner looks up, startled. “Huh?” “The gay chicken.” Dylan raises his cup to them. “Nice effort.”

It’s okay to be a wolf in the NHL now. That’s what everyone tells Dylan, anyway. To Podfic: "I Love the Riddles That You Speak" & "Race Like Falcons to Crash and Burn"

So, no, Connor doesn’t hate being an omega. Honestly, Connor wouldn’t think about being an omega much at all, except for how everyone else treats him because he’s an omega.

Edmonton brought Milan in for a bunch of reasons, but one of them was this: when Connor eventually went into heat, Milan would, too.

Tom's not sure he's ever felt quite so vulnerable.

written for this prompt on the sinbin: Alpha!Dougie/Alpha!Svech, knotting; Svechnikov discovers alpha-on-alpha knotting porn and can't stop thinking about it. Fortunately, Dougie is there to help. (Svech as the one being knotted please!)

There is a fucking primer. Dylan doesn't quite know what to do with that.

Jake does a pretty good job ignoring his stupid fucking thing for his rookie until one pregame he sits down in his stall to lace up and his eyes land on the whiteboard on the opposite side of the room where the month’s heats and ruts are scheduled; zero in on Joel’s name next to a scribbled 1/27 - 1/29.

ack says, "We've talked about this so much I'm not even sure it turns me on any more." Connor pulls up at a red light. "Liar," he says.

"The last snap is Dylan’s dimly lit bed, one long skinny leg stretched toward the end of the bed and one bent at the knee. Call me when you’re home. Connor doesn’t drop everything, but he also doesn’t put his dishes in the dishwasher." In which Connor and Dylan talk on the phone.

Connor McDavid is not the next, next one. He's the only one. For Dylan and his super chaffed dick. (A story about awkward relationship conversation, feelings and the sheer amount of blackmail material Alex DeBrincat has on McJesus and Baby Stromer.)

Leon can have little a maladaptive coping mechanism, as a treat.

"I kissed McDavid and then we won a game," Jack blurts out. He flexes his hand nervously. There's a suspicious silence on the other end of the phone line, but Noah is probably not laughing at him. Out loud.

“Is this like, a weird see it and believe it thing?” Connor asks. “I don’t-- we weren’t making out in front of you guys at the draft for a reason. That would have been really rude.”

The first time Connor sees him, in person, he’s wearing a backwards hat and holding a Frappuccino. He looks eighteen and very much not like a member of the undead.

The program finally starts and she can’t stop herself from grinning stupidly when she hears his voice. They ask about her and she leans forward, listening avidly. “We’re very happy to be together for the next eight years,” he tells them. Connor punches the air. “Hell yeah we are,” she tells the screen. “Have you guys just been texting each other happy faces emojis constantly?” Sid asks. “Yeah, lots of kisses,” Leon says and Connor freezes.

Dylan Strome goes to Edmonton to deal with, like, a lot of stuff. Mostly Connor, because they're apparently bonded, or whatever.

In which Connor is terrible at being an incubus, Dylan has all the answers, and Jack finds himself falling for not one, but two, Canadians.

Society is weird in that there’s not a lot of words for someone who you love and do a lot of dating-things with and are committed to but you’re not actually dating. OR: Five times people misunderstood Connor and Dylan's friendship, and one time someone didn't.

“Why can’t I just use your witch?” whines Connor, head resting on the kitchen table while Hallsy shuffles through a manila folder labeled “curse shit.” “She just rubbed foxglove on my wrists and told me not to have sex,” says Hallsy. “It was not very helpful, and also did you know that foxglove is poisonous?” “Yeah, if you eat it,” says Connor.

Nolan shouldn’t be excited. He really shouldn’t. Most guys who have been in the league for a while don’t treat it like a big deal. It sucks, sometimes, depending on the team you get sent to and whoever got first star for them, but Nolan’s already been told that the Stars are pretty decent. Still, nobody ever seems to look forward to being chosen, but that hadn’t stopped a thrill of excitement from zipping up Nolan’s spine when the Stars team rep had called his name.

Mitch doesn't care that much about the sacrifice. Life's short, he gets to play hockey for a living, the mildly annoying parts are worth it.

Connor’s still not really sure how to handle having this kind of reputation, about it spreading past the O.

John cracks an eye open, and Thatcher is shucking off his jeans, kicking them underneath the desk. He’s wearing – well, John catches a glimpse of lace as Thatcher pulls his sweatpants back on. Tight, navy lace stretched out over his ass.

Zach thinks about all the teasing Dylan’s been doing lately, all the ways he’s taunted Zach with his dick. If he wants to get into Zach’s pants, he’s going to have to be more forward than that. Or they can keep playing this long-winded game of gay chicken. So Zach stands up, sheds his gear, and when he’s sure Dylan is looking, he drops his pants.

“I didn’t fuck Mitch,” Dylan hisses into Connor’s ear, squeezing Connor’s hips tightly. Connor’s right on the edge when Dylan presses his lips to Connor’s ear and whispers, viciously, “But I wanted to.”

Jack has a huge dick. Jack is a huge dick. Unfortunately, he's also the best lay of Connie's life.

“You kissed me the night before we got drafted,” Connor says, unbuckling Jack’s belt and making light work of yanking Jack’s jeans down to his knees. With Jack’s thighs and his penchant for tight fitting pants, it’s an impressive move. “Blew me in the men’s restroom right after dinner.” “Fuck you I did not,” Jack grunts as he lifts up his hips to help Connor strip off his boxers.

Tkachuk’s trade from Calgary to Edmonton happened midseason, so he just shows up in the locker room on a Tuesday morning in early December with no announcement. He looks greasy and tired and wears a wrinkled suit. Leon can’t help but think that there's something odd about Tkachuk’s arrival in Edmonton. With all the effort that Tkachuk puts into establishing himself as a pest on the ice, he’s remarkably un-pest like on dry land.

“Shut the door,” says Draisaitl. “’Course you’re bossy like this,” Matthew mutters. But he shuts the door and, after a minute of hesitation, flicks the latch shut too. “McDavid gave me the talk, you know why I’m here, so if you want me to go—”

There’s an honor system to it: don’t pick too far below your weight class unless you’ve got an excuse, or too far above unless you’re trying to make a statement; if you’re going to pass or whine about it too much, be prepared to pay for it next time; if you’re going to be a dick, the guy you’re picking better deserve it.

Leon hates Matthew Tkachuk. Doesn't he? So then why isn't he turning him away, despite his heat?

"Leon." Matthew says. He can't remember wanting someone like this before, never in his life, like without them he'd explode. Leon is six-plus feet of warm skin and Matthew wants to ruin him. "Leon," he says again. "I promise I'll still hate you in the morning."

Everybody knows about the bet.

Mitch breaks up with his girlfriend of two years on a Tuesday.

Connor would give up a lot to have his soulmate write back even just their name.

"Yeah, I think it's better that way than in front of a bunch of cameras. I mean, it's better to be a little bit low key about it."

When the PR team makes them do a couples quiz for the team's YouTube channel and Connor gets every question about him right, that's when Jack has to acknowledge to himself that, yeah, maybe they've become friends. or, Jack and Connor get drafted by the Seattle Kraken.

Jack feels the metal bite into his wrist. There’s more resistance than there should be, and with a growing sense of horror, Jack looks down to see that Saader has locked him into one of the cuffs belonging to a pair of hot pink, fuzzy handcuffs. The other is around the wrist of fucking Connor McDavid.

“Hey, boys,” Nail says loudly. “Look at lovebird potentials over there.” Someone hits pause on the game, and suddenly the room is quiet, everyone staring at Ryan and Connor. Ryan rolls his eyes. “Stop it,” he says. “Just because we’ve both got marks on our hands doesn’t mean we’re going to bond to each other.”

Obviously, everybody knows that there is no blessing without a curse, or a curse without a blessing. It’s the universe’s handy little trick to keep things balanced, so that nobody can ask for too much for free, so that nobody can curse their neighbor without also doing a little good. A matched set. It just that Connor’s starting to think that he really, really did not grasp this concept when he was six years old. ... Jack’s quiet for a long moment. “I’ve never seen a curse like this,” he says finally, and Connor shakes his head, blood draining from his face. “That’s because,” he says, horror settling low in his belly. “Jack, that’s because I’m the curse.”

It’s fair, Noah thinks, to say he’s become an expert on how to handle Jack.