jamie burne

NHLers and the Olympics (hypothetical)


Alex Ovechkin goes to the Olympics. No one questions his many carry on bags, or why one looks suspiciously like Nicklas Backstrom.

The NHL is curious as to why Henrik Lundqvist has been playing so poorly for the Rangers during the time of the Olympics. Joel Lunqvist must be feeling off too..he called in sick to work all month. 

Carey Price builds a small wall in his net, then leaves and goes to the Olympics. No one notices the difference. 

Sidney Crosby wants to go to the Olympics but he does not want to let down the Penguins or break the rules. Fleury and Letang put melatonin in  Crosbys PB&J. He wakes up on the Plane next to to Jamie Benn. 

A displeased Jamie Benn is duck taped to a giggly Tyler Seguin. 

Brent Burns smuggles  Joe Pavelski to the Olympics in his beard. 

Shea Weber fires a fake slap shot. It fake hits Markov, Plekanec and Pacioretty. They are all out for the month  with fake and vague injuries. They get fake beards and go to the Olympics under fake names. 

Erik Karlsson is very handsome. He tells the league he is going to the Olympics, they are distracted by all the handsome and tell him its fine.

No one wants to have to tell Tuukka Rask he cant go to the Olympics, so no one does.

playing “guess what team this hockey player is on” w/ my brother

he knows nothing about hockey and here are the highlights

  • sidney crosby
    • ironically, seconds after establishing that the only 2 teams he knew of were the canucks and the penguins, he guessed that sid played for the canucks
    • “didn’t he score some important goal for vancouver in some big hockey championship thing??”
      • spoiler: he was thinking of the van 2010 olympics
      • he does not accept this though, continues to insist sid is captain of the canucks
        • stop him
  • max paciorrety 
    • him, immediately upon hearing the name: “MAXIMUM PATCH”
      • “he probably plays for a very patchwork team. what’s a patchwork place? florida. he plays for the florida…. panthers.”
      • me: “that… actually is the name of a team. not pacioretty’s team but, a team. did you know that?”
      • “no i guessed”
      • i gave him a point for it anyway
  • henrik sedin
    • he somehow started thinking he was related to the colour brown somehow (don’t ask how) 
      • “what’s brown? …the water in kentucky”
      • “the shitty teams are brown. he plays for the… oh! the boston bruins”
      • @ bruins fans i apologized but i laughed, i did
    • “give me a hint” “how about i give you his brother’s name. plays for the same team, it’s daniel”
      • “daniel… henrik… handle… dendrik” (continues for 30 seconds) 
      • me: “maybe… maybe focus on the team instead of just how to combine their names?”
    • “are they on a canadian team?” “yes” “the… toronto maple leafs” “no”
      • my brother lives in vancouver and really should know this one
      • he does not
      • literally there was a canucks jersey (mine) hanging up behind him while we were doing this and i,
    • i had to tell him henrik sedin was captain of the vancouver canucks and he said
      • “i thought that was sidney crosby”
      • TO MY FACE
  • jamie benn
    • “could you have possibly given me a more generic name??”
    • gave his brother’s name for a hint again
      • this was before the montreal trade. do svidanya jobenn (((
    • he managed to narrow it down to the state of texas
      • “there’s a team in texas?? where???”
      • “i’m gonna guess houston. jamie… jordie… a lot of j sounds… i’m gonna say they play for the houston giraffes”
  • brent burns
    • “burns, burns, what burns…. california is experiencing draughts..” “you’re getting close actually” “really? wow”
      • “sacramento.. san jose… i know san jose has a team! the san jose… uhh…”
      • (our dad) “here’s a hint, we had a chance to swim with them on our last vacation but you slept in”
      • “oh! i think that was a called a… a takihiti fish.” (our dad, quietly: no.) “yes. the san jose takihiti fish”
  • pk subban
    • “pk?? does that stand for something??” “yes, parnell karl” (our dad, whose name is karl: “nice”)
    • tbh i don’t remember what he guessed but he sat there repeating “pk subban… pk… suuuu… bannnn.. subban… Suuub’n. P… K… Subban” to himself for like 2 minutes and that was hilarious to me for some reason
  • geno malkin
    • “geno… sounds italian” 
      • me: *tries to tell him geno’s actual name w/ my best attempt at pronounciation* him: “…yebbie veggie?” 
    • “idk man give me a hint” 
    • “ok so… his captain played in the 2010 vancouver olympics”
    • “…his captain is sidney crosby”
    • “yes!”
    • “so he plays for the vancouver canucks!!”
    • “no.”
Fanfiction - Draco (Constellations Series)

Previous constellations


Witches all, to burn at the stake.

Amanda Byrne, drowned by an angry mob, didn’t transform into a bat and came flying over her house; but she was a beautiful young woman, with gentle eyes and gentler curves, so respectable men coveted her beyond boundaries of marriage and sense, bringing the wrath of scorned wives upon her. Alice Abbot never casted a spell to shrink a man’s cock, the very reason she was placed in the hangman’s noose; she was a clever girl and a sharp tongue to boot, so her betrothed’s member withered only by the force of her mocking words when he tried to force himself on her. Emma Chance didn’t produce a concoction to make women turn on their husbands, forgetting the roles of dutiful wives; she only wanted to learn how to read and know her figures and by that she burned to ash.

Neither of those girls had a grimoire under their beds; collected herbs in the precise phases of the moon to strengthen their power; prayed to the Mother – the womb of all life – instead of a God made of sin; touched their own bodies in pleasure in the depth of night, with visions of a faceless man; chanted ancient words to save a crop. None of them more of a witch than a common man.

In the New World nothing was truly new – the old ways, prejudices and superstitions had only found new ground to blossom upon, new opportunities for cruelty and patriarchy. Women were still deemed witches when they presented a mind of their own and dared to defy the law of a man’s word. Like a weed, an independent woman must be eradicated, before she could spread and contaminate all the garden.

Claire Beauchamp had been moving most of her life, her strangeness frequently unexplained by her foreignness. From the outskirts of London, to an attic in Edinburgh that felt like a furnace, in what would become known as Mary King’s Close, to a cottage near Florence, to an inn in Lisbon, Claire had started over; until there would come a point the word inevitably escaped from someone’s mouth, banishing her. Witch. Sorceress. Defiler. Beelzebub’s harlot. Satan’s whore.

Jumping from peril to peril she had found herself aboard a caravel, her destiny a settlement in America. In Saybrook Colony she had tried to become almost invisible during the first few months, assisting the local physician in his ministrations and overseeing the care of his house, to the best of her abilities. Almost every young woman, who had made the crossing with her, had found marriage by then, maids to become wives, but Claire had no wish to engross the list of earthly properties of any man.

The echoes of the witch trials at Salem still wandered the land, a tale of caution she daren’t ignore. That was until she had found herself amongst the crowd, witnessing the flames carrying Emma away.

Claire’s fists coiled, her lips moving silently in a litany, an old spell being summoned to take away the woman’s pain as fire licked her skin. Powerless to stop the madness, and knowing all too well she risked becoming her companion if she had raised any suspicions by defending her, the only thing left was granting Emma a painless death. That night Claire lit a candle and cursed the man who had made the accusation – he wouldn’t see his next name day. Not death, but blindness – the only suitable punishment for a blind fool.

Julia Beauchamp, her mother and the only branch in a proper English family touched by magic, had explained her the responsibility of their powers. Nature always demanded a balance, a trade of sorts – something taken, something given -, she had told her. So, Claire paid the price of the day’s excessive use of power by kissing the index and middle fingers of her right hand – and when morning rose, she had forgotten entirely the colour of her father’s eyes, never to remember it again.

A new moon equalled a precious opportunity to gather herbs and plants near the river. Under the cover of darkness, it was less likely that someone – with a bit of imagination and a wicked mood – could spot her, triggering uncomfortable questions about her nocturnal activities.

One of the fundaments of practicing witchcraft with roots and herbs was that poison and cure are only separated by the amount of substance used. Some of the items lacking in Claire’s catalogue – mandrake, aconitum, belladonna - were seen as accomplished murder weapons – but she knew their uses to soothe pain, break a fever, efficiently purge someone who ate deadly berries, suffered from palpitations of the heart. She also needed lavender to make herself a dream pillow – since her sleep had been strangely disturbed for a fortnight -, dandelion and heliotrope for some divination tea and some black haw to brew as soon as she got home, as her belly cramped fiercely with her monthly.

A small basket dangling on her arm, her darkest cloak covering her from the night’s mist, a small curve knife to cut the most resistant stems, and Claire was on her way.

The air was fresh and fragrant near the river, as her feet crushed plants and branches, struggling a bit not to slide on the mud, absent of moonlight to guide her. The stars above twinkled – the constellation of the dragon clearly visible in the sky - as if winking at her, complicit with her night’s work. Honeysuckle, hyssop, lady’s mantle, ferns and foxglove quickly found their way to her basket – slightly humming in content, Claire almost laughed in joy spotting a lonely plant, the small flowers dancing in blue in the night’s breeze – forget-me-nots, they were called - and she hadn’t seen one since leaving Europe.

Her fingers slightly brushed the petals, a silent apology for the life she was about to take from its rightful place, as she started to excavate the roots with her blade.

“Who’s there?” A low-pitched voice, undoubtedly male, demanded towards the river bank. “Reveal yourself!”

Shit!” She cursed, ducking to avoid detection. Claire promptly recognized the inquisitive voice - it seemed Father Bain fancied himself a walk before bedtime. She recalled with clearness the glow in his eyes, the pleasure felt as he watched a convicted witch burn, standing beside the Governor and the Magistrate to preside over the execution.

“Are you hiding from me?” He seethed, coming ever closer in her direction. Claire began crawling, searching for the shelter of the nearby bushes. “Only creatures of darkness seek to shelter themselves from the eyes of the righteous! Reveal yourself to the eyes of the Lord, I command you!”

In your dreams.” Claire whispered. There was no denying she had been alone collecting suspicious items, some of them with clear ties to sorcery – she knew it was enough to charge her in those times, fear epidemic. Being a relatively new settler, with no known family, no husband to speak for her, she would be dead before the following month arrived.

“I feel you, witch.” Father Bain growled, slowly advancing towards her hiding place. “Your vapours of Hell, luring me to the swamp. I shall see you next to your sisters, at the gates of Hell.”

Dinna move.” A voice said close to her ear, making Claire startle and almost scream – but, fortunately, a hand had been ready to cover her mouth, blocking the sound. The man, smelling of something sharp and tangy, like metal, as well as smoke and ale, was barely visible amongst the shadows. “Do ye see that ash tree?” He asked in a murmur. Claire nodded against his hand, making her discontent evident by sniffing mightily through her nose. “Good. Go there and hide. I’ll take care of the wee bastard.”

He let her go and rose to meet Father Bain – in the fraction before she crept to the tree line, Claire saw his outline bathed by the stars, recognizing the settlement’s blacksmith.

“Where are you?!” The priest roared, blindly looking around as he heard movement, his crucifix in hand. Claire rolled her eyes, wondering if he intended to smack someone in the head with it.

“Ach, ‘tis only me, Father.” The newly arrived man said somewhat gently, finally within Bain’s sight. “Didna mean to scare ye. Such a bonny night, is it not?”

“Mister Fraser.” The clergyman said, aghast. “What are you doing here, at such an ungodly hour?”

“Thought I might bathe on the river, Father. Dinna want to wound any lassies’ susceptibilities by doing so in broad daylight.” He shrugged, his voice sounding amused. “Thought ye’d approve of the notion.”

“A bath?” The priest sounded puzzled. “The harvest is a fortnight away still, Fraser. Surely it could wait.”

“I fancy doing it every week.” I could sense the laughter in his words. “Scots an’ all, aye?”

“I thought I’d heard something.” His grouchy eyes swept across the riverbank once again. “I was moved by prayer to come out at the witching hour – it’s a dark moon today and Satan’s creatures are restless on such nights.”

“I’ll be sure to say an extra Hail Mary afore bed, then.” James Fraser nodded. “Goodnight to ye, Father Bain.” The old man pursed his lips, displeased by the night’s outcome, but after a short hesitation turned his back and disappeared, heading towards the settlement.

“Ye can come out, now.” The blacksmith called out to her. Claire slowly walked to him, carrying her basket, half-hidden in the folds of her cloak. Even though she had seen him occasionally in the square, tirelessly working at his anvil, shaping swords and horseshoes with his hammer, or at the town’s council and mass, she had never truly noticed him. Clean of rust and sweat, he was extraordinarily attractive – his straight nose, high cheeks and broad shoulders made him look like a true warrior. A pair of magnificent blue eyes, gemstones containing all secrets of moonlight and stars, stared back at her.

“Thank you.” She offered, her voice hoarse as she attempted a hasty excuse. “I was just walking, taking a breath away from the smell of the settlement. But it wouldn’t look good for an unaccompanied woman to be out here, so I got scared and decided to hide.”

“I see.” He gave her a lopsided smile and, before Claire could stop him, his hand swiftly captured her basket. James Fraser calmly studied its content, raising a brow. “Mandrake.” He touched the brown root with the tip of his fingers, reciting softly. “Thou must come in unto me; for surely I have hired thee with my son’s mandrakes. And he lay with her that night.”

Genesis.” Claire swallowed hard, giving him a tiny smile like a good catholic girl. Her eyes noticed his collar, the worn shirt revealing not only the hard tendons and muscles, but a dangerous silver crucifix peeking from it.

“An interesting harvest ye have here, Mistress.” He presented her with a serious look, even if there was still softness in the corners of his mouth. “I happen to ken most of these wee herbs and their uses – they would suit an apothecary…or a witch’s cabinet.”

Claire endured his gaze, straightening her back. Her heart pounded furiously inside her chest, knowing itself in danger – but he had deliberately chosen to protect her. She felt an overwhelming sense of trust towards him.

“Tell me, Claire Beauchamp – are ye a witch?” His voice was husky, but his eyes didn’t yield from hers.

“Yes.” She answered, before she could stop herself. “I am.”

Jamie nodded, not once, but twice – as if she had only confirmed an unshakable suspicion, something as natural as revealing “Yes, I am a maid.”.

“Ye shouldn’t be out here.” He warned her, returning the basket to her hands. “Their thirst for blood is not yet quenched – they will continue their hunt and eventually they might find a lass who truly is a witch. Be careful.”

“Aren’t you going to report me, then?” Claire pressed him, bewildered. “I thought you were a man of faith.”

“I have faith in many things, lass.” Jamie smirked, looking away from her into the river, mindlessly running nearby. “Not only in God, but in good people too. I saw the look in yer eyes as they burned poor wee Emma Chance. The first one I ever saw at the stake who didna scream or trashed.” He looked at her again, his eyes all-knowing. “If ye had any part in it - ye did a good thing for her, Mistress.”

“Thank you.” She adjusted her cloak, feeling utterly discombobulated. “I’m in your debt, Mister Fraser.”

“I ken a rare woman when I see one.” Jamie turned his back and smiled at her above his shoulder. She recognized his silhouette draped in fragments of silver light from her restless dreams. “Ye might yet find occasion to repay me the kindness, once our paths meet again.”

Highlights from Firebringer
  • duck is lord 
  • sexuality and female empowerment being treated as a given, instead of being ignored or poorly represented as much of popular media currently does
  • the whole cast swearing like sailors 
  • the music (hello, percussion!), choreography, and costume/set/puppet design 
  • “all hail emberly, the fire shitter”
  • Brian Holden’s lone nipple 
  • the new cast members: Lauren Walker (Molag) being absolutely hilarious & having an amazing stage presence; Jamie Burns (Chorn) having the voice of a goddess; and Tiffany Williams (Tiblyn) being the cutest human being ever
  • shameless kissing 
  • “i don’t really want to do any work today” - same, Zazzalil, same
  • clark baxtresser blessing us with his presence since prehistoric times
  • rachael spanking joey
  • the shadowpuppets during “the night belongs to snarl”
  • schwoopsie inventing stand-up comedy 
  • privileged fucks becoming the starkid slogan of 2k17