#if anyone is going to send provoking messages on anon here PLEASE use a tone indicator like /t or /nsrs or something

[ask-shane]

Hi, I am the anon that said i send mean asks on purpose. I just wanted to make a clarification and a formal apology and then i will stop interacting with this blog.

I need to clarify that by mean asks i meant things like saying shane has no bitches, or that he uses 738283837 in 1 shampoo. I never sent any slurs or genuine insults to this blog, and on top of mean things i also send nice things. I should've specified that the asks I sent were teasing and not genuine mean things.

I sincerely apologize for saying what I said. I had no idea the extent of the awful things people sent you and the fact that I could make you feel like i intentionally try yo make you feel bad and ruin your day with slurs and insults litterally made me shiver and feel anxious in real life. I fully understand how what i sent was harmful and damaging to someone who has to deal with toxicity on a daily basis.

I feel a lot of shame for what I did, this blog is something i check daily because i love your writing and i Love this character. I don't need you to unblock me if its even possible, i just wanted to apologize and wish you well

hi anon, mod dawn speaking. i’m gonna be talking directly to this person so please feel free to skip this if you aren’t them

i just wanted to start by addressing a couple things. firstly, thank you for apologizing so sincerely and honestly. i can tell how genuine this is and i’m certain it was a very brave decision after i put you on the spot earlier. i’ve deleted the post replying to your ask out of respect for this situation.

and for that, i am extremely sorry. i’m speaking to you with recognition that there is a person who is going to be reading this. i should’ve been more aware that i was putting you on blast in front of a lot of people. even if you were on anonymous, i can’t imagine how anxiety-inducing it was to be reading my response when you actually meant to be playful/teasing.

another thing i need to clarify here was that i did not realize that you were not the one sending me death threats and slurs. i had received a barrage of messages at the same time and had wrongly assumed the others were coming from you as well. it all happened at once, and the context of you sending that ask was shockingly related to the vile ones i received. your asks were not at all on the same level of “bad” the ones you didn’t send were.

unfortunately i had no way of telling which ones belonged to you and which ones didn’t, so i decided to address them using your ask. i made the mistake of incorrectly conflating your ask with the others.

that out of the way, i am so sorry once again, and also very thankful you apologized. please know there’s absolutely no need to feel shame for this.

i want to make it clear now that teasing (and even being somewhat mean) asks on my blog are okay. it’s fun to be provocative! there’s an art to it that i can appreciate, especially here, where shane gets glazed a lot. it is really awful that my guard happened to be high when you sent this because of what another actually unacceptable anon did. you shouldn’t be lumped in with them and i am so sorry i couldn’t discern your intention. i should also use this as an opportunity to say you have a good heart. i love that you can be playful and i thought a lot of what you said was actually quite funny. i didn’t intend to make you feel anxious or responsible for what other people did, but regardless, i did so, and it wasn’t fair of me to do to you.

lastly, thank you for interacting with my blog. now that we’ve cleared things up, i want to personally say to you that it is more than okay to continue to interact with my blog. i can appreciate a presence like yours around here. i’ll figure out a way to make sure you’re able to continue interacting (if you’d like to, of course). i am so glad you enjoy my writing and my portrayal of the character and it is honestly heartbreaking to hear i may have spoiled this experience for you. i have no negative feelings toward you whatsoever— if anything, i respect your ability to communicate with me after this (even though i’m sure it would’ve been much easier to block me and try to forget this happened)

i hope you are reading this.. i wish you nothing but the best 🤍

- dawn

[ivyglow]

Mine | Anthony Beauvillier

A/n: this idea came after we had a very sexy- I mean- Angry* Anthony pushing Sidney Crosby. Barbie and some anons send the good energy and so althought it took me forever here it is *cheers*. A huge thank you for @barbienoturbby​ for sending me some specific ideas (sharpies, choking etc hehehe), putting up w my random messages in the middle of the night or being a insecure bitch, ILY BARBIE! Huge shout out to @sebs-aston​ for proofreading this so fast *you’re amazing, liv!*.  PS. More than ever I’m gonna need your feedback because I’m an insecure bitch and this is my first time writing smut (freddie was thigh riding, I don’t consider it too much). So please just lmk if you like it or hate it <3 

Word count: 4k

Warnings: smut, mention of chocke, spitting, oral -female receiving- and all those dirty stuff. 

Summary: after getting angry on the ice, you decide to make Anthony angry in bed too. 

You knew Tito was a dom in bed as soon as you met him: he helped you to sit and to get up on your first date, and he led you to your car with his hand on your lower back. One month into getting to know each other, you were planning a gathering with his friends and he was the one to assign everyone with a task. Some days he would use fewer words and stick with hand gestures or eye contact to tell you what he wanted or what he was silently saying. 

So when you two had sex for the first time and he was on top, you were not surprised, you also weren’t surprised when he asked how would you feel about hair pulling, choking, and tying. And, well, you’d never tried any of this, so you were honest with him, knowing that honesty was the key to make things work. He promised to go slow, and he watched you intently while he did everything just to make sure you were comfortable. You can still remember how it felt when he first stretched you, how your heel went to his back to accommodate his waist better, how this movement gave him the perfect angle to go all the way until the end. 

You also remember the hickeys he left on your skin, mostly on places where your clothes could hide, but some you knew he purposely made for people to see. And people saw, indeed and also heard. He got a noise complaint twice because his old bed would scratch and bang on the wall, and that wouldn’t be a huge problem if it was anyone else, but it was Anthony, a hockey player, at that point -your boyfriend-, and he had the stamina to go for hours. A chug of water, maybe a fruit snack, and less than twenty minutes later he was ready to go again - or he would use these twenty minutes to get you off with his mouth and fingers. So the noise complaint was very much expected. 

Now six months into the relationship, this wasn’t a problem anymore. Tito bought a new bed, and even talked with a friend about the possibility of getting soundproof walls. That’s why you were drinking your water and eating one of his energy bars while watching the game. The dynamic after games was usually very sexual, it didn’t matter if he was on the road or at home, you would find a way to get off, either phone sex or spicy pics. He never left you to your own hands. 

The Isles were playing against the Penguins and you knew he was pissed off because of their losing streak against that team. That made him angry with some specifics players too. When he got home last night, you just cuddled together and went to sleep, he was tired and fuming because of their loss, and he probably heard a handful by his coach. Because of those losses, you knew he was going to skate his way around the ice tonight more than ever, and, especially, that he was angry. 

You were laying on his couch when the game started, the Isles skating around the ice in a way you would have bet was a premonition for another loss, but ten minutes in things started to go differently, and that was the exact moment when you sat and gripped Beau’s shirt before an amazing shot hit the Pens’ net. They kept the rhythm on for the next two periods, although they were pretty much stressful- a handful of times you caught yourself holding your breath or cursing. The last two were also a stage for your boyfriend’s anger. He was pissed in a way you’d never seen before on the ice, and when Sidney Crosby pushed Pulock, Tito had had enough and shoved the opposition’s player on the ice. Torn between finding it hot or funny, you chose the latter letting out a loud laugh. Yet, when another exchange of pushes happened between the Pens’ superstar and Beau you sure felt the heat taking up space inside your body and you shifted on the couch. There was another goal and the game kept on providing stress and anxiety for the fans, but you were stuck on the scene your boyfriend had just put up. 

He was usually like this in bed, but not that much on the ice, and seeing that happening outside the four walls left you with a lingering warmth inside your body, and not the cute warmth you usually felt when he cooked for you or told you how much he loved you. But the warmth you got whenever he bent you on the kitchen counter or held your hand tight while going down on you. 

It was past midnight when you heard the door open and close, the soft click making your heart beat faster. He was home. You heard the thud of his bag on the floor and his steps bringing his scent closer to the living room where you were sitting on the couch wearing only his jersey and his favorite lace.

“Hey you, winner,” your voice echoed in the dimly lit apartment and you could see his lips curling in a small smile.

“Hey, babe,” his lips found yours on a quick peck and you looked up for more contact, but Anthony was already walking to the kitchen. 

“Are you ok?” you asked, barefoot padding the floor until you reached the stool.

Your boyfriend was already busy cutting some bananas in a bowl, “Yeah, just a little stressed with the game and hungry,” he answered.

“But you won,” you stated in confusion. 

His eyes scanned you for a second before going back to his task. The silence was everything you needed to know: he really was not in the mood for long talks after the episode, but you were a woman on a mission and you knew exactly what to do to get Anthony riddled up. 

“You guys had a great game…” you began, cautious with your words and actions, hands reaching for a banana on the fruit bowl. “How was playing against Sidney Crosby?”

You saw how his eyebrows raised slightly before pouring honey on his bowl and whipping his fingers with his tongue. You knew the action wasn’t supposed to be filthy, yet you’ve been dating him long enough to know that he knew every action of his could be seen as sexual at some point. 

“It was normal, he’s a normal hockey player like any of us,” his tone is nonchalant. 

You suppress a grin, “he’s not like any of you, he’s Sidney Crosby. Just last night he reached his thousandth game,” Tito’s now chewing on his fruit and you can see how the motion seems tighter after your words, still you keep going, “he’s like a superstar! I would love to meet him any of these days…” you trail off busying yourself on biting the banana you just peeled off. His eyes trained on how your lips wrap around the piece of fruit, your tongue purposely darting out. Your boyfriend chooses silence again and you huff rolling your eyes. 

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” he queries, eyes on his bowl, jaw still clenched tight while biting another piece of his fruit. You dart your eyes in another direction while biting your banana again, this time without so much care on giving him a hard time. “I asked you a question, y/n,” his tone was sharp and his voice low. You shake your head. 

He grabs his water bottle before chugging half of the content, “Cat got your tongue? I swear I just saw you poking it out while eating that banana to provoke me,” he tauntingly  gives you a defiant look. 

Anthony motions for you to come to him and you follow his orders willingly, eager to finally have your way with him. You’re within arm’s reach when he tugs you closer, making you stumble in the middle of his big thighs. In a blink of an eye, you feel the sting on your butt cheeks, his big hands finding it again one more time before grabbing your chin. “You can’t even wait for your man to eat,” it’s a low grunt and he seems more annoyed with your playful smile, and you see the perfect opportunity to tease him a little bit more, “You could eat something else, there’s nothing stopping you…” 

With that Anthony seems to lose his judgment before swinging your body on top of the counter, “you’re being such a brat tonight” his hands grab your butt squeezing it hard, “that’s not how you get the things you want” 

“No? Then why are you about to fuck me?” you mock him knowing damn right that this would only make him go harder on you. 

“Crisse,” (holy shit) his French accent makes your pussy throb. You loved when he talked in French to you.

His big hand pushes you back in a swift motion, the same hand spreads your legs for him, and it’s only a second before you’re fully laying on the counter. Still wearing only a lace thong and his jersey, you know the former is about to be ripped out of you. Anthony drags his fingers from the bottom of your belly to your breasts before gifting you a devilish smirk as soon as he notices you’re not wearing a bra. 

“You think Sidney Crosby is the superstar, but you know damn well I’m gonna be the reason why you’re seeing stars tonight,” he whispers before sitting on the stool and kissing up to your thighs. His lips are sticky from the honey and because they’re cold it sends chills running through your warm body. You stretch your arms to reach his hair and he hums grabbing your wrists harshly, “no hair pulling for you tonight,” his murmurs hit your skin and you let out a small whine. 

In order to play with your sensations, you see him taking a long gulp of his cold water. You know it will make his mouth colder and slicker, and you know he’s only doing it because he’s planning to spend a long time between your legs.

And that he does.

You sigh when his lips finally reach your pussy, the shock it causes is good and you can’t help but close your thighs in an attempt to bring him where you are really yearning for his lips. Nevertheless, that’s not what he has planned for you, and he drags his mouth between your pussy lips long before finally wrapping his lips on your clit and humming in pleasure. 

“Oh fuck,” you let out a whine when his fingers reach for your nipple and twist it hard. His wet tongue flickered on your clit and he dived in deeper, making you feel all of him, from his stubble that was starting to grow to his full lips, you could feel it all.

“Anthony,” you try to form a sentence in the exact moment he pushs one finger inside of you, but your voice comes out as a prayer. A plea for more. 

You were a sinner for him.

“You taste so good,” it’s a pleasure mumble and it comes just before his palm strikes your butt cheeks in a firm slap. “I could spend days here, bébé” 

“Anthony,” you try again and this time he laughs with his lips still wrapped around your clit. The vibrations send shivers through your whole body, your toes curl and you try to reach for his hair again before his hand holds both of your wrists. 

You’re close and he knows it because he adds another finger and curls it. It’s a ‘come here’ motion and from another dimension, you were almost able to hear him whisper the same words in French. 

“Give it to me,” he demands, and you do as said just as another finger hits your right spot. For some seconds the kitchen’s ceiling turns black with dots and your vision goes blurry. Toes curling, the pitch on your belly button finally making its way out just like the curses and moans that leave your mouth. Most of them being his name and how good he makes you feel. 

You’re not even done with your high when his big hands grab your ankles bringing your body to the edge of the counter and making you sit. “Open your mouth,” he demands. 

You moan, eyes rolling back from pleasure, “put your tongue out for me, má chérie,” his hands, now holding your jaw, tighten around you. There’s a whimper of bliss and you part your lips wide bringing your tongue out just like demanded before he spits on your mouth. 

“See how good you taste?!” Anthony hums and you swallow it before poking your tongue out again and licking from his glistering chin to his lips. The action fuels a passionate kiss and it’s seconds before your weak legs wrap themselves around his waist bringing him closer. Your core finds the bulge on his pants and you whimper feeling aroused again. 

Your boyfriend is fast to grasp the underside of your thighs bringing your body close to his before making his way towards the bedroom. You take your time licking and kissing his neck and jaw until your body hits the mattress and he’s unbuckling his belt.

“Take it off” he commands, unbuttoning his dress shirt. You’re fast to obey taking off the jersey you’re wearing, now you’re fully naked in front of him. 

“Hands,” you put both of your wrists together and he fastens his belt around it tight. 

From the way his eyebrows were slightly up to his lips parted, you knew he was about to give you another orgasm, you knew that he wasn’t done and he wouldn’t be any time soon. 

“Do we have a safe word tonight, bébé?” his full lips find your jaw and neck and he nibbles on your ear before sucking harshly on your neck again. 

His purpose is to mark you, not only where people can see, but also where they can’t. Just like your waist is being held with such fierceness, you know it’ll leave prints there. You hum a yes dropping your head to the side so he can have more access to your skin, “use your words, you know I need to hear you say it,” he whispers now bringing his mouth to your nipples and biting it lightly. You whimper, “our safe word is blue.” 

“Perfect,” you can feel his smile on your skin and when you reach for his hair with your hands tied, he pushes them up. His strong arm swings on top of your belly and he takes his time on your breasts before making his way lower. There’s a pitch bubbling on your belly again just with the idea of it and he gives you mischievous grim kissing and licking your thighs. 

“Beau,” you whine already feeling your legs weakening again.

“I told you I was hungry, you were the one who suggested the meal,” the funny remark is accompanied by a flicker of his tongue on your cunt. “Now I’ll only stop when I’m satisfied.” 

You curse closing your hands and trying to bring your waist up. He shakes his head, “huh huh, that’s a bad girl attitude,” he spits on your pussy and you moan loud, “and you know exactly what we do to bad girls in this house, don’t you?” 

You nod and he chuckles.

“Words.” 

“I know, sir.” 

“Now, there’s my good girl,” he praises finding your clit and holding it carefully between his teeth, “now give it to me just like you suggested,” he murmurs before diving on your pussy, his tongue gentle and slow, in contrast with his solid arm pinning you to the bed and his rough behavior. 

It would be a long ride and you would feel every step taken, because each one would bring you closer to the inevitable. You felt urgency though; you wanted him to fuck your brains out already. But Anthony took his time, and you knew he was being good because he let you cum in the kitchen even after you provoked him. When his point finger entered you, your eyes couldn’t focus and you knew you were closer, yet instead of giving you a release, your boyfriend took his kisses to your thighs grinning at you one more time. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he speaks under his breath, eyes trained on your pussy. Yet you don’t feel ashamed, because it’s Anthony, and he knows you like the back of his hands, he knows what to do to make you comfortable and he knows how to make you feel good. He would praise and love your body rightly, so you let him. You spread your legs wider and gave him a lopsided smile. 

“Please,” you plead again that night; however, he follows your request this time. 

Anthony dives in again, licking and spitting, flickering his tongue and using his fingers. Giving you what he got and what he knows you like. Your body is fast to answer, your waist trying to go higher to find his mouth, your toes curling, your head shooting back and your eyes rolling. 

He got you there. Fast.

And he made sure to ride you out of you high, this tongue not the least careful with your sensitive bud, while cleaning you up he kept licking it lightly. Full lips brushing it with dedication. 

“Now I want you on all fours,” there’s a dirty smile on his glistering lips and you hold back another moan with the image of Anthony sitting between your legs, face glowing with your cum, “allos y,” (c’mon). You turn your body, holding your hands before supporting your head on the pillows, ass up for him.

There’s the noise of a slap and the sting on your butt cheeks, right before a soft kiss is placed on top of the surely red mark. His hands roam around your body and you shiver when he grabs your hair. “Crisse, tu as l'air si chaud,” (holy shit, you look so hot) Anthony slaps you booty again and finally slips his finger at your entrance feeling your wetness pool around. You’re already ready for him again and he seems pleased with the realization. So pleased it doesn’t take long for him to slip inside of you hitting just the right spot. Your body shots upward and he holds you by your waist keeping your butt bent. 

“Anthony,” you moan loudly when he starts moving ruthlessly inside of you. There’s something hot about how his body is being aggressive and you are taking it all, how his hips are almost knocking your body down, “right - fucking - there,” you whine and he keeps going, this time grabbing your hair and making your body lean towards him. 

“Whose name are you screaming tonight, bébé?” he mumbles bending his own body on top of yours without completely letting go of the position. 

“Yours,” your answer between groans. 

“Let me hear you” 

And you do.

You say his name out loud and clear, and you’re almost sure the neighbors are going to hear it. Yet you do it again and again while the sound of your voice is mixed with the noise of his skin hitting your skin and his feral grunts. He’s big and hard inside you and every time he goes out to get inside again you can feel your pussy stretching out to accommodate him. 

“Beau,” you moan and he chuckles leaning his body down to kiss your back. You see from the corner of your eyes when he finds the black marker on the top of your drawer, you can almost see his head working on ideas, and then he’s grabbing the sharpie you were using to write on your sticky notes earlier today. 

His body is straight up again and his movements are now slower, as he unclasps the marker and you feel its cold material hit your skin. There’s a long up and then down movement, you’re almost sure it’s an M, and then there’s a harsh line of an I, you can hear his grunts louder and he stops himself for a second before shooting his body towards yours again. The sharpie finds your skin again, this time to draw an N, you knew he was doing it big, not only for his eyes, but for you to feel and to know exactly what it was as he wrote the last letter, an E. 

You roll your eyes when he closes and throws the sharpie somewhere in the room before leaving another one of his blows on your butt cheeks. Anthony swings his arm around your torso bringing you up to him, your back hitting his solid chest, “you’re mine,” and that’s what it takes for you to come undone on his still hard cock. Your whole body trembles and your vision goes blurry again, there are tears in your eyes, and this time your moans turn into screams of satisfaction. 

He keeps fucking you through your high and you curse dropping your head back on his shoulder. His hand sneaks in front of your body to touch your sensitive clit, and you hold it sinking your nails on his skin. “Oh fuck,” he grunts drawing his finger deeper. You’re not sure if your body can’t take so much pleasure.

“Let me ride you,” it’s a prayer, a plea, a cry, and you can feel his lips on your neck before your bodies are turned and you’re on top taking him deeper, touching new spots. 

“That’s it, bébé,” he praises you and you roll your hips using your last energies. His hands find their way to your thighs and his short nails dig on your skin bringing you impossibly closer. There’s a deep grunt from him and a small whine from you. It’s hard for your eyes to focus, and you use your body to pin his down and your tied hands find his neck before squeezing it. His hips shot up under you and you scream, tightening your grip on him and squeezing his dick inside of you. 

You can feel another knot on the pitch of your belly, but this time it feels different to recognize this new sensation. That’s when you notice the wetness under you dripping onto his cock to his belly button and in the bed. 

“Fuck,” he moans, “Oh shit, you’re squirting,” his big hands go to your back and he keeps shooting his hips up to meet your pussy, “that’s it, bébé, give it to me once more,” and you’re squeezing him one last time before giving both of you a mind-blowing orgasm. Your body tumbles on top of his and this time things go pitch black instead of blurry. You can still feel his hot body under you and his rapid heartbeat, but your body is fluttering and there’s nothing in front of you. There’s only his body. There’s only your boyfriend existing under you with his cock still deep inside of you. 

It’s seconds before his caresses on your back become some kind of poking, “y/n?” 

“Huh?” you mumble, your voice raspy. He chuckles.

“Fuck, you passed out,” he sounds proud and you giggle. 

“That was the best sex we’ve ever had,” you confess without finding the strength to move your hands and caress him back, but Anthony keeps the tip of his fingers moving softly around your body, “I think I should talk more about Sidney Crosby, huh?” you joke and his hips shot upward making you moan Anthony’s name. Although he just came, he’s still hard and deep inside your soaked pussy.

“What were you saying?” he questions with a smug grin. “I think you were saying something about a certain player, Sidney Crosby maybe?” 

You arch your eyebrows, “who’s Sidney Crosby? I only know Anthony Beauvillier,” and he laughs at your answer before kissing your lips softly. You know there’s gonna be a time for water and a fruit snack later and then he’s going again, because he’s never done until you’re completely wrecked, the only name able to escape your lips being his. 

Taglist: @smit41 @mybrokenshitthoughts @linasobsessions @hoiyheadharpies @barbienoturbby @barzysandmarnersbitch​ @elitebarzal​ @fallinallincurls​ @starswin​ @sortagaysortahigh​​ If you wanna be added to my taglist you can send my your user in here

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[lisinfleur]

Winds of Change - Part I

Author’s Notes | Originally, it was supposed to be a one shot. However, things sometimes get their own life and well, a double shot for you guys! Universe | Vikings Pairing | Ivar x Christian Slave! Reader Info | Viking Age AU, requested by @paper-goonie and anon, queued for 5CW2, click for Part II Words | 2588 ⁑ Warnings: Faith conflict, Christianism, Heathenry, religious aspects abandon and denial. 

Everything settles down with the time. And so, it was with Ivar and his brothers. After years of war and years of distance, the tides were finally starting to calm down in between his brothers.

Ubbe had settled down as King on East Anglia and it came from him the first appeal for peace and alliance with Kattegat, now under Ivar's crown. Soon, Hvitserk - now settled as king in the lands of fallen king Olaf - also sent crows talking about the messages, proposing a pacific reencounter.

All of them agreed York was a good place for the council and that way it happened: three kings, three brothers reunited once again.

Kattegat was now the largest trading center of the Viking world. East Anglia was producing pretty more than they could consume - goods that Kattegat and the cold lands of Ringerike were missing and could receive in exchange for some slaves and coins. Ringerike had the furs, men, and slaves East Anglia and Kattegat needed. Kattegat could spread their products around the world...

The flags of war were pulled down and it was forged the Three Crowns Alliance, in which Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Ivar would collaborate to keep their kingdoms growing.

And from these days, you came into his life...

Since he was in York - which would soon be incorporated by East Anglia's kingdom and would remain under Ubbe's reign as a center of product flow - Ivar thought it was a good idea to get himself a new personal servant. Some company since Kattegat was lonely without his brothers and mother; and now his queen, Freydis, was with the gods alongside his unborn child she couldn’t bring into this world. So, he went to the market and he was walking in between the jails when he found you.

Unlike the other women, you weren't praying or on your knees. You had a cross, like all the others, but unlike them, you weren't wearing the necklace. Instead, you were holding it in your hand, looking at the pendant where he could see that crucified man fixed to the wooden cross to who you appeared to be looking at, curiously.

The merchant hit the jail with his can, causing you to cringe, scared, but Ivar pushed the man away from the jail and looked at you.

"Get up, slave," he said, motioning his fingers for you to get up from the bottom of the jail. "Come closer."

You learned, with the few days you were in that place, that the less you disobeyed, the less you would suffer. So, you just came forward, near the bars.

"Open your mouth," he said, touching your chin through the bars to move your face and see your teeth.

All in its place and well cared, for you always tried to keep them perfect.

The Viking man extended his hand towards yours, pointing your cross.

"Shouldn't you be wearing this?" he asked, looking at you with those deep and glassy blue eyes.

"It's a protection amulet," you answered. "I don't think it protected me, after all."

Your answer made him smile, interested.

"So... You don't think your lord and sire is protecting you now?" he asked, clearly interested in your loss of faith.

"I'm here in jail, while you're walking outside, ain't I? John 8:32: And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free," you said, remembering the Bible your father made you read so many times. "I'm not free... So maybe I don't know the truth..."

His smile became different. Curious and satisfied.

"How much for her?" he asked the merchant.

"Five silvers," the seller charged an abusive price.

However, the man in front of your cell just put his hand into his bag and threw the coins towards the merchant without questioning that stupid price, to the merchant's surprise.

"What is your name, woman?" he asked while the merchant was opening the door of your cell and tying a rope around your neck.

"I'm Y/N," you said meekly.

"Y/N..." he repeated "Come... There are some things I think you should see."

He didn't pull the rope tied to your neck. Nevertheless, you followed his slow pace, observing now the man that bought you had something wrong in both of his legs. Closer, you could observe his leg guards and the way he was using that crutch to help his reinforced legs to support his weight standing.

"Something you though interesting, pet?" he said, a little acid, noticing your constant observation.

"Your strong will," you answered, ignoring the way he called you, catching his attention once again with an unexpected answer. "A man with legs so thin would be sitting on the ground, probably asking for the mercy of brothers and sisters in God to survive his debility. Instead, you walk, stately. You have a strong will," you explained, speaking humbly and low, causing him to really get satisfied with his acquisition.

"Do you know who you belong to, slave?" he asked again, appearing to be testing your knowledge.

But you knew so small about the world...

Being raised as a farmer Christian woman made you skilled in lots of things like cooking, caring for pregnant women and children, and wounds! You were good at caring for wounds and sicknesses. You could sew, braid and spin, and your hands were marked from making good straw baskets for the home. However, you knew nothing about the world, especially about the Norsemen your father used to say were demons that God was sending to punish the sins of Wessex.

You knew some names, but nothing that could relate that man to anything you knew. So, your answer kept the humble tone he was pleased to hear in your voice.

"No, master. I don't have any idea of who are you except for the fact you're an important man, or the merchant wouldn't have increased my price in four silver coins and you wouldn't have paid it without any effort," you concluded, getting a smile from Ivar's face.

You were more than just a simple slave: you were intelligent and rational, and a pretty good observer for a Christian woman.

He turned his body, stopping in front of you, allowing you to notice how he was taller and bigger than you while his fingers were slowly untying the rope in your neck, releasing your skin from the itchy sensation of the knot against your skin.

"I am Ivar, the Boneless. The Ruthless. The King of Kattegat and the man who conquered this place," he said.

And the smile in his face opened when your eyes became wider, recognizing the surprise that name would always provoke in a Christian person and feeling the pleasure of being feared.

But in a second, your fear became doubt in your eyes and once again the surprise changed faces, twisting his smile in astonishment.

"You can't be," you said, walking around him, looking the details, trying to figure out why your father and people of your small village talked about him that horrid way, "You can't be Ivar, The Ruthless. You look nothing like him," you pointed, causing Ivar to giggle, disbelieved.

"What? What kind of nonsense are you saying, woman? I am who I am and I am Ivar Ragnarsson, son of Ragnar Lothbrok, the fifth of my lineage, King of Kattegat, winner in Repton and conqueror of York!" he insisted, causing you to stop in front of him.

"Ivar, the Boneless, is not a man. He's a dragon-like demon who drags himself through the ground, leaving a trail of blood and fire through where he passes. His torso is covered with metal scales he's able to launch like daggers and his voice is like the thunder, commanding dozens of lesser demons that follow his orders wherever he goes. No arrow can hit him, no sword can cut his skin, not even the great bishop Heahmund was able to reach or touch this demon. People say he can stop battles with a single word and force the men to fight only moving his hand. People say he's the major among the young demons Ragnar Lothbrok brought into this world and they even said he killed one of his brothers with a single strike! No man was able to touch any of the demons Björn Ironside brought back to England for vengeance, but Ivar, the Ruthless, killed one of them in a single hit!" you said, not noticing he was looking at you with a smile in his face, like an older man to a child and its stories. "When he's not crawling and burning the ground around him, people say he rides a chariot made of human leather and some say he's the one who dragged King Aella from the battlefield to hell, from where all the soldiers who survived could hear his screams for an entire night!"

So... These were the things the Christians were telling about him?

He laughed, looking at you.

"What?" you asked "It's true! My father used to tell my brother not to go too far from home because before this demon comes, children disappear! You shouldn't be using this demon's name, master. He might become angry and then, he may come for you!" You said, with fear.

But the man in front of you did nothing but giggle, not taking seriously the fear in your eyes.

"You, Christians, really fear those 'demons' don't you?" he asked, turning himself to walk again.

His steps going slowly towards the principal square of York while you were following him closely.

Anyone in your people would say you were stupid: you were untied and your master was a crippled man who walked slowly with a crutch. But it would be stupid to run away from him: he was treating you good and he surely was an important man, after all. He would have you back without effort and you would end up losing his favor you earned somehow. Something was telling you that keep that Norseman smiling was the best thing you could do.

But even then, his actions were still bothering you. That name... Ivar The Boneless... The demon could be angry with him indeed!

"We fear them because they are the opposite of our God. They're made hate and darkness, and cruel creatures that spread shadow and destruction over the world of our Lord."

"And Ivar the Boneless is one of them? I mean... One of these demon-creatures you're saying you fear?" he asked, seeming to be curious.

"Yes, master, I told you! He's a demon, not a man, and it wouldn't be wise to disturb the demons! They come from hell itself! A place of fire and suffering to where you wouldn't want to go".

"Well, I don't believe in your stories, Christian," he said, so secure, causing you to look at him kinda angry.

"They aren't stories! I'm telling the truth! I swear in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ who was crucified for our sins!" you swore and your master turned himself to look at you once again.

Your fingers holding the cross you weren't dressing, but still weren't getting rid of.

"Was he?" he asked, shocking you with his doubt "Because, for me, Christ and all this crucifixion bullshit are stories you Christians speak to each other... And I know I'm not wrong..." he said, walking some steps forward and shocking you even more when the street finished at the square and you could see the huge carriage stopped in the middle of the square with a white horse in front of it and the red leather with black and yellow patterns sculpted on it.

"I know I'm not wrong because I do drag myself around when I'm home and too tired to wear my leg guards and I do command legions with my voice, but my men are men. My horse is a horse. I'm no dragon and no demon as well, and my chariot is not made of human leather, but from goats." he kept saying, touching the chariot and climbing over it to mount the seat, looking at your shocked eyes "I leave no trail of blood and fire when I walk," he said, straightening the armor in his chest where you could see daggers of metal in his belt "And this is leather and iron, woman, not my skin. I'm no major demon, so were not my brothers. Sigurd died by my ax for he was a man and men die when you sink an ax in their chests. There are no such things like demons or Hell, or a crucified man who saved the world. There is no such thing like sin... Sin is to lose your life sparing yourself from the pleasures of this world, waiting to be sanctified after the earth swallow your remains. What are you waiting for, woman?" he asked due to the fact you were still stopped there, shocked expression, mouth lying agape and the necklace hanging from your hand.

At the same time, a part of your brain was trying to process the fact that man in front of you was Ivar, the Boneless, the Ruthless, the man your father, brothers, and neighbors feared like Lucifer itself; and another was trying to navigate through all the stories you heard about him and how wrong they were.

Were the stories wrong about his brothers as well?

Were they wrong about the Ironside and Ragnar?

Where they wrong about the saints? And Christ? And God?

"Come up," Ivar offered his hand towards you.

But when you lift your hand to accept his, he took it away.

From your hand, the necklace was still hanging and he looked at it, leaning his head aside before curving his lips towards you.

"In the lands to where I'm taking you now, your stories have no place. You can come up and leave your lies behind or you can walk behind my chariot, as a good and meek Christian slave would do, and see if you find any blood and fire in your way," he made fun of your words and extended his hand towards you once again.

Slaves didn't have a say in their own fates. Ivar knew it. He could simply drag you up into his chariot and leave, but something on you called his attention and he wanted to discover a little more about that curious woman in front of him.

It was a chance like any other.

You could hear your father in your mind...

"The devil comes up with the most beautiful things and shines with the bigger of your desires. He shows you wonders and tells you lies. Do not go with him. Do not believe in him. Stay with the truth for only the truth can show you the light".

Stay with the truth.

That man was no demon.

That man was the living proof the stories you heard were nothing but lies.

Stay with the truth.

You caught his hand and felt his strong grip when he pulled you up into his chariot with a single movement, releasing your arm to wrap his hand around your waist, picking up the reins of his horse and keeping you safe, firmly against his body. A smile in his face before he clicked his tongue, ordering the horse to start walking at a fast pace.

Leaving behind the necklace that slid from his fingers to the ground with everything you used to believe.

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On Morning Pages and Sweaty Socks

I received a question via email not long ago and wanted to share the response here in case it’s helpful for others. 

Anon asks: do you do “morning pages”? Have you found any routine like this helpful?

This is such a great question, and I’m happy to dig in, as I think it applies to anyone chasing a creative pursuit, rather than just writers. 

If you’re not familiar, “morning pages” were introduced by Julia Camera in her book, THE ARTIST’S WAY. Here’s what she says about them: 

Morning Pages are three pages of longhand, stream of consciousness writing, done first thing in the morning. *There is no wrong way to do Morning Pages*– they are not high art. They are not even “writing.” They are about anything and everything that crosses your mind– and they are for your eyes only. Morning Pages provoke, clarify, comfort, cajole, prioritize and synchronize the day at hand. Do not over-think Morning Pages: just put three pages of anything on the page...and then do three more pages tomorrow.

In other words, it’s basically a brain dump of all the random things in your head, that you let out via longhand writing. You’re meant to do it consistently, typically before you launch into a writing session, and the thought is that it will act as a ‘warm up’ of sorts. It loosens you up, and gets you into a state of mind where you’re accepting of your ideas and in the present moment. Plus, by writing longhand, you’re creating a direct connection between your thoughts and your body, which is credibly suggested to be incredibly useful for creativity in general.

Now, to answer the question: do I do morning pages?

The answer is nope. I don’t do morning pages. I have tried them, however, and I definitely think they would be a welcome addition to a creative’s day, if they’re the sort of creative who benefits from them. I just happen to not be one of them.

While I don’t do morning pages, I do have a creative routine that I adhere to with a ridiculous level of discipline.

The honest answer is, my “morning pages” is my morning workout.

Don’t close the tab yet! We’re about to get deep here.

Every day, before I even put my contacts in for the day, I put on my workout clothes. That’s the hardest part. Once that’s done, I’m already in the game. Then I do an hour of some exercise. It changes every day: it might be weight training, cardio, kickboxing, yoga -- the exercise itself doesn’t matter so much as the act of keeping the habit.

Here’s the thing: it’s the habit that gives you the benefit.

Working out isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (especially for the first few months). But, I’ve learned that I’m not only way more productive and feel physically better throughout the day when I work out, but it’s also become a really precious time for me. I truly love it. 

It’s a chance to be alone, face a challenge every day, and devote myself entirely to just one thing. If you try to multitask while you’re swinging around a 40 pound weight, you’re going to get hurt. So instead, you’re forced to stay present. 

That presence helps me work out all the stiffness. You’d think that the physical impacts of exercise would be the most noticeable, and while it’s lovely to be fit,  it’s really the mental aspects that keep me hooked. 

I get to work out the stiffness of my body, sure. But I also loosen up my ideas. I twist my thinking, challenge what I think I know, and dump all of my energy into whatever I’m doing. It helps me find my growth mindset, because no matter how hard you train, there are always things that you’ll find difficult. 

Getting into my body like this gets me out of my head. And while it sounds counterproductive for creativity, you’ll find that being too “in your head” can stifle creativity. Writer’s block is often the result of being in your head so much that you burn out those engines.

This is why I don’t see my morning workout as much different from someone’s morning pages: they are both a habit that signals to our brains that we’re setting the stage for the creative day we aim to have. That what we’re doing matters to us. They send the message to our subconscious that ‘now is the time to arrive at this moment’. And they both loosen you up, allowing you to just exist and, for lack of a better term, “leave it all on the page” (or mat). Both get the blood flowing to your brain, and allow your subconscious to release some of the ideas it’s had locked up from the day before.

And perhaps most importantly, these routines - whether they’re three pages written longhand, or an hour of kickboxing - teach us confidence. And that confidence is what truly changes you as a creative. 

I don’t mean confidence that you know you’re doing everything right. You won’t get that kind of confidence from sticking to any creative routine that challenges you. You don’t want that kind of confidence anyway, since it sounds a lot like arrogance to me.

I’m talking about the kind of confidence that says “this is a seriously hard challenge I’m facing. I don’t know how it will turn out. But I do know that I will do everything I can, and take it one step at a time. 

This is the beauty of morning pages, morning workouts, or any habit you partake in that sets the tone for your attitude, and therefore, your entire day.

Every day, I truly don’t know how I’m going to get through a workout. They’re seriously tough! But every day, I force myself to dig deep and manage to make my way through it, one rep or minute at a time.

This is exactly the same thing that needs to happen when you’re facing a creative challenge, like writing a book. You may look at the end product you’re aiming for and think ‘how in hell am I going to  manage this?” I know the feeling well—I’m currently facing it with my next novel! As Liz Gilbert says, it can feel like swallowing the sun. 

But over time, you show up for yourself, and eventually you can look behind you and see this bank of work that built. That’s where the power is: in the evidence. Morning pages are a way of creating evidence for yourself that you can do this thing you want to do. It’s evidence that you are worthy of the dreams you want to achieve. You can see the crumpled pages of your notebook growing systematically, building upon themselves every day. That evidence is what gives you the confidence: I don’t know everything, but I know I can get through this one thing, just like I have all those other times.

It’s not the act. It’s the habit. Or, as one of my trainers so aptly describes: we’re going to train the quit right out of you.

Julia Cameron’s morning pages are a way of priming your brain for writing. It’s a habit one can acquire, that signals to your brain and creative sensibilities that we are honoring this pursuit and showing up. It’s a chance to work out the stiffness in minds and bodies. Morning pages will train the quit out of you.

My morning workout does exactly the same thing. 

So if you’re reading this, I hope two things are abundantly clear to you: 

1) If your creative habits look entirely different from someone else’s, that’s okay. That’s more than okay -- it’s great! Whatever you do that keeps you chasing your creative dreams in a healthy, mindful way is absolutely perfect. You do you.

and 2) If you’re struggling as a creative and looking for help, building a creative routine may help. 

It doesn’t need to be Julia Cameron’s three pages of longhand. Maybe it’s a page of doodles. Maybe it’s a mindful walk with your dog, with the actual intention of noticing everything that’s around you. Maybe it’s kicking your own ass in the gym. 

They’re all valid. They all work.

And the best part about a creative routine is, it works if you do.

Thanks so much for reading. If creative and curious tidbits are your thing, you can subscribe to my WRITER’S NOTEBOOK via tumblr, or my website’s RSS feed, which also hosts each post. And if you know a creative friend who might like these posts, please pass them on! The more the merrier around here. Lastly, if you really want to make my day, you can preorder my next book!