#also just being like hands off the controller is fun I like taxi-ing people in xiv but something about the physicality of

[carcharsaur]

sky has me holding hands pilled I want to hold hands in xiv. multipeople mounts isn't enough I want to be clinging to you for life. make a 2 seater motorcyce where we're hugging. no I dont care about player size differences w *phone dial tone* hello ,do you hear me

[somedayonbroadway]

You mentioned a Sprace version? Well I'm always a slut for Sprace. Also, where can I find more/watch Nerve? Or read? I've never heard of it.

Nerve (Sprace) AU

Hi Anon! Sorry this took so long. So Nerve is a movie (it’s technically based on a book but they are very different). I think you can rent it on Amazon Prime, but that’s all I know of. It’s staring Emma Roberts and Dave Franco.

Since I already wrote out the outline, here’s a scene from it! Motorcycle Safety is what I like to call it. Please enjoy!

“Get to sixty miles per hour…” Spot read on his phone, tilting his head a bit.

Not quite believing that, Race leaned over the other boy’s shoulder. He tried not to let himself get caught up in the way Spot smelled or how strong his arms looked. He tried not to get too comfortable. After all, not many people in this insane game were willing to be helpful. Maybe Spot had done a nice thing for him, gotten him a tattoo he actually liked instead of some tacky thing that people around ask him about for the rest of his life only to find out he had no answer. No explanation.

This was just one night. This was just a stupid game. Spot was just a stranger.

“Wait, that’s it?” Race asked when he too read those words on the screen. “Just… get ta sixty on your bike?”

With a small shrug, Spot smirked at him. “Hey, I’m not complainin’,” he said, right as his phone chimed again. This time when he looked down, the smirk fell off of his face.

Race only caught a glimpse of that terrifying word before Spot put his phone down. “Wait, I’m sorry, did that just say ‘blindfolded’?” he asked, shaking his head and scoffing. “I’m sorry, I’m out,” the boy decided, starting to walk away.

But Spot caught his arm. “Wait! C’mon, I can’t do this by myself,” he smiled charmingly, pulling Race a bit closer. Race still looked extremely hesitant. So Spot tilted his head. “You said it yourself, this is the first time you’ve felt alive in a long time… I know you’ve got more fire in you than that,” he coaxed.

The blond boy scoffed and looked down. “Look, I ain’t no daredevil,” he shrugged. “I’m just a kid in way over his head—“

“I need you ta help me navigate! You’d be in control,” Spot insisted. “C’mon,  you trust me, I trust you… you get ta live up to the name ‘Racer’...” he tried to seduce.

Rolling his eyes a bit, the boy chewed on his bottom lip. “I had fun t’night,” he stated. “Thanks… for everything…” he breathed.

Spot stepped just a bit closer to him. Not quite close enough. Race could feel his heart ready to pound out of his chest. “Stay,” he asked in a breath. “J’st ta see what else happens.”

Just as Race might’ve argued again, might’ve actually listened to his brothers telling him how big of an idiot he was being in his head, a very loud, black, dirty truck pulled up beside them. A boy jumped out. He was huge, tatted up with what looked to be a glass eye in placement of what would’ve been his left eye. He had a smirk on his face. “‘Sup, guys! Racer, Racer! Let’s see you do something actually amazing,” he laughed, shoving a large bumper sticker into Race’s chest. The blond only caught it out of instinct. “Just hold that up for me, blondie,” he smirked, snapping a picture of a confused looking Race with the sticker in his hands.

Then the boy kissed his fingers and gave them a peace sign with his hand. “See you at the finals, ‘Your Highness’!” he mocked, sticking his tongue out before he jumped back in his car and drove away.

Race looked to Spot, still holding the sticker. “Do you know that guy?” he asked.

Spot sighed and shook his head. “No…” he muttered, but neither of them were very convinced. Still, he looked back at Race pleadingly. “Race, do this with me? All ya gotta do is say yes, n’ you have total control…” he encouraged.

And for just a moment Race got lost in those amazing brown eyes and then suddenly he was on the back of a motorcycle, clinging to Spot so tightly he wondered if the other boy could even breathe. He was staring at a red light, waiting for an inevitable change to happen. There were two minutes on the clock. Just two minutes. To agonizing minutes.

Spot glanced back at him and let out a breath. “You can do this,” he encouraged before he pulled down the shield of his helmet with the sticker Race had been holding stuck to the front of it. New York F***ing City it said.

Race squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. And when he opened them, “Okay… green,” he breathed, wishing he had been man enough to say no to this. The motorcycle started rolling forward. Race couldn’t breathe. “Okay, okay,” he muttered again and again.

“You gotta talk to me, Racer! What’s happening?”

Everything was shaky. Spot wasn’t driving straight. Race peeked out over his shoulder. It was a blur of cars and lights. “Cab on your right!” he called, noting that Spot was drifting towards it.

“On my right? Or go ta my right?”

“No! It’s on your right, go left!” Race cried as they got closer to the taxi.

“What?”

They were going to crash. Race knew they were going to crash. He was going to die, they were both going to die. “Hey!” the cab driver yelled. “You have a sticker on your helmet!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Race screamed, hitting the cab. “Left, left, left!” he tried to instruct in a panicked tone. So Spot went left. And now they were headed for some trees that divided the road. “Too far left!”

Spot’s knuckles were turning white. “What?!” he cried.

Race let out a panicked scream and then leaned to the right, trying to brace himself. But Spot got back on balance immediately. “Oh my god!” Race cried.

“Okay! Okay! That worked!” Spot yelled. “Just keep doin’ that!”

Race gripped onto Spot tighter. “What? Lean?” he asked.

“Yes! Lean!” Spot agreed. “You are in control!”

That was the most terrifying thing Race was sure he’d ever heard. “Okay… okay… next lights green…” he instructed hesitantly. “We’re at thirty! We’re halfway!” he stated.

“Good! That’s good! What’s next? We clear?” Spot asked.

Race’s heart plummeted when he saw the next light turning yellow. He couldn’t believe he was about to do this. “Next light is…” he looked down at the clock. They wouldn’t make it. Not if they slammed on the breaks. “Green!” he lied as the thing turned red. “Go faster! Faster!” He put a hand on top of Spot’s, trying to pump the gas harder.

Race screamed as they were almost hit. Well, the person driving that giant black van hated them. Amazing.

“Okay!” Spot yelled. “We still clear?” he asked.

Race nodded against his shoulder. “Yes! We’re clear!” he called. Only he didn’t see the cab rolling over for the woman on their right. He gasped and leaned to the left immediately, screaming as he did so. That’s when a minivan drove up beside them. They were screaming for them. “Whoa! Racer! Brooklyn! We love you!”

Spot gave them a shaky, quick wave. He couldn’t even see them. “Love you too!” he yelled. “Time check!”

“Thirty seconds! We’re almost there!” Race yelled. “We’re at fifty!” He guided them into a tunnel, leaning to avoid the other cars. Some people were honking, others were recording them. Race didn’t have eyes for any of them. “Faster, Spottie! Faster!” he screamed. “We’re clear, just go!”

Spot gripped painfully at the handles. “Count it down, pretty boy!”

“Fifty five…” Race started. “Fifty seven, fifty eight, fifty nine, sixty! Whoa! We did it!” he cried.

Immediately, Spot pushed the shield of his helmet up. “Whoa!” he cried, before his eyes widened. The road was ending. “Oh shit!” he screamed, clutching onto the breaks. “Hold on! Hold on!”

“Oh god!” Race cried.

Spot managed to come to a stop just before they crashed into the building in front of them. And he was breathing hard. “Oh my god, we just did that,” he muttered. “Holy shit! We just did that! You just did that!” he laughed.

It took a moment for the terror to fade away, for Race to start laughing. “Oh my god… my brothers gonna kill me…” he laughed. “We just did that!”

Spot helped them off of the bike and Race stumbled into him. They were both shaking and suddenly, as Spot took his helmet off, they were just staring at each other. It felt like an eternity before they finally allowed themselves to close the distance.

Race melted into the kiss.

[roundtheworldwithtaytay]

Disclaimer; wrote most of this blog drunk.  Not just drunk, totally pissed. Keep that in mind before offering judgement. Tea and scones with the queen at Buckingham Palace, a good two hours looking at Zach Thompson's war rooms and then a release... Today has been a quintessential London day.  I headed out of my hotel in Cartwright Gardens to the King's Cross Underground station where I catch the Picadilly line to Covent Garden. I take a brief look around (intending to come back) before heading to Trafalgar Square.  I have been to the Royal Gallery so I decide to skip it and visit St. Martin in the Fields and then over to the Churchill war rooms. Now... I have an inside joke that I would say only I have this day.  Winston Churchill reminds me of my dear friend Zach Thompson.  I can't see a single picture of the man without snickering.  Then a group of veterans show up.  They have all fought in different wars.  I see insignia of Vietnam, WW2 & Korea on their hats as well as the patch for the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) of which my grandfather was a member.   I strike up a conversation with an army vet.  Such a lovely man named Dale or Dave (I might have misheard him) who served in Korea.  We get along nicely having a wonderful conversation.  I see if there is any chance that he knew my grandfather.  He doesn't but my grandpa never talked about his involvement in this war so this is the next best thing.  We talk for what must have been 20 minutes but his group wants to move along.  He grabs my hand and says, "thank you sweetheart for listening to an old man."  I tell him that it is me who should be thanking him, so I do.  I understand the moment on both our parts to feel important .  I wish him well and am on my way.  Next stop, a walk by of Big Ben and Parliament before taking a tour of Westminster Abbey (a favorite of mine and this is my second visit).   This time in my tour Mary Queen of Scots takes a more important meaning although before I recall being very interested in her reign before. She is buried next to Queen Mary II which is funny because the two actually didn't get along very well, but here they lie in eternity in the same nave of this cathedral. I head over to poet's corner (the main interest of mine in the abbey) where I encounter tributes to Shakespeare, the Bronte Sisters, Lord Byron, Lawrence Olivier," and a favorite DH Lawrence.  "I never seen a wild thing sorry for itself,". That.  Is.  Me. So the rest of the night is basically a feminist/relations pub crawl.  I apparently am an anomaly for many.  Feminist.  Check.  Atheist.  "Eeek!" Check.  Human rights.  Check.  (They are fucked up over this.  Sorry fooked).  Army family.  "Who the fook is this person?"  Check.   I first go into Blackfriar's Pub near Fleet Street. First I should mention that I wasn't expecting to get to see this gem because I forgot to write down the address of it before leaving my hotel room, then low and behold I walk out and BAM, there it is. This pub is an Art Nouveau pub built in 1875 on the site of a Dominican friary. Located at the end of the Blackfriars Bridge, it was saved from demolition thanks to a campaign led by Sir John Betjeman. Should you look around the pub you will find jolly friars appearing everywhere including sculptures, mosaics and reliefs. It really is a rare building in shape and decor. Definitely one to check out. I order a Seafarer's Ale and sit down at a table with two gentlemen who notice I have nowhere to sit. They continue their conversation (as it was almost over and they were about to leave anyway) one offers me an uneaten bag of crisps, sea salt and malt vinegar, MY FAVORITE!!! I sit back and sip my beer watching pub life in London. This is not a cliche. This is a very beautiful part of London social scenes and when there is no room left at the bar, everyone starts to convene outside. Next off, I walk the streets of Fleet. That Fleet Street. The one of the same name in Sweeney Todd. I had tried to visit Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese last time I was in London, however it was closed for, "renovation." Now, I don't know what, "renovation," means, but it looks exactly its dark and dank self. The pub was rebuilt shortly after the Great fire of 1666, but there has been a pub in this location since 1538. Now... there are older pubs in the area, but this one has zero natural lighting. When you go it is dark and gloomy. I take a walk around and march right into the, "Gentlemen Only," bar and order a Samuel Smith's Double Four Lager. This is where I meet two guys at the bar from the east coast. We chat a bit and then I get my beer and take a look around the bar. It is as old and dark as anything you could ever imagine. Also fun is that doorways and stairs down to the basement are generally short, uneven and creaky. There isn't a ton of room so I head out to meet my new friends. We start down the road of politics. The one cocky guy tells me immediately that he voted for Trump and made sure I know that, "Hillary, was not qualified." That is where my brain starts weaving. I let them in. I listen to them. I hate to say I tricked them, but I finally get to my point that, "Hillary in fact is one of the most qualified candidates to ever run for president." I also remind them that it is sad that she actually won the popular vote and is constantly silenced by men even when she is saying nothing. Also I add that America has a stronghold on fear of vaginas that is perpetuated by men. I could hear the explosions in their brain. If it made a sound it would sound like a millions voices saying, "who is this broad and what is she?" I perplex them, but remain kind. We are sharing ideas after all. Hopefully if anything got through I succeeded. I thank the one that is a firefighter for his service to veterans. I talk honestly and earnestly with them. I'm never preachy or aggressive though the cocky one is with me. He then tries to change the subject by saying, "well you are young?" I ask, "how old do you think I am?" Fact is he is only about 10 years older than me. He doesn't believe me and believes I'm a good 15 years younger than I am. The kinder one of the two goes in and gets me a beer because we had a very nice moment talking about the importance of veterans and I told him of my conversation with a vet earlier in the day. He comes back with a Samuel Smith triple stout and says it is better than Guinness. I liked him until that point. :). The conversation then goes into human rights. It starts off with Colin Kapernick and then ventures into the gay community. They really do not know what they are dealing with. The conversation goes down another route of twists and turns where I basically get them to agree they are privileged as am I, but where I really turned the cocky one off is my mention of... GASP!!! I'm an atheist. That whole conversation takes more twists and turns back to my point that religion, politics, war, etc... many times is due to a man's attempt to control women or to have control in general. I enter into my argument that, "we are standing in a country who's king created a new religion just so he could get divorced." Enter Adam. Handsome. Young. Brit. Cheeky like me. Funny as hell and definitely more interesting to talk to. "How dare you question the decisions of our monarch?" He hangs for a minute. The guys gulp down their beers. I have about 1/2 left, but they excuse themselves when Adam starts occupying my time. He and I both finish our beers and I bid him adieu and exit the bar. Next... Ye Olde Mitre. Another public house that was built around 1773, though the pub website notes that the original build year was 1546. Seriously... these old pubs are ridiculous. Also you will notice as I get drunker there is less information about the bar. I can't. I just can't. It's old. Like others it was destroyed by the great fire and rebuilt. I watch a man at the bar.  Not a gentleman, a man, complain about a roll at the bar that he feels like was not up to snuff to his standards.  This carried on for 5 minutes or so.  I want another pint and what is standing between that and myself is this guy. I offer, "did you eat the whole thing?"  Him: "yes."  Me:  "And you are just this moment having a problem?"  Him:  well he ignores me.  He still wants the bartender to eat what he ate.  The bartender remains polite and refuses.  It carries on.  I offer to buy him a pint just to shut him up.  He agrees, the bartender pours him a pint and he goes back to his friend.  Then I get fooked, the bartender proceeds to pour me an additional pint.  What?  No!  I have to find the train.  I go to pay and he waves me away.  So... at this point I have received three free pints and a bag of chips.  This is why I feel like I am on a making people get along mission, but in the meantime f-ing myself.   I know there is a more official title but for real, I am three more beers in than anticipated and am around the area that "Sweeney Todd," was based on.  Leave.  Me.  Alone.  I don't even know how to get back to my hotel at this point.  I drop a 5 pound note on the floor.  The gent at the table next to me lets me know.  Karma!!!  Ohhhh!  "Foreign relations!!!  Diplomacy!!!"  Are those the titles?  Anyway...  I start trying to leave and then hear, "arrest this godless heathen for treason against the crown." It is Adam again. He teases me of losing my "fellas." They couldn't hang. We talk a bit more but I know I'm pretty pissed and need to get home so I go about finding a taxi. Things were going pretty well. I get to the front door of my hotel before thinking... "Ahhhh Mable's Pub."  No one in the world knows the significance of this Pub like I do. So attention must be paid. I decide to walk down to it, about a block away.   There is just something about this place.  Mable's Pub.  I order a Bishop's Finger Kentish Strong Ale and a bag of crisps and sit back in the back corner of the bar.  I was here some 5 or so years ago, in this exact seat in the Pub.  Whether I knew it or not at the moment it was the place that I started getting a glimpse that another person's needs did not superceed mine. During this event a few years ago I dismissed myself to, "go get cold medication," for my ailing travel companion and found myself in this Pub contemplating all the things I had been told were wrong with me, all the while, I became more determined than ever to enjoy my time, something I was rarely afforded. During that trip I enjoyed this foreign city.  I had conversations with people I did not know that thought I was alright. I dare say they thought I was interesting, while being told by another that I was, "in the way."  Even in that moment I am not fully sure I understood the significance of this Pub, but some 5 (give or take) years later I am giving it as a directional reference point to my friend MJ.  It means something.  Now I laugh at the fact that I had two pints one fateful night then ran to the pharmacy to get cold meds and later proclaiming, "I got lost," so that I was not berated. Well not as bad. One of the only times I had ever lied to this person.  This is significant,  it was why I had the taxi drop me off in front of my hotel only to be drawn back to this place. Today I realize was some working out of some demons.  I really needed this.  This trip was everything I needed it to be.  I have learned more than ever that I am a good person that wants the best for everyone around me.  While I have learned that, I also know that those that don't wish the same can really just piss off and I don't need them near me. Mable's Pub... you become my alter.  Forever I shall worship thee.  Excuse me while I get another pint.