Give me Superman with an awful southern accent. Give me Clark Kent sounding like he grew up on a farm (oh wait). Give me Superman the Journalist using y'all and all y'all and ain’t. Basically just give me Superman from Kansas
I took my father to see Rogue One today. I’ve wanted to take him for a while. I wanted my Mexican father, with his thick Mexican accent, to experience what it was like to see a hero in a blockbuster film, speak the way he does. And although I wasn’t sure if it was going to resonate with him, I took him anyway. When Diego Luna’s character came on screen and started speaking, my dad nudged me and said, “he has a heavy accent.” I was like, “Yup.” When the film was over and we were walking to the car, he turns to me and says, “did you notice that he had an accent?” And I said, “Yeah dad, just like yours.” Then my dad asked me if the film had made a lot of money. I told him it was the second highest grossing film of 2016 despite it only being out for 18 days in 2016 (since new year just came around). He then asked me if people liked the film, I told him that it had a huge following online and great reviews. He then asked me why Diego Luna hadn’t changed his accent and I told him that Diego has openly talked about keeping his accent and how proud he is of it. And my dad was silent for a while and then he said, “And he was a main character.” And I said, “He was.” And my dad was so happy. As we drove home he started telling me about other Mexican actors that he thinks should be in movies in America. Representation matters.
Here are a few language headcanons, because I know you kids love them:
Viktor’s English doesn’t really get proficient until he’s in his late teens, probably after the Turin Olympics. He’s spoken French flawlessly since he was small, but English doesn’t come to him as quickly for a variety of reasons, so there are plenty of remnants of his pre-fluency days–interviews where his accent is thick and his articles are nonexistent. Viktor is embarrassed by them; Yuuri covets them.
Yuuri, on the other hand, has been more or less fluent in English since a young age, through the combined efforts of Minako and maybe his father. His time in America only improved his fluency. He speaks in a midwestern lilt, tends to speak with sibilant S’s, and drops double consonants. People have called his accent ‘feminine’–which is hilarious to Yuuri, because he grew up speaking Japanese in an incredibly gruff accent.
(An accent, by the way, that Viktor picks up)
There are many people, however, who don’t realize that Yuuri speaks such good English. He has a long history of letting others–his coaches, Viktor, Phichit–speak for him, and many people assume that this is because he doesn’t speak English well. Of course, the truth is that Yuuri just doesn’t want to talk to the press.
Yuuri is perfectly happy to let them think he’s not fluent–and even encourages this misconception by bowing-and-nodding his way through crowds of reporters.
Sometimes, when he’s caught by a reporter and has to say something, he deliberately says something to Viktor in Japanese, who then translates it into something more palatable than what he actually said.
“Tell her my legs feel like they’re going to fall off and I want to go the fuck home, Viktor.”
“Yuuri’s very tired right now! We’ll answer questions at the presser tomorrow, thank you!”
(This has gotten them in trouble a few times. Yuuri’s Japanese is difficult to understand for even a native speaker, unless that speaker also comes from Kyushu, but Yuuri receives a very cross Skype call from his mother after a press interview during which the microphone picked up Yuuri telling Viktor to tell a reporter that his toupee looked like a bird had made its nest on top of his head. Toshiya was in the background of this Skype call, trying to look stern and failing because he kept having to look off into the distance and push down his laughter. Mari wasn’t even trying–Yuuri could hear her laughter from the kitchen.)
Yuuri’s Viktor Nikiforov Obsessed Ass took a Russian minor in college. He’s conversational in Russian by the time Viktor drops into his life, and his fluency only increases from there.
It gets to the point where Yuuri and Viktor flip semi-randomly between Japanese and Russian. This is 50% because they don’t even notice themselves doing it anymore, and 50% because neither of them likes their marriage being surrounded by microphones and cameras 24/7.
Of course, there are large teams of dedicated fan translators who have made it their solemn duty to figure out what it is that Yuuri and Viktor are muttering about in the kiss-and-cry, because sometimes it’s boring stuff (Technical things, groceries, Makkachin’s next vet appointment) but sometimes it’s things like “I’m going to eat a whole cheesecake when this competition is done and you can’t stop me” / ”I’ll watch you.”
“Who on earth has this much time on their hands?” Yuuri mutters to himself, when someone sends him a link to an archive of translations, and Viktor just makes a vague noise and keeps scrolling.
— hanging onto his every word because you adored his subtle, but sometimes thick, southern drawl. — him enunciating his words to make it sound thicker — you are insanely infatuated with him — he loves every second of it, wearing a small smirk all the while — his nose buried in your hair; he loves breathing in your scent — his head on your chest; the sound of your heart beating comforts him like none other — your fingers raking through his long locks — listening to him open up about his past as a soldier — feeling your heart ache at the pain behind his topaz eyes — you being a bit uneducated about history (and rather uninterested) — he begins to call you ‘little girl’ at your lack of knowledge & experience in life — the pet name sticks much to your dismay — “i am not a little girl, jasper!” — “march 5th, 1770. what historical event was that, my love?” —
“jasper, you’re a dick.” —
“such a dirty mouth for such a little girl.” — nearly puking your guts out when the time came to meet his family — him having to calm you down with his power a lot — dancing around his bedroom to very old records he owns — he teaches you to dance since he’s an excellent dancer — you’re incredibly clumsy, especially around jasper — he thinks it’s highly amusing & only embarrasses you more when he gracefully catches you or swiftly retrieves something you dropped — him catching you off guard a lot — he likes to dip you nearly to the floor & kiss you unexpectedly — it never gets old & it makes you feel cherished each time he does it — catching alice gazing at the two of you, smiling as she sees visions of the future — when he proposes, alice sees the vision & spoils it as she’s horrible at keeping secrets — cheesy, lame vampire jokes — “i heard being a vampire really sucks.” — “you’re horrible at jokes, little girl.” — but he actually is quite fond of them since they make you laugh — teasing him about sparkling in the sun — “shine bright like a diamond, jas!” — those remarks often end up with you trying to outrun him, but obviously failing — him watching you sleep; he loves seeing you look so peaceful — he calls you darlin’ 24/7 — you love it because his accent grows thicker — he’s a huge sap — him handling you with impeccable care, as if you’re made of glass
ok idk how i’ve never really noticed or cared about jasper in the twilight series and i’m so pissed at myself because he’s actually so great and attractive
the self doubt that makes you question every. single. word. you. type
writing a story and being so excited to see a specific person’s reaction and they won’t read it
USING CERTAIN WORDS WAY TOO MUCH AND NEVER FORGIVING YOURSELF FOR IT
Forgetting all the other senses exist except for sight
plot hole paranoia
when the muse decides to take a 2 week vacation with absolutely no notice
listening to music while you write and that one song comes on that makes you lose focus because you’re too busy jamming out
feeling like you have the vocabulary of a third grader
reading other peoples writing and seeing how amazing they are and thinking to yourself you might as well give up now because you’re never gonna write as good as that
cleaning the crumbs and tears off your keyboard
feeling a pressure to get things out in a timely manner but that pressure makes you stressed and the stress makes you less productive so you can’t write and you can’t meet your own goddamn deadlines wtf
I think I’ve managed to figure out a way to explain My Theory of Jack’s Accent. He doesn’t have it because he speaks French. He has it because he grew up in Quebec.
He can “bro out” his accent, as Ngozi says (which I take to mean, “switch from a Quebec accent to a standard American one”) because his accent isn’t what we normally think of as a foreign accent. What he doesn’t have is the accent of someone who predominantly spoke one language (French) until childhood was over, then learned a second language (English) when he was at a stage in his brain development where he could no longer hear or physically pronounce the unique sounds required by this new language. That’s what’s going on with Bitty’s French, but not with Jack’s English.
The generally accepted idea is that Jack was raised in Pittsburgh until he was maybe 5, with a mother who spoke American English fluently. During that time, he probably spoke English the way his mother did, with a mostly American accent.
So here’s the explanation:
Children’s accents aren’t just the result of what sounds they can physically produce–they’re also expressions of culture and self. Children are capable of a much broader range of phonemes and accents than adults are, and their decisions about which versions are preferable are very socially informed. How they speak usually reflects their social environment and group identity–they speak like the people they want to belong with.
So Jack’s accent would pretty much always reflect how his classmates, teammates, teachers, and coaches spoke, regardless of his parents. He might be influenced by the accent his dad, or his heroes like Mario Lemieux, Guy Lafleur, or Maurice Richard, had, but it would probably fade under the weight of socialization.
So if he had stayed in Pittsburgh, Jack would probably have continued to have a fairly standard East Coast USA accent in English.
If Bob and Alicia had moved him to Scotland and stayed there until he was an adult, he’d probably have a Scottish accent.
But instead they moved him to Montreal, where an American accent would mark him as “Anglo”, and he was surrounded by people whose English was acquired after early childhood or who were being raised or taught by people who acquired English later in life, so that’s the accent he picked up in English.
It’s not a “French” accent. It’s an accent that reflects bilingual French-Canadian English as its own accent/dialect within the English language.
you’ve got your finger on the trigger but your trigger finger’s mine
This party is the first big, public party she’s been to with him. The first one with Shawn’s celebrity friends, the first one with press access and important wrist bands. And they’re not really there together. She’s not complaining; neither of them want to share their thing (relationship, her knowing subconscious supplies) with the whole world yet. Even only a limited number of Shawn’s friends really know what’s up with them, because it’s relatively new and they’re still exploring.
They’ve both already decided, though, that whatever it is, it’s too important to share with TMZ and ET and whatever other gazing eye or camera lens that might be turned their way.
They’ve been mingling separately for about an hour now, and she doesn’t think she’s even seen him since they showed up (separately, but together, amongst a crowd of his home friends). She’s not bad at mingling with celebrities alone - she’s good at curbing her enthusiasm and pretending she’s not quite as starstruck as she she feels. She sticks out like a sore thumb, in her humble opinion, but she’s mostly just glad no one’s asked her why she’s there, alone at a glitzy LA party.
She’s in the middle of drumming her fingers against the bar to the beat of the music, waiting for the bartender to mix her drink when she spots him a few feet away, sticking out in a the throng of people as he talks animatedly with his hands like he’s wont to do after a beer or two. Her stomach flips like she’s seeing him for the first time, and now she wishes she’d ordered a huge glass of ice water to sooth her suddenly dry throat.
She’ll never get over that, how she falls for him a little more each times she sees him. It’s part of the reason she’s even at this party, pretending she doesn’t really know him and hasn’t been seeing him naked regularly for the past five months. She’s fucked for him. Fallen harder for this gangle of limbs, pink lips, and brown curls than she would’ve guessed, no matter how taken with him she was when she first met him.
She’s been taken with men before. None have lasted quite so long before. And none of them have ever made her so eager to be vulnerable before. They’ve never made her feel safe enough for that. Shawn’s different. She’s still nervous around him, gets butterflies even five months along, but she’s never scared with him.
(She’d gotten so used to being scared.)
The bartender places her bellini near her fingertips and she hums a quiet, “Thank you,” before bringing the wide-brimmed glass to her lips. She lets her elbow rest back against the bar as she sips her drink and watches the crowd. She forces herself to avoid Shawn, has to convince herself she doesn’t need to watch him every second of the day like she desperately wants to.
It’s not like she’s trying to keep tabs on him, or something. She just likes looking. He’s such a pretty thing, with soft curling hair, pink full lips, and apple-round cheeks that flush any time she reminds him how good he makes her feel. She loves that he’s a performer because his job almost always gives her one reason or another to stare at him, to soak in as much of him as she can.
She likes watching the way he is with people, how he curbs his charm to appeal to whoever he’s talking to, adjusts his demeanor in order to connect to someone. He’s not always the smoothest– they both know he still stutters talking to a pretty girl, especially a pretty girl they both like– but he always manages to leave an impression, to leave whoever it is wanting more. It’s why he’s so good at his job, she supposes.
She needs to stop waxing poetic about her maybe-boyfriend in her own head as she scans the crowd for celebrities she might know. She’s trying to focus on the lyrics of the song beating in the background when she feels a body sidle up to hers at the bar. She’s mid sip when she gets the inclination to turn, has to finish drinking as she looks at the man ordering a beer next to her. She’s swallowing and lapping bellini from her top lip when he finally turns to look at her, catches her with her tongue swiping across her lips.
He smiles. She can’t pretend it’s not sexy.
She knows he’s not Adam Brody, but he looks a lot like Adam Brody. Tall, curly black hair, light blue eyes, strong jaw accented by a trimmed beard that trails down his throat and draws her eye to his adam’s apple. Well. She certainly has a bit of a crush.
She drags her eyes back up to his face, but decides she has to focus on his eyebrows as she talks to him, can’t stand to quite look him in the eye as she says, “Only beer? Nothing else behind this extensive bar could entice you?”
That gets her a low chuckle, and she focuses on the cool drink in her hand, has to ignore the flush blooming in her cheeks. The guy shrugs a bit as he turns to face her a bit more, resting his forearm on the bar as he says, “You caught me. I’m afraid I’m not so creative when it comes to alcohol.”
She takes a drink of her bellini as she listens to him, tries to ground herself in reality somehow because she hopes to god she’s not imagining his british accent in her head. She hadn’t noticed it with his murmured, “Beer, thanks,” earlier, but it almost knocks her over now that he’s speaking clearly and directly to her.
She clicks her tongue in response, tilts her head and asks, “When are you creative, then?” in a tone she knows is coy and flirty, but there’s no chance in hell of anything more than this exchange occurring, so she decides to have fun with it.
He ends up being a musician, like she could’ve predicted, but not much of a singer, he claims. He likes instruments, likes to compose, and is actually quite impressive with the range of orchestral instruments he can play. If she weren’t busy falling in love with someone else, British Adam Brody would be a perfect candidate for a fuck buddy.
So she puts her hand on his arm and laughs at his jokes and lets him tell the bartender that she’ll take another bellini. She wonders, briefly, if Shawn is watching her as she plays with this man like a cat does a mouse. She’s not doing this for that reason, to get his attention and make him jealous or whatever. She’s just playing her character– single girl at fancy L.A. party– and she’s actually having some fun. And, well, what else is supposed to do when she can’t talk to the guy she’s actually with?
She doesn’t think Shawn would be jealous, but for a moment, she worries. It isn’t an attractive trait, and she doesn’t want to go there with him, to have jealousy be a problem. It’s suffocating, when someone treats you like you belong to them, like a dog or a piece of chattel.
She doesn’t think Shawn would do that to her, she’s found him far too agapic for that, but she’s also never been in a situation quite like this before. She’s faking it, but she’s flirting with this guy and he’s taking the bait like the gullible dope he is, and she worries Shawn might be a bit gullible, too.
British Adam Brody orders another beer and slides himself closer to her in the process, and she’s close to excusing herself for the restroom when someone slaps a hand on his back in greeting and distracts him long enough for her to slip away, leaving her second bellini glass in her wake.
When she’s slipped far enough away to focus on the crowd before her, she easily spots Shawn looming over the crowd. She sees the broad expanse of his chest first and gives herself a moment to admire it as she steps towards him. She gets closer and tears her gaze from his chest, letting herself finally look at his face.
It’s not until their eyes lock that she realizes he’s already been looking at her, his gaze a breathtaking contrast of dark, yet amused. She’s not surprised by the dull throb she feels between her thighs as she manages to smile sweetly at him, not feigning innocence per se, but definitely not acknowledging her recent shenanigans.
She keeps her gaze on his, keeps smiling right at him as they get closer and his lips tug up into a little smirk she has to pretend doesn’t make her want to melt into the floor. She looks away from him as she dodges the group he’s with and walks past him, heading for the lounge area she noticed earlier.
It’s less crowded than where she was before near the bar, and there’s a free loveseat in the corner. Sitting there, she’s not facing the main party but rather a large, floor to ceiling window that showcases a devastating view of the ocean. She’d almost forgotten they were on the beach.
She’s busy watching the waves lap against the shore in the light of the moon when she feels a large, warm palm cup her shoulder. She swallows her startle and just tips her head slightly, opening herself to the room a bit as Shawn leans down over the back of the loveseat, bring his head near hers so he can murmur in her ear, “Having fun?”
His fingers curl into her skin as she smiles then wets her lower lip, turning her head a bit more so their noses are dangerously close to brushing. “That bartender makes a good bellini,” she replies seriously, as if she’s constantly on the search for the world’s best fruit & champagne mixed drinks.
She gets a chuckle from him as he pulls away, his hand falling from her shoulder and she has to stop herself from being so disappointed. They can’t touch while they’re here, not really. Not like she wants to, at least. She scooches to put some distance between them as he comes to sit next to her on the loveseat, and she has to ignore the little bemused look he gives her because she knows keeping a few extra inches between them is definitely more for her benefit than the party’s. No one would care, or even notice, if they were sitting thigh to thigh in the corner of this party, but she knows herself. Knows her thigh pressed to his is step one of ending up in his lap with her lips attached to the strong cut of his jaw. She doesn’t like to think of Shawn as a weakness, but in cases like this, he’s absolutely her demeanor’s Kryptonite.
“I was actually talking about your friend,” he continues once he’s settled, a smirk once again blooming on his lips as he slings an arm across the back of the small couch, resting closer to her shoulders than she’d like at the moment.
He doesn’t sound mad, or even vaguely peeved when he mentions British Adam Brody. Again, his expression is more one of amusement than envy, like he’s ready to discuss the prank they’re both planning on pulling later or something.
She has to stop herself from reaching over and carding her fingers through his hair as she turns to face him a bit more. She feels like she’s barely keeping herself together as she concedes, “He was pretty. British, too.”
Shawn’s laughing again, a bit fuller now because he knows she has a thing for English (and Scottish and Irish and Not-American) accents she won’t exactly admit to. She feels her cheeks flush but doesn’t act on it, just rolls her eyes a little as he finally manages to say, “Was he a wizard?”
He knows she hates it when he calls everyone with an English accent a wizard, and that’s why he still does it to this day, even though she stopped reacting and started playing along a few wizards ago.
She grins, runs her tongue across the front of her top teeth, then purrs, “I don’t think the wand was his instrument of choice, actually,” in a tone that sounds a bit more lewd than she’d intended, but it gets Shawn’s brow to raise nearly to his hairline before he grins and shakes his head, leaning back a bit more comfortable as he lets his hand drop casually to her shoulder, fingers dragging across her skin.
“I’m sure he was dying to show you his favorite instrument,” he matches, like he loves the idea of someone else being hot for his girl, loves that he knows she’s gonna pick him every time. Like he’s proud of himself for being so lucky, for accomplishing something as great as being her guy of choice.
His hand on her shoulder burns her skin and her paranoid mind tells her the whole party is watching them, when she knows the whole party doesn’t give a shit about them. Regardless, she has to take a moment before wrinkling her nose and shrugging a little, “To be fair, I was acting a bit interested in a private concert.”
Shawn’s grinning, and then he’s not, when he says, “Wait. You still mean sex, right?” And yeah, she loves him. The metaphor was getting stale, anyway.
She can’t stifle her laughter as she nods, and it’s Shawn’s turn to roll his eyes as he holds up a defensive hand and mumbles, “Okay, okay. I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Sorry,” she finally says, laughter dying down as she takes a breath, “I just think you’re cute.”
“And that British guy definitely thought he was gonna get laid,” Shawn deflects, bringing the conversation back to her game.
“How long were you watching us?”
“That’s creepy, babe.”
Shawn huffs a little, but the corner of his mouth is tugging up in a fond smile as he replies, “I didn’t have to watch him long to see him check you out.”
“Well, I do look pretty cute tonight,” she muses, looking down at herself.
She feels his fingertips against the angle of her jaw, fingers curling under her chin so he can guide her gaze to his. He looks heartbreakingly earnest when he finally says, “You look beautiful,” like he’s correcting a serious mistake she’s made.
She still blushes every time he says it, still can’t believe how sincerely he seems to mean it. She feels the heat in her cheeks and wonders if he’ll ever stop affecting her like this. The way he’s looking at her is stifling, and she has to look away whilst biting her lip, trying to keep herself from doing something stupid like kiss him.
He must realize how particularly intimate the moment is only once she’s turned away, and then his fingers fall quickly from her chin like she’s on fire and he’s burnt himself. Her eyes close for a moment, and she lets herself miss his touch as her lungs search for a calming breath.
She hears him clear his throat awkwardly and she wants to laugh. So she does– loudly, fully, brightly. Her head falls back as she does and she ends up leaning into the back of the couch, right into the crook of his arm.
Her laughter begins to subside and she blinks open her eyes to look up at Shawn as he starts to speak, “Are you laughing at me?”
She sucks in a breath, trying to stop her remnant giggles before she replies, “Only a little.”
“You were laughing a lot,” he corrects, his eyebrows raising.
“I was laughing at us,” she clarifies, settling more confidently into his side, then turning to face him a bit so she can see his pretty face clearly.
“At this,” she says as she lifts a hand vaguely between them, grinning like she might start laughing again. “It’s annoying, to have to pretend, but it’s also… Kind of funny. Like, is this how Hannah Montana feels?”
“Are you drunk?” is his only reply, even though he’s grinning at her like the sun shines out of her ass.
“I’m. Buzzed? Buzzed. Buzzed is a word. I’m buzzed.” Her cheeks hurt from smiling as she prattles on but she can’t stop. And she’s well aware it’s not really the two champagne-heavy bellinis making her act like this. Alcohol she can handle– it’s him she think she’s drunk on, now.
She missed him. She’s happy he’s here now, even if they’re going to have to break apart in the next two minutes before someone comes looking for him.
“You’re funny when you’re buzzed, Hannah,” Shawn teases, the smirk pulling on his lips causing her heart to stutter before her humming brain can come up with some sort of retaliation.
“I’m funny always, Jake Ryan,” she goes with, arching a challenging eyebrow.
Shawn’s face drops, lips drooping to a frown as his brow wrinkles and he asks, “Who’s Jake Ryan?”
She could’ve guessed that he wouldn’t know, but she sounds much snappier when she answers, “Hannah Montana’s boyfriend!” with an eyebrow raise that says, ‘Duh!’
(And so what if she’s never actually said the word ‘boyfriend’ to him before?)
His eyebrows raises in response for a moment like he’s trying to process what she’s said, but then he grins and says, “Okay.”
“I’m Jake Ryan,” is all he says back, smiling like he’s got a stupid secret he doesn’t want to keep hiding.
“Actually, Jake Ryan was Miley’s boyfriend because Hannah Montana didn’t have a boyfriend. So If I’m Hannah, then… Wait, hm. Actually– no. Yeah. I don’t remember. I guess it doesn’t matter,” she finishes with a shrug and the devastating urge to rest her head on his shoulder and let him carry her home when they’re ready to go.
Despite his disgusting adorable laughter at her rambling, she forces herself to remain upright, to stay only generally tucked into his side rather than halfway in his lap like she wants to be.
She hears him say, “I hate this,” as his laughter subsides, and she looks up at him, giving him a frown and her best puppy dog eyes.
“You hate hanging out with me?”
He scoffs, shakes his head, “I hate hanging out with you when we can’t like. Be ourselves.” He looks forlorn when he finishes, like someone just told him he’s not allowed to have his favorite food anymore or something. Well, sadder than that. She likes to think he likes her more than food. If only a little.
“Yep,” she nods, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis, “This blows.”
With that, Shawn shifts beside her, pulls his arm from her shoulders and stands up before turning to her, offering a hand for her to take as he says, “Let’s go.”
She blinks, thinks maybe she’s more drunk than she thought and is imagining it. It’s real, though, and he’s standing there waiting for her to slip her palm against his. She laughs as she says, “Go where?”
Shawn smiles, slow and smooth again like he’s got a secret, then says, “To the hotel.”
She bites her lip as she watches him, says, “People will see if we leave together,” but takes his hand and pulls herself up anyway.
He doesn’t let her keep any space between them once she’s standing, instead pulls her close and wraps his free hand around her waist. She cranes her neck to keep her gaze on his like she always does when they’re this close, then watches his smile change into something more serious as he lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug.
“I don’t care if you don’t,” he murmurs, fingers curling into her side like she’ll float away if he doesn’t hang on to her.
“I don’t care. Like, at all,” she replies, presses herself even closer to his chest.
“Good,” he starts, keeping her close as he starts for the exit, “Because when we get back I’m gonna spread you out and make you come harder than that asshole from the bar ever could.”
Well, she can’t argue with that.
He keeps her close as he guides her to the door, and she decides that maybe a little jealousy doesn’t hurt, after all.
Our party contains naming gems such as Theryn
Moonsparkle, Skaan Tillykladd (scantily clad), Manpip the Turgid and Calov
Quethulu (literally pronounced Call of Cthulu)
Our bard to our fighter, whose player is playing
via video chat so we can’t see his character sheet: ‘on a scale of one to
twenty how charismatic would you say you are?’
Our warlock uses Thaumaturgy to make a dramatic
entrance literally every time he walks in a room, and also talks like Doctor
Orpheus from Venture Bros
Our gnome barbarian was raised by orcs and
therefore has only recently discovered that a) he is a gnome and b) there are
other gnomes out there, and will ask literally any NPC we meet if they’ve seen
a gnome recently
I play a red dragonborn and the DM gave me a
point of inspiration for giving her a Welsh accent
The first NPC we came across was also a red dragonborn - I instantly went for a high five which he interpreted as a handshake and we just ended up awkwardly touching each others faces
He accompanied us on our long voyage at the start of the campaign and it ended up being our secret dragon buddy handshake
Our bard asked the DM if, during a battle, he
could use Message to telepathically convince one of the goblins we were
fighting that his sword was incredibly hot and he should put it down, to which the
DM responded ‘you can certainly try’, the age-old D&D equivalent of ‘that’s
fucking stupid but I’m gonna let you attempt and fail’
The bard then rolled a 19 and this goblin starts
screaming and fucking hurls his sword across the field like a javelin because
he heard a soothing Yorkshire accent in his head saying ‘hey fella, that sword’s
a bit warm, innit?’
Before checking out a potentially goblin-filled
cave our gnome used Minor Illusion to create a ‘sexy lady goblin’ to lure any inhabitants
out. He crit fails and, because this raised-by-orcs gnome has never seen a
goblin before apart from the ones we killed outside, the illusion created is a
horrific Frankenstein hodge-podge of dismembered goblin bits, but with mascara
and lipstick on. It floats judderingly into the cave in a static T-pose, then
clips through the floor and vanishes
The gnome tries again. He crits a second time.
This time the goblin illusion has no head, and the mascara and lipstick are
drawn onto its chest
DM to one of the players: ‘Kane take three points of damage’ ‘what the fuck, did someone ambush us?’ ‘No you promised you’d get me a drink from the kitchen and you fucking forgot’
I can’t help but think that Tony, in his younger years, went through a phase where he developed a British accent. All the time he spent with Peggy and Jarvis, he just sort of took on and didn’t even realize that his accent had changed. It happens as well because I find that if I stay around or watch someone with an accent different to mine, I begin to take it on little by little.
Can you just imagine little Tony with a British accent and Peggy and Jarvis stare at him, surprised while Ana goes, ‘I knew this would happen.’
Then as he grows up and moves away, he slowly loses it until it’s back to the way it was before. But there are still some words that he says where the accent is still there but no one comments on it as they assume he just stayed aboard for a few years.
• The Companions- particularly Donna, Martha, Rory and Bill
• River Song. Just, River Song.
• Captain Jack Harkness. I may not talk about him much, but he’s awesome.
• The epic adventure music we had in Matt Smith’s era. That was my jam back in the day.
• The casual LGBT representation. It’s been there since series one, but it’s never been a big deal.
• The Drunk Giraffe.
• There was actually an episode that used as many oo sounds as possible (Judoon platoon upon the Moon!) just to mess with David Tennant, because it was hard for him to maintain his English accent and say those words.
• I love the Master and Missy in equal amounts, because they are evil because they can be, and still act like the Doctor’s their best friend, especially Missy.
• Honestly, I’ll be sad to see Missy go- she’s basically a big ball of Glaswegian craziness, and she’s brilliant as a villain.
• The Paternoster Gang, because only on Doctor Who would you have a team comprised of a pair of interspecies crime solving lesbians and their pet potato.
• Nardole, mother hen extraordinaire.
• Amy and Rory’s relationship.
• “It’s smaller on the outside!”
• “Allons-y, Allonso!”
• “Bow ties/ Fezzes/ Stetsons are cool.”
• The Doctor’s entire message in Blink.
• All the nods to the Doctor’s past- Sarah Jane, UNIT, the Master, all the old monsters, even things like Twelve offering someone a jelly baby and the return to Coal Hill School.
• Many other things, but I can’t think of them just now.