#Floydposting

[stingray-blast]

behold my hot glue pikmin collection

[sillycelery1974]

david runs like a little gay boy

GOD PLEASE BRING OUR FAMILY BACK TOGETHER

[deathiscoldbatman]

Honestly if I did start that Floyd blog I'd probably be keeping white Deadshot [or at least white passing Deadshot] as a faceclaim anyways. Floyd is one of the few characters where I have 0 complaints with his comic backstory, and said comic backstory does involve him imitating a known white supremacist.

[chirpychipslive]

all of the members of pink floyd are straight except for nick mason who has his own sexuality called masonry and he gets upset if you tell him that masonry already exists. and rick who has something going on but refuses to unpack it because wondering about sexuality takes away from his keyboard playing

[sillycelery1974]

why is roger hunched like that brah

Roger Waters and Syd Barrett, interviewed by Hans Keller, circa. 1967.

“Keller was a dick to them. But the lads come off as very polite and well spoken by comparison.”

[merakiui]

Thinking many Floyd thoughts, but the most coherent one is a journalist darling who goes to the prison that serial killer Floyd (who is on death row) is being kept at to interview him. Floyd has never spoken to a single journalist and has turned away all news and media outlets ever since he was incarcerated, only ever sitting down for monitored phone calls with his brother Jade and his friend Azul. Perhaps his opinion on journalists has changed, or he’s grown bored and wishes to speak to a new face.

You’re not frightened when you sit across from him. He’s in handcuffs and there’s an officer standing at attention should Floyd get any ideas. You’ve talked to plenty of criminals in your career. Granted, none can compare to the violent brutality Floyd has inflicted over the years, but even so underneath the merciless veneer of a killer he is still human. 

He stares at you, a blank look on his face, while you gather your notes and set a recording device on the table. His mismatched eyes are drawn to it, slowly at first, as if he’s a haunted portrait whose only modicum of free will is a slight movement of the eyes, and then his focus is back on you.

“Do you give your consent to record our conversation?” you ask, gazing at him while he looks through you.

“Go ahead. S’not a big deal to me.” He shrugs.

“All right. Thank you.”

You introduce yourself. He mumbles his name even though you’re already well aware of it. He’s oddly polite and soft-spoken, talking to you as if this is just casual chit-chat between friends. You ask simple questions about how he’s been faring or what he does here, and though Floyd answers all of them with varying levels of blunt honesty and sarcasm you can tell he’s starting to get annoyed and impatient. His brows knit together, his shoulders square, and he’s gritting his teeth. 

You let him wallow in silence for five minutes. Often, if there is silence between two people, one will hurry to fill it. This is why most journalists try to ask open-ended questions to keep conversations flowing, and if things become stale they will usually resort to utilizing silence as a double-edged sword, prompting the other to speak in order to avoid awkward tensions. It works well, often creating more conversation. But this doesn’t seem to be the case with Floyd. He stares right back at you, his mouth clamped shut and jaw set so firm you can see the muscles straining in his neck. He’s challenging you, you realize, attempting to see how far he can push you in this silent, one-sided battle. 

When you breach ten minutes of silence, you give in and ask, “What are you thinking right now, Floyd?”

There’s a beat of silence, a shift in his body as his prison jumpsuit rustles with the movement, and then a sharp-toothed grin is sprawling on his features, his eyes alight with twisted delight. 

“You really wanna know?” He’s giddy, keeping it from you as if it’s a vicious secret. 

“I do,” you say, offering him an encouraging smile. “Please tell me if you feel comfortable.”

And oh does he feel comfortable. He leans forward in his seat, meeting you halfway, utilizing the same tactic interviewers use when building rapport and trust with suspects. You recall one note you’d scribbled hastily: Floyd is an excellent mimic. You wouldn’t be surprised if he’s committed all of the tricks and traps investigators use in order to pry answers from criminals to memory. 

“I’m thinkin’ about how easy it’d be to kill ya,” he whispers, tilting his head like a sweet, innocent child who expects a pat on the head for good work. “I’d take a knife to your throat and saw through skin and sinew until you’re wearin’ a necklace of red. You know they dress it up in movies, yeah? Takes a little while to truly kill ya, though. And you choke on your own blood during it. You can’t even scream for help. It’s super gross, but not much you can do when you’re dyin’. Death ain’t pretty.”

“I...” You gaze at the recording device; it’s still running smoothly. “I see.”

“You’d be a really lame kill, y’know. No fun at all.” He looks away, boredom darkening his face. “I coulda grabbed ya from off the street, squeezed your little throat until your eyes popped, and that’d be it. Or I’d break your neck. Maybe kick your ribs ‘til they cracked and tear your lungs open. Paint ya in a real pretty red.”

You stare at him, absorbing every threat. The officer looks just as stiff as you, but you were expecting to hear the worst when you ventured here. This shouldn’t be a surprise. 

What really surprises you is how quick he shifts through moods. One minute he’s pouting about how boring you would be to slaughter, and the next he’s turned his body back towards you, smiling so brightly, his eyes devoid of frigid malice. 

“But your shoes are really neat! Super cool. Always wanted to own a pair like that, y’know. But my work got ‘em dirty all the time, so I gave up buyin’ nice shit for myself.”

You’re not sure how long you spend in that room with Floyd, interviewing him and seeing all facets of his personality, but by the time you’ve finished—Floyd’s frowning when you announce your leave, even going so far as to whine and say, “Already? I wanna talk more!”—you feel so very drained. He’s definitely interesting, even more so when he starts to go out of his way to request to see you, asking the officers so sweetly. You’ve yet to write any articles about him—there’s still so much information and recordings to sort through—but you visit Floyd every time he asks to see you, if only to learn more about what makes him Floyd and what makes him a feared serial killer. 

You expect the unexpected with him, but you really couldn’t have expected he’d propose months into your acquaintanceship. You think he doesn’t truly grasp the fact that he’s on death row, that his execution date could be any day of this month or any day in the next few years, that polite society deems it wrong for serial killers and law-abiding citizens to be wed. You illustrate this boundary clearly to him. He pouts about it, grumbles about how it’s “not fuckin’ fair,” and then he drops the subject entirely. You don’t hear anything more from him about marriage or how he loves you so much until a few weeks later when you turn the recording device off after yet another successful interview and his fingers catch your wrist, dragging you down so he can whisper in your ear.

“I wasn’t askin’ an open-ended question,” he mutters, his tone low and threatening. “It was yes or no, Shrimpy.”

He releases you when the officer yanks him back, scolding him for laying his hands on you and advising him that, if he isn’t going to follow the rules, he won’t be permitted to see you. Floyd’s humming and nodding his obedience, all giggles and grins, while the officer helps him stand from the chair, guiding him to the door. His eyes remain pinned on you as you pack your bag, awkwardly avoiding his petrifying stare. And just before the door shuts and officially separates the two of you, he smiles at you.

Even when you’re all alone, clutching the recording device in your shaky hand, you wonder if there’s more to those ominous words than what you were hearing. A warning, perhaps? Foreshadowing? You hope you’ll never find out.

[stingray-blast]

trip to wikipedia

[macs-garage]

Eh, a little paint never hurt anyone. A lot of paint does and will land you in the infirmary for a week, and that's why you shouldn't have a spoonful of the mech finishes on a bet.

-Mac

IT WAS ONE TIME.

-Floyd

paints taste only in small doses. gets pretty repetitive after a while.

+ Please stop eating paint. + Nobody should be eating paint. + Nobody should recreate anything they see or hear Vissily doing. + Stop eating paint.

[hotmoxie]

[omegasmileyface]

sorry to keep pink floydposting on main but i fucking love Have a Cigar as an example of a combination of good lyrical writing and good lyrical performance

[deathiscoldbatman]

....okay trans man Deadshot is actually a fucking power move but we'll get to that [we won't]. Actually, trans man "any uber masculine, impossibly ripped character" is a power move.

Something something I am the storm that is approaching. I am the one who knocks. I am the trans man Deadshot. I am also slowly going insane. I see a suicidal man with intimacy issues who thinks he must atone for his existence and comes off as a tad frigid and go "That's a mood Gabriella". Floyd is my babygirl, my blorbo, but also WOW he is literally me down to the "we do not deserve to live because of our own actions".

[Honestly, Floyd would probably support trans rights. Not because he particularly knows anything about being trans on a personal level, he's just some cis bi man, but because he's not that much of a tool and frankly every member of the LGBT community can find common ground. And also yeah it's probably an easier way to get in some hot babes' pants.]

[deathiscoldbatman]

"You should make a Deadshot blog" that is. That is the devil talking. Not that I believe in a devil I just thought that would be really funny to say. Anyways @ mutuals and friends: please launch me into the Sun if I ever reblog from something that looks suspiciously like a Deadshot blog that I made. I have 0 impulse control at 5 AM but I am attempting to force myself to go to bed.

[stingray-blast]

pikmin for the soul

[stingray-blast]

hhhhhgggg OK. CRINGETOBER DAY 2 : SELF INSERTTTT I DONT CARE IF IM LATEEEEE here’s this guy

good omens angel…sona(?) thing. he. Worked as an assistant in the bookshop before aziraphale You know. yeah.

every time you see one of these it’s saint nathaniel the weeping and mournful ok? i am gonna add more stuff later if i feel like it. yay. happy cringetober 🎉

[deathiscoldbatman]

I MEAN. BASIL AND CRANE ARE DEFINITELY BOTH ABRASIVE ASSHOLES. 😂😭 Do I really need a third member of that triad??

[deathiscoldbatman]

Beating the "You should make a Floyd Lawton/Deadshot RP blog sometime" demons away with a stick because I already barely know how to interact with people without making it awkward/without at least feeling awkward. Also I already have 2 RP blogs. Also do I really need more abrasive asshole characters.