Captain of the S.T.A.R.S.

fuckin cool guy

October is a delight

Look at those blue eyes!

cool-guy ryan - last call #10

“no” i respond, packing one more person into a box and sealing it shut. this one goes to fedex in the morning.

Help me raise money to pay for the move to CSU!! This is a dream come true for me!!!

This is the lucky clover cat. reblog this in 30 seconds & he will bring u good luck and fortune.

I reblogged him the day i started treatment and 1. GOT TO MY APPOINTMENT ON TIME 2. FOUND A FREE PARKING TICKET SOMEONE LEFT IN THE METER FOR ME AND 3. GOT FREE STARBUCKS AFTER MY APPOINTMENT!!!!!

Help me raise money to pay for the move to CSU!! This is a dream come true for me!!!

Ray settles for the third option, studying Wesker’s face hard. For all of his lackadaisical, sarcastic nature, Ray’s got a mean, thousand-yard stare that goes right through people. No one is opaque to the Brownman. The sniper studies his opposite with a calculative gaze. Really, he’s trying to focus on something else rather than the task at hand. This is going to suck.

 Wesker fixes his shades and challenges Ray’s stare with his own, leaving the moment quiet, waiting for a response. His lips pull into a small, sincere smile. It’s an unusual expression for him, but he feels oddly connected to the man in front of him. Perhaps it’s the Brownman’s snarky remarks that Wesker is secretly a fan of.  He’s always enjoyed people who didn’t take life to seriously. They were refreshing.

“Too late, Weskie, you’re officially banned from everything,” Ray calls back, watching the man root around for whatever it is he wants. “Wanna’ take a shit? Too bad, you’re banned. Your intestines and stuff are gonna’ explode and I’m gonna’ talk about how much you suck at your funeral.” The sniper is smirking again, though his voice is a steady deadpan as he promises to berate Wesker, even in death. Ever full of surprises, Ray continues to make good on Wesker’s demands. He leans back and pushes his hand down the front of his pants, coming back with an Altoids tin. The box is opened, a joint is procured, and Ray is lighting up in the middle of the woods. “When’s your next drug screening?” Ray asks. He’s smiling again, an expression that would be cute if the kid wasn’t such a pain in the ass. “This stuff can be outta’ your system in like, four days, man. Live a little, have some baphomet’s broccoli.” Nursing the spliff in his lips, Ray goes back to examining his damaged arm. It almost doesn’t look real, but when he pokes at it, he definitely knows it is.

“Breathe. I don’t want you passing out on me. I will leave you here.” A small chuckle escapes his lips as he intentionally pressing down enough to cause a bit of pain.