uni ˚꒰🫎୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ @belovedun1que - Tumblr Blog

Saving Private Ryan (1998)

A beleaguered and traumatized Captain John Miller (Tom Hanks) leads a WWII rescue mission to save Private James Ryan (Matt Damon), after all three of Private Ryan's brothers are killed in combat.

movie score: 8 | damon score: 3.6

this is pt. 3 of the damoning (a project where this local rat watches every major matt damon movie in chronological order):

localratmag.tumblr.com/damoning

Why is summer so boring

#im so tired #did i mention #im bored #summer is the worst season #summer #summer is boring #this is so boring

forestvaleska

Music will always mean everything to me

forestvaleska

Yumemaxxing always

they look so similar (sorry)

#obession #bear obsession #saving private ryan #timothy upham #upham #they look the same #why

yumeship post

#saving private ryan #matt damon #yumeship #yume community #self ship #james francis ryan

edit i posted on tt

#saving private ryan #james francis ryan #matt damon #edit #moodboard

hear me out FBI dex as a blacklist character

#the blacklist #blacklist #bullseye #benjamin poindexter #ben poindexter #marvel #mcu #im delusional #please hear me out

feelyaalien

Hey; I was wondering if you could write for an underrated character mayhaps? And when i say underrated I mean underrated- maybe Alley or Christensen? I’ve never seen any works on here for either and it would mean the world! It can be anything you’d like, if you had an idea you wanted to write🩷 (preferably fluff), sorry if this sounded rude! Thankyou so much for taking the time to read this request, even if you don’t fulfill it, thankyou for reading it anyway!

This is so valid tbh because Pat Christenson is literally played by Michael Fassbender and if there has ever been a man to ever man, it's him. SO! Here you go <3

Muse | Pat Christenson x reader

Camp Toccoa, 1942. You were enlisted as a medical aidman, technician fifth grade; he was your patient for one night, and, unfortunately for you, someone who thought that his excellent physical constituion would be enough to defy gravity. He had fainted during one of the jogs up Currahee, hit his head on a rock so hard he got a concussion, but he still wanted to continue the climb, told himself that he was strong enough to do it until he fainted, again, on the way back down.

They ended up dragging him forcefully to the infirmary, half-delirious and half-conscious. You were the only person available at the time, bandaged his head so tight he almost swore you wanted to explode his skull with the way you wrapped them, but he didn't complain, both because he couldn't, and also because he held no real irritation towards you.

He was required to stay the night on observation, a small fact he hated at the same time it felt like a relief—he wouldn't have to be forced to march all night long, carrying all of his equipment with a bloodied bandage around his forehead. Still, he couldn't rest, couldn't truly fall asleep when the nerves became too much to handle. His gaze had been watching you as you counted supplies, and it was then that he remembered he'd been carrying his notebook the entire time.

It was the only sign of a past where he didn't have to worry about impressing his superiors, a past where he didn't have to dread each time Lieutenant Sobel even looked his way for more than a second, a past where his mother still cooked his meals, pressed his clothes, and he had no worries besides trying to get through school intact. He missed playing the piano, missed singing in the Sunday mornings at the church, missed drawing whatever he saw underneath trees in the park close to his house.

His head was fucked up, he was drowsy as could be, relying more on his memory than he should for a thing as simple as drawing, but the pencil in his hands trembled with every stroke on paper, the dim lamplight felt like it was crucifying him with how much his head ached, and every noise of you slamming or opening a cabinet made him flinch or grit his teeth. But he didn't complain—Christ, he never did. His parents praised him for his ability to stay focused, even when the entire world seemed to plot against his peace.

The cot in front of him became his muse, the way the moonlight escaped through the half-closed binds, illuminating white, pristine sheets. He thought about years from then on, a time where sights like these wouldn't be so common, where crimson would paint cleanliness and gore would forever be etched into his mind.

Without even realizing it, he was already drawing the entire scene. The lamp flickering every once in a while, the lump on a bed where another private slept soundly, but twitched every so often. He drew the desk on the back, the shelves filled with medical supplies... and he drew you. He didn't know why he did it, why it was so important to capture your movements as you put away packs filled with gauze, the corner of your mouth etched into a permanent frown.

"Are you drawing me?"

He'd been so engrossed in the scene that he had barely even noted that you had moved from your original position, arms crossed over your chest, gaze locked on his own. His eyes were a bit blurry, now, the fatigue of the day weighing so heavily he was barely capable of thinking of an answer to your question, but then he sighed, the weary kind of sigh, and a small smile reached his features.

"Maybe. You make for a good muse, if you ignore all the noise."

Sharp, a snide remark that showcased how much he was utterly bothered by every small noise that reached his ears, coupled with a back-handed compliment. He almost wanted to strangle himself, but when he expected you to reprimand him, the sound of your soft laughter reached him instead.

"Guess I'll have to be quieter, then, can't disturb the next da Vinci," you replied in a low murmur, turning back to the shelf in front of you, hands moving far more slower and more careful than before, all the more aware that the young man placed under your care probably needed to rest more than he needed to draw. "Or you could just go to sleep, and it wouldn't be that much of a bother."

"I can't." The retort was almost immediate, the sound of pen on paper halting. Pat stared at you for a moment longer, almost as if memorizing your side profile, then his attention was back on the notebook in his hold. "Not wake up with the noise, I mean. It comes with being trained by Sobel. You think you can rest after climbing 5 miles up, 5 miles down when your lieutenant is that man? You're terribly wrong. He'll wake you up at 0400 and ask you to do the same thing, interrupt your dinner at 2000 and make you climb that shitty mountain all over again, if he doesn't make you march for miles on end, carrying your entire on your back from 0000 to 0300. By the time you're finally allowed to sleep, you're already supposed to be up and ready for another day of training."

Exhausting. It was exhausting. Thousands of words that could've come to him at that moment, and he realized that training to serve his country, to become a paratrooper was exhausting. So exhausting, in fact, that by the time you were standing next to him he only noticed it when your fingertips touched the bandage around his head. Pat flinched, just once, but it was enough for your face to harden slightly. The silence that came afterwards was heavy, broken only by his muttered sorry that escaped through a tied tongue.

"He runs you boys ragged, doesn't he?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, now, laced with something between worry and pity—he didn't know which one he hated the most. The fact that he had overshared something that had nothing to do with you sat like a weight on his shoulders, embarrassment mixing with the relief that came with letting it all out for once. "Why did you join the army, Christenson?"

The way you spoke his name made something inside his chest slam against his ribcage, a flutter of sensations that he had trouble hiding. It had been too long since anyone showcased any sort of care towards him, nonetheless seemed genuinely interested in knowing why he was there. He had been asked that same question a hundred times by officers, by fellow comrades, but he always gave the same sort of answers. I want to serve my country, I want to bring money to my family, I just wanted to be a hero. Those things were too useless, too meaningless when faced with the way you stared at him, waiting for an answer he didn't truly know how to give.

"My great-grandfather," the pencil paused against the sketch of your jaw, the tip tracing a line he no longer was paying attention to. "He fought in the civil war, we had an entire box of his medals and all of his bullshit in the attic. I found it one day when I was playing with a cousin around the house, thought to myself that I wanted to be just like him... wanted to have so many medals they'd probably not fit in my uniform anymore. When I enlisted, I didn't want to be like him anymore, I wanted to be better. He had his medals in a fucking dusty attic, forgotten by time, only remembered because two curious children found it. When I die, I want my medals to be displayed in a museum, and I want people to know who I was, what I did, I want them to remember why we're fighting."

Silence.

Did he say too much? Was he too real? Why did he trust you with a secret he never told anyone else, with a past that wouldn't matter if he died before he even fired a single shot at a German? Why was he telling you this when you were just a medic, someone he probably wouldn't ever see again unless he was injured? God, he was only in that stupid infirmary because he was too stubborn, because he thought he knew his body better than he actually did.

But then your hand was on your shoulder, a warmth that made his skin prickle with goosebumps, squeezing the muscles there in a reassuring way that he had only felt from the nurses back during enlistment day when they were trying to see his physical condition. They told him he was strong, that he was handsome, that he'd kill so many Germans... but the way you looked at him wasn't the same way one would look at a patient they felt sorry for. In your eyes, he wasn't a boy going off to fight a war, only to be killed in the first hour.

"You're going to get those medals, you're going to show them to your grandchildren, and your grandchildren are going to show them to their grandchildren," another squeeze, this one more firm, then you leaned down, your gaze flicking from the sketch of yourself, then back up to his eyes. "And they're going to show your sketches, and they'll wonder who that medic was... so, in a way, you're also immortalizing me." Then, you smiled in a sort of smug way that made him huff an incredulous chuckle, pulled away from him like you hadn't just dared him to erase your existence.

He had forgotten the pain, the weight of his duty, all in an instant, and he was left to watch as you walked away, back towards the shelves that reeked of antiseptic and lemongrass soap. His hand trembled, then his grip turned more firm as he poured the consequences of your conversation into the notebook in his hold.

When morning came and he was discharged, you'd find a single sketch of your side-profile, sitting on your desk like a gift left behind. Or a threat, perhaps, in a wordless sense of now your face is immortalize in my thoughts.

#saving private ryan #the boys #soldier boy #richard reiben #edward burns #jensen ackles

kassachilles

Yk what I need? A road trip

I need a fucking road trip

With BOFB fans

I need to get a bunch of us together, wear themed outfits, pile into a car, and drive all around the country.

Not even just a road trip

A rail trip as well

A boat trip, even

Follow their footsteps

Go where Easy Company went

Essentially do a reenactment but modern and no fighting

Visit other places too

The Normandy American Cemetery

The National WWII Museum

A bunch of other places too

I just want to travel

And I want to do it with others in the HBO war and WWII movies/shows in general fandom

I want to make references and quote the shows and movies and call each other nicknames and form our own little family of WWII nerds

I want to read The Pacific on a boat and Band of Brothers on a train and have Saving Private Ryan playing on those little screens that some cars and buses have

You know what

Make it a tour bus

We go around the countr(y/ies) on a tour bus and learn about the history and see the places and items and yes

I want to do this when I’m an adult but I’m poor and college is expensive and takes a lot of time

But if I have enough money

Someday…

sometimes i like to pretend/imagine that mcu bucky is a saving private ryan character