#The Sun's Burial

[honeygleam]

the sun's burial (1960) dir. nagisa ōshima

[pierppasolini]

The Sun’s Burial (1960) // dir. Nagisa Ōshima

[oui-bo]

Honoo Kayoko - Nagisa Oshima @sonimage1965

[sonimage1965]

The Sun's Burial

dir. Nagisa Oshima

1960

[apicturespeaks]

The Sun’s Burial, Nagisa Ōshima

[archdevilsupreme]

It is, by far, way too funny to me how I've been confused about Karlach's inventory for god knows how long before realising what's wrong. I was convinced it was the game being bugged since she can carry like 250kg.

Then I realised... she's been carrying around Cazador's corpse all this time. This shit is so funny to me because can you imagine a group of 4 people walking around Baldur's Gate, just casually dragging the corpse of a vampire lord along with them as a sign of dominance (and forgetfulness of said vampire corpse).

Update - beware! There will be fun and fire!

[wangxianficrecs]

Winter sun (back in my arms) by barisan

Winter sun (back in my arms)

by barisan (@barisan-no)

T, 19k, Wangxian

Summary: Still, he cannot keep himself from seeing it. The way the corners of his mouth curl when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle. The way he lets out a little snort before he laughs. The way he rubs the bridge of his nose when focused. Now that he has let himself see it, he cannot keep his mind from noticing each and every detail, cataloging what is his, what isn’t, and what is fully, simply, A-Yuan. His A-Yuan. The little mole by his lip, the shape of his eyes, his nose. A-Yuan, A-Yuan, A-Yuan. The Bio Dad WWX Au I’ve been screaming about for months. Kay's comments: Wanna have your heart ripped out of your chest and then carefully returned? Say less. This story is for you. It's so much hurt! So much ouch! And yet, so soft as well. A story in which A-Yuan is Wei Wuxian's biological son, but gets taken away because someone called the cops on Wei Wuxian for stealing diapers. Years later, Wei Wuxian is a school teacher and realizes that Lan Sizhui is his A-Yuan. Poor Wei Wuxian is really going through it here, but thankfully he has the support of his friends and his trusted service animal, which is a ferret! Super cute. Prepare for some major knives with a happy ending!! Excerpt: He remembers trying. He remembers the unending shifts, the ache on his limbs, the thumping on his head. He remembers giving everything he had, only to end up losing it all. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he bled, his son was gone. Three years, he had spent trying to make his life better, to make himself better. But he had been too late. By his son’s fourth birthday, Wei Ying had a small flat to call home, three jobs to pay rent and a completely furnished child’s room. By his son’s fourth birthday, Wei Ying had nothing.

pov alternating, modern setting, modern no powers, past wei wuxian/others, teacher wei wuxian, lan sizhui is a wei, single parent wei wuxian, single parent lan wangji, good parents lan wangji and wei wuxian, families of choice, burial mounds ensemble as family, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, adoption, recovery, fluff and angst, angst with a happy ending, getting together, homophobia, bad uncle lan qiren, developing relationship

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[meatiors]

I call this one "I didn't know molly was supposed to be irish until I heard his dead corpse talking and now I can't stop thinking about it"

[lotuslate]

post canon WWX in all of his happy glory ☀️ commissioned by @nthngtoseehere-blog 🌼

a follow up to this piece 🥀

commissions | patreon

[luthiery]

sun bleached flies, ethel cain // st. sebastian (c. 1615), guido reni 

[honeygleam]

isao sasaki as takeshi in the sun's burial (1960) dir. nagisa ōshima

[pierppasolini]

The Sun's Burial (1960) // dir. Nagisa Ōshima

[larissa-the-scribe]

Terrarium Lights, Pt. 2.5

Last time on Terrarium Lights: the boi is struggling with the reality of having a hole in his memories. Gail is struggling about whether or not she should tell him that he is, in fact, a ghost. (Next part >>here)

The ghost agreed to go with Gail to the cemetery the next afternoon.

"I think it might be good," he said. "I can see more places, and maybe something new will help. Somehow."

"And a good walk can be just the thing to clear your head," Gail offered as further reasoning.

It was the anniversary of her parents' death, and she was going to leave flowers on their graves, her uncle’s grave, and David’s grave.

When she had been younger, cemeteries had fascinated her. Now, with more sadness associated with them, her enthusiasm was tempered somewhat—and yet, despite that, she still quite liked them. They had character, and history, and she had friends there. Sometimes, she told Michael that she was scouting the place out, so she could be familiar with it when she ended up there herself.

She gathered an assortment of flowers from her garden (daffodils, drift roses, and gerbera daisies) and arranged them in bundles in a basket. There was no direct path to the cemetery, but she didn't mind. It was a lovely spring day, the sun was shining, and the wind brought hints of seasalt with it.

The lad followed along behind her, in one of his quieter moods. His hands were in his pockets, and he mutely observed the world around him with attentive eyes. Those didn't seem fully brown today, but he still seemed aware of what was going on around him.

As they went down the road, they passed an open space where, looking seaward, one could see the lighthouse lifted against the sky. The lad stopped. Noticing his absence from her side, Gail turned to find him focused on it intently.

"Is that the one you've been telling me about?"

"Yes. The coastline hereabouts has a lot of shoals and shallows and salt marshes, and pokes out into the sea some, so the lighthouse is there to guide the ships into harbor without them running foul of those, at the mouth of the bay. Some good spots for oysters, though. Not as good as further South or East, but you get a decent harvest."

He took the information in without comment, standing and staring with his hands in his pockets.

"Does it… perhaps remind you of anything?" Gail hazarded when he didn't move for another minute or so.

"I… I can't quite tell." He looked away, down at the ground, kicking a shoe against the ground. "There's something about it, that feels closer than the memories, but I don't know what that might be. Newer and older than all of it. And try as I might to make something of it, the piece that would make it make sense is missing."

Gail hummed sympathetically. "Maybe it will come to you as we walk? If not, we can visit it sometime later. If you're up to it, maybe today, after our visit to the church."

"I don't know if today," he said, squaring his shoulders. “I…I’m really still not sure about going new places. But I think… I might like to try going there. I don’t know when. But… I think I should. Someday."

"Very well then," Gail patted his shoulder as she led the way onward. "We should plan for it. Maybe in a couple of weeks. We can see how you’re feeling then."

He murmured something in agreement and trudged after her.

Past the salt marsh, up the road, into a forest of oaks and Spanish moss, then the church.

It was a small chapel, of wood, and whitewashed. Its steeple rose up to bear its cross, but not higher than the trees surrounding it. Gail had always found it charming—large enough for those who met there, with rooms to spend time together in fellowship, a carved cross on the wall behind the pulpit, a smell of wood and polish and old books, and simple but lovely stained glass windows. Certainly there were larger, grander chapels and churches deeper into Santa Juliana, but those were far away, and—to her mind—less pleasant. Besides, this was where her friends were, and Pastor Jeremiah was a good shepherd to his flock.

Before heading to the graveyard, Gail went inside the church to pray, sitting on one of the back pews. It was quiet, soothing, and cool after the trek through the woods. She prayed over her family—alive and dead—and their works in all their different places, for Mrs. Oberson and her growing sickness, for the lad, for wisdom in helping him, for her congregation and pastor.

It all took longer than she had planned, a calm, unhurried peace seeping into her as she sat and laid her people and her concerns before the Lord.

The lad sat beside her.

She didn't know if he was praying, too, or just waiting for her to finish. He seemed to sense something of her mood and the silence that lay unbroken in the sanctuary, and made no attempt to interrupt or hurry her, or even question her. Gail supposed he was likely to do so on the return journey.

On the seat beside them was a hymnbook, open to the beginning of "Rock of Ages." He seemed to be reading that. To Gail's surprise, when she looked back at him after her prayer time, she found that he had turned the page, and turned it back again, holding it gently as if prepared to scour both sides of it.

It was, as far as she could remember, the first time he had directly interacted with the physical world in a way that moved it.

He noticed her watching, and put the page back. "Is it time?" His voice was hushed, little more than a whisper.

She nodded, and picked up her basket of flowers.

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[faunusrights]

any jungle/DnB recs?

anon this question is so good but also holy shit this is such a hard question to answer. like. where are you in regards to knowing shit abt fuck. are we talking yr new to this or you want some 90s classics from beyond the veil. gateway drug or designer shit. liquid dnb or neurofunk. dubstep or breakcore. what am i reccing here.

that said listen to calyx

[theshenanijiang]

This current fic might be taking "The Burial Mounds made WWX for the war" a little too far... I mean... literally creating WWX whole-cloth is a bit much.

[gonzodangerfeels]

Who is Mr Brown?

Are you asking for Mr Brown?

I wanna know Now

Just smell for the fresh buttered biscuits

The hot cross buns

Ferdinand's rump roast