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cinema-corner·20 hours agoPhoto



Ouat Con Chicago 2018 - Saturday, Emilie and Giles Panel

(x) (x) (x) (x) (x)

  • He keeps calling her Mum (x)
  • Emilie to Giles after realizing his character exists because she was pregnant “You owe your job to my kid!”(x)



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cinema-corner·2 days agoText





An Exotic Dancer Demonstrates That Her Underwear Was Too Large To Have Exposed Herself, After Undercover Police Officers Arrested Her In Florida


Dorothy Counts – The First Black Girl To Attend An All-White School In The United States – Being Teased And Taunted By Her White Male Peers At Charlotte’s Harry Harding High School, 1957


Austrian Boy Receives New Shoes During WWII


Jewish Prisoners After Being Liberated From A Death Train, 1945


The Graves Of A Catholic Woman And Her Protestant Husband, Holland, 1888


A Lone Man Refusing To Do The Nazi Salute, 1936


Job Hunting In 1930’s


German Soldiers React To Footage Of Concentration Camps, 1945


Residents Of West Berlin Show Children To Their Grandparents Who Reside On The Eastern Side, 1961


Acrobats Balance On Top Of The Empire State Building, 1934


Mafia Boss Joe Masseria Lays Dead On A Brooklyn Restaurant Floor Holding The Ace Of Spades, 1931


Lesbian Couple At Le Monocle, Paris, 1932


The Most Beautiful Suicide – Evelyn Mchale Leapt To Her Death From The Empire State Building, 1947


The Remains Of The Astronaut Vladimir Komarov, A Man Who Fell From Space, 1967


Race Organizers Attempt To Stop Kathrine Switzer From Competing In The Boston Marathon. She Became The First Woman To Finish The Race, 1967


Harold Whittles Hearing Sound For The First Time, 1974


Nikola Tesla Sitting In His Laboratory With His “Magnifying Transmitter”



Tesla gave no fucks

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cinema-corner·3 days agoText


Define “Love”: A Coco Fanfiction

Author’s note: I would like to thank thefreedictionary.com for the Spanish definition of love. I am by no means Hispanic but I’m currently just starting to learn Spanish. If anyone can recommend me a good Spanish-only dictionary or a grammar dictionary that’d be wonderful. I also would like to thank Charles M. Schulz for Peanuts, specifically the episode Play It Again, Charlie Brown.

As you can see, this little ship has taken over my life. And so I present to you what is probably the first Marco x Rosa (Marosa) fanfiction on this site. It’s loosely based on @slusheeduck’s fanfiction titled Sonance so I recommend reading it first. But the gist is Marco Veracruz is Ernesto’s great-great-grandson who at first hated Miguel for exposing Ernesto but later on became Miguel’s friend. It is implied in the story’s ending that the boy visits the Riveras during the holidays after that.

Why do I ship him with Rosa? I dunno, I guess it’s just the side effects. But I like it so here you go. Enjoy!


“Just a few more touches… Done! ¡Mira, what do you think?”

Marco held up his piece to Rosa who was sitting next to him as he was finishing up a watercolour study of Tía Carmen, his unknowing model, who was drawn carrying a basket of laundry. It was simple but there was a quiet beauty in it ― just like the model in real life, thought Rosa.

They were sitting in the dining room, staying away from the summer sun. It was a Sunday in June and the Riveras were having a day off from work, only going to the workshop for necessary repairs.

“I love it! And I’m sure Mamá would love it too”, she replied. Marco lit up as her words reached his ears. Why wouldn’t he? Back in México City, nobody at home would even take a glance at his artworks. His parents were either busy with handling the press and all that or were just too cold to even care. His manager only shrugged and said “Well, it’s alright I guess” before typing some messages on her phone again. Hearing such kind and encouraging words from someone truly felt good.

Seeing him lit up only made Rosa blush even more than she already had. ¡Ay, him and that smile of his! Qué injusto!

Miguel was off with Abel to help Abuelita with the groceries and to Rosa that meant spending more time with Marco. Starting last year he had been visiting the Rivera family every summer. And Rosa had been enamored with the boy from México City ever since. Oh, sure, she was upset and angry that her cousin was treated badly by him at first. But after seeing him in person for the first time, she couldn’t help it. She was smitten.

At first she nearly couldn’t tell them apart. But after taking a good look, she realized that her cousin and his new friend were as different as fire and ice. While Miguel was like cinnamon; heartwarming with a hint of sweetness, could be overpowering at times and a force to be reckoned with if angered, Marco was pure salt. Sassy, sometimes snarky, manipulative at times, and yet somehow without him things just felt incomplete like the time Tía Gloria forgot to add salt into the menudo for dinner last week. And, like her, her brothers, and her eldest cousin, he could be very determined.

Last year she didn’t get to tell him how she felt. She was too cautious last year, trying to test the waters. This time, she decided. This time I will tell him.

I will make him fall for me like how he made me fall for him.



“Do you know what love is?”, she asked.

Marco paused and looked up from his sketchbook. He looked at Rosa, one brow raised. Love as a word wasn’t too hard to define but maybe she was testing her?

From what he knew, Rosa Rivera was the smartest out of all the Rivera children. Like pepper was she; adventurous, sassy, and could suit to all your needs, sweet or savoury. The ever-efficient, ever-reliable girl had a charm to her that Marco couldn’t put his hands on. But whatever it could be, he certainly liked it.

But this time, Marco was certain she was testing him. Definitely. She’s definitely testing my vocabulary, he thought.

And with a smug smile (that made Rosa instantly melt inside), he proudly said “Love. A noun. To be fond of. A strong affection for or attachment or devotion to a person or persons”.

Rosa looked at him as if he had said something odd. Rude, he thought. He looked around, and then back at her. “Uh, what?”, he asked. “Didn’t I just define it? Isn’t that what you want?”. Whatever game she was playing, he certainly didn’t know what the rules were. If only she would tell him!

That statement wasn’t what Rosa was expecting at all. Who defines love that way? Is this boy really that clueless? “Marco,” she slowly replied, “That’s… not exactly what I meant…”. She gave him a lopsided grin and let out a little chuckle.

Marco then realized he just defined love in English. Seeing Rosa’s expression (that was somehow really cute ― wait what) he decided to make it easier for the both of them.

By defining it in Spanish.

Amor. Sentimienteo de afecto y pasión experimentado por una persona hacia otra. Vivo afecto o inclinación hacia una persona o cosa”.

He looked at her. She looked at him. And then Rosa laughed. Oh, how silly were they being! A girl in love with a boy who was painfully oblivious. It did hurt, but seeing his face somehow made up for the pain. And then he laughed too, her laughter being too contagious. The two of them laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

No, tonto! I meant as a feeling!” Rosa snickered. Marco chuckled as their laughter died down. And with a sad smile, he replied “Ah, how could anyone define anything as a feeling if they’ve never felt it before?”

Rosa looked at him, confused. Have never felt love before? How is that possible?

“But,” she retorted, “surely you’ve felt it! I mean, don’t your parents-”

He shook his head. “They are cold towards me”, he said in a low voice. “All they see is the boy whose job is to keep his great-great-grandfather’s legacy intact. The moment I rebelled by performing with Miguel and showing interest in something other than music, they basically lowkey disowned me.”

“How about crushes?”, Rosa continued. And yet all she received was a shrug.

“Miguel was the very first actual friend I’ve ever had. I’ve never had an actual friend before, let alone a girlfriend”, he continued. He then looked at Rosa to see her eyes were that of pity. And what looked like affection? But maybe it was just the heat.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I don’t need your pity”. His words only made Rosa pity him even more. Oh, how she wanted to hug all that hurt away! That smile of his suited him much more, anyway.

Rosa sighed. And with a soft smile she placed her right hand on his left shoulder. Marco looked at his shoulder and then Rosa. For some reason, he liked it. And he didn’t want her to let go. But why?

The girl next to him then smiled and said “To me, love is like a really good book. You just don’t want to let go of it”. Looking at little Socorro being carried by Tía Luisa, with Tío Enrique following close behind, she then continued.

“Love is like a warm hug or a cool bed. Or a really fluffy blanket. Or a cup of champurrado. You don’t want to let go of it”.

Then she looked at Benny and Manny, who were singing some theme song from a superhero cartoon. “Sometimes,” she continued. “Love is like a song. It gets stuck in your head and that’s all you can think of.

“But,” she then added. “Love is also more than all that.”

Marco looked at her, confused. “More than all that?”, he asked. “Then, what is love?”

Rosa shrugged. After a few moments of silence, she looked at the ofrenda room and finally continued. “Love is a feeling you find in the most unexpected of places and or people.”

“Like Héctor Rivera and Mamá Imelda?”, Marco wondered out loud. Rosa looked at him with a smile and said, “Si, just like the two of them”. From their photo alone one could see how different they were (and are) in nature. The ever-serious, no-nonsense Imelda Rivera one day met the goofy, gentle-hearted músico named Héctor. And somehow love blossomed between the two.

“Don’t worry, Marco,” Rosa said gently. “I’m one hundred percent positive you’ll find love one day.” Marco smiled. He truly felt grateful for this talk of theirs.

Without realizing it, Rosa’s lips had already met Marco’s cheek. Gone was her previous ambition. All she wanted now was to see him happy. Marco gasped but before he could say anything, Rosa grinned and ran to the workshop, blushing like never before.

It felt weird being kissed by her but… it felt good? Pleasant, even. He didn’t know exactly how to react but deep down he felt happy for some reason. It certainly wasn’t like how those “tías” and “señoras” (who probably marinated themselves in their perfume, he might add) would peck his cheeks with lips overloaded with lipstick during events and important dinners as this one had actual emotion put into it. And suddenly all that confidence he knew he had felt like it suddenly vanished and he suddenly felt a little bit shy.

He touched his cheek and wondered whether love could be found here, in this family after all.


Meanwhile, two boys were hiding in the ofrenda room, trying their best to stiffle their laughter as Marco defined love to Rosa. Before anyone noticed, they ran to the older boy’s room and slammed the door shut before they both fell to the ground in a heap of laughter. But little did they know that something else happened after that.

While Abel and he were cackling like no tomorrow, Miguel also made a mental note to write to Papá Héctor and the rest for Diá de Muertos. He was absolutely certain that Tía Rosita would absolutely love it, the romantic that she was.

Oh, he thought. They would love to know about this!

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cinema-corner·3 days agoText



Fandom: Coco
Rating: General audiences
Characters: Hector Rivera, Miguel Rivera, Chicharron
Relationships: Miguel Rivera & Hector Rivera

Summary: Every song has a story. A series of one-shots centered around, and about, each of the songs heard in the movie.

Note: For the full reading experience, it is highly suggested that you listen to the song associated with the chapter before/during/after reading. Enjoy!

“Just let me hear it one more time.” The old man lay back in his hammock, a remnant of a smile appearing on his tired face. “You know the one.”

            The younger man took the guitar gently from the older man’s hands. Almost like he didn’t want to, but once he held it he didn’t resist its pull. “Anything for you, amigo.”

            He leaned against the hammock, letting the body of the instrument rest comfortably in the crook of his right arm. His fingers, strikingly long, moved to find their places on the fretboard, a calm falling across his face as he did. Miguel pulled a wooden stool from a corner, paying close attention. 

            The man was quiet for a few seconds. He pressed a finger down on a string and let it come away. A thoughtful note rose into the silence of the night air drifting into the shack. Then, his fingers began to brush against the strings, again and again, and a full melody came forth, sounding like a song coming from an old guitar during an older time, and the movement was so practiced, so familiar, that Miguel forgot how to breathe.

            The last note faded away for a brief moment, before the man began to sing.

            “Well, everyone knows Juanita.” Miguel’s eyes lit up. He could sing. His voice was a gentle tenor, clear and tender against the simple notes of his guitar. But most of all, as he sang on, he sounded so human, a human voice coming from a (once) human man. It wasn’t like Ernesto’s singing, vibrant and bold, bur you couldn’t say it was plain either. It would have been easier to believe, from everything he’d seen from this wandering spirit of a dead man, that Hector was some travelling mariachi who got chased off the stage often for playing out of tune, but he sang like he was telling a story.

            And his playing, Miguel observed, never taking his eyes off the man, those hands had been playing for years. He could see his own fingers gracefully going down the strings, the result of feverish practicing of the chords he learned in secret at home. If he had become famous around Ernesto’s time, he would have been his contemporary, a friend from a different genre to trade stories and skills, or a friendly rival. If he’d been famous then, Miguel would have listened to him, too.

            What a coincidence, he thought, to find someone like him and his great-great-grandfather, a man who knew music, on his own journey to keep music for his own. But then… who was he? A talented street performer? A well-known guitarist? Who did he play for? Surely some people must have heard his songs. At least someone who missed the man who played music outside their door? Why was he alone? How did he end up here, forgotten?

            “And if I weren’t so ugly, she’d possibly give me a chance.” The skeleton man finished his song.

            Miguel forgot how to clap. He stared at this silhouette of a musician with newfound admiration.

End note: This was probably everyone’s reaction too the moment we found out this disheveled-looking skeleton could actually sing and play. If you look at it another way, it was the first time Miguel, unknowingly, heard his great-great-grandfather play. Imagine if he knew right there and then.

If you liked it, please reblog or leave a kudos on this fic at AO3 (name: mangabreadroll)!  Thank you for reading!

My first reaction when I first heard Hector sing was, “His voice is so handsome.” :)

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cinema-corner·7 days agoText


Héctor: I made the mistake of leaving you once, Imelda. I’m not gonna do that again, no matter how brave you are.

Imelda: And I suppose you just expect me to go weak at the knees and fall into your arms and cry hysterically and say “We’ll just figure this whole thing out”? You and I just…picking up where we left off…and spending our afterlife together. Come on Héctor, what do expect? To live happily ever after?

Héctor: Yes. To all of the above. Except you don’t have to cry hysterically.

Imelda: Oh yes I do!

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cinema-corner·11 days agoText


A/N: So this’ll be a two-parter, following up on His Guitar and Her Musician, focusing on Hèctor and his guitar alebrije after they’re reunited. 


Her mùsico is as happy as she is.

She hears it in his voice when he speaks, when he sings. She feels it as he plays. And why shouldn’t he be happy? It is Dìa de los Muertos, and unlike on the past ninety-six iterations of the holiday, he is with his family. Not in an office hearing a list of petty crimes read back to him, not stifled by failure and cempasùchil, not imagining the celebration being held in his absence.


All of that pain and despair is gone now. He has pushed it back with new memories, good memories to drown out the bad; she has pushed it back through the song Miguel has written for the occasion, one that delights in a family reunited.

It is perfect.

It is just what he needs. What she needs. To remember where they are, why they’re here. To remember that their time of banishment is over and all is forgiven and they’re a family again.

There are more songs beyond the one Miguel wrote. Hèctor plays alongside his grandson, and she thinks of the past, of a time when music was as much a part of their family as she was.


Some things are good to remember.


There are some who call her by the wrong name.

She meets the first when they reach the re-entry gate just before sunrise. His eyes widen, his jaw comes dangerously close to the counter, he leans forward with both palms supporting his weight.

“De la Cruz’s guitar,” he breathes.

Before she can teach him the error of his ways, Imelda steps forward, one hand moving for her shoe. “That guitar belongs to my husband.” Every word is clipped, deliberate enough to make the agent shrink back. “I gave it to him as a gift.”

She warms with pride. Imelda, who first brought her home. Imelda, who won’t stand for lies. Imelda, who tried to erase Hèctor from existence.

No. She didn’t try. It was simply a consequence of her fury. When she learned the truth, she responded with the appropriate horror, chose to help him. Her choice nearly came too late, but it was soon enough. That is what matters.

“Lo siento,” the agent says, stamping the appropriate paperwork and waving them through. He says it again as Hèctor carries her past. “Lo siento mucho.”


Hèctor’s family is kind to him; they’re kind to each other and they accept him as one of their own, but this acceptance has been many years delayed. It has been unequivocal, but it was still withheld. He was still barred from their home, from their knowledge, for nearly a century.

He plays for them now, one of the old songs. It’s good to play it properly, with all the words correct and none of the notes changed, with more emotion behind both of those things than a lust for recognition. It’s a humorous song, and the incident inspiring it is at the forefront of his mind; he smiles as he plays.

But he doesn’t come close to laughter. The song used to bring him to the brink of it, back before Ernesto took his life and everything else. Now, the knowledge of just how distant that improbable chase and its comically anticlimactic outcome are from the present keeps the full joy of it at bay.

His family still laughs when the song is over, blending it with applause and cheers. “You were right, Papà,” Coco says. “It does sound better on that guitar.”

It doesn’t merely sound better. It is better. They were meant to play together, and they were meant to play songs like that one. Not sad ones, songs like the one he’s scribbled out and hidden where Imelda will never look for it, where he doesn’t have to look at it.

Julio gives her mùsico a long look before standing, making a cautious approach. “I…can I?”

Hèctor slips off the strap they’ve found. Julio’s palm covers her strings.

She can feel some of what he feels, an echo of wonder, a shade of admiration. But she cannot see his memories. Can’t know what he knows as well as he knows it, can’t see through his eyes. 

He is not and never has been a musician. Communication is always easier with those who speak her language, and Julio has actively shunned knowledge of it. He can hear it, of course, can appreciate its beauty and the emotions that give it power, but its inner workings are a mystery to him.

It isn’t his fault. No, the blame lies with the woman who sent Miguel back with just enough time, only enough time, to save her husband.

“Heh,” Julio says. “It….it’s nice.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and she wonders if he feels that same melancholy ache she does.


“Would you play for us?”

“I…don’t know.”

“You have your old guitar back! You should play.”

She hears variations on that conversation every time Hèctor takes her out in public, which is often. He understands what she is now, though that isn’t the full reason he carries her strapped to his back. The bursts of fear she can’t control when he attempts to leave her at home have something to do with it.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You said you’d think about it last time.”

There is a smile in the woman’s voice as she says it, but Hèctor’s stew of trepidation and guilt and irritation is unaffected. “Still thinking.”

Imelda takes her husband’s arm. “He doesn’t have to play for you.”

“I know.” There is more defensiveness there than those two words warrant. “I just thought it’d be fun to hear him.”

With a brief pause but not another word, he and Imelda move on. She wants to soothe him with a few memories of shows that went well, of audiences who wrapped his music around their shoulders and carried it with them into the evening, but the presence of his murderer keeps her from using them. He thinks about Ernesto, about that night, often enough. He doesn’t need those thoughts intruding now. 

They don’t walk far before another admirer blocks their way, a man this time. “Señor Rivera! I see you have de la—have your guitar again!”

“I do.” The words are cheerful, but she can feel annoyance and apprehension beneath it.

“Will we get to hear it played?”

“Maybe later,” Hèctor says. His cheer has slipped, but the man is as chipper as ever.

“I’ve always wanted to hear it—I loved hearing de la Cruz’s singing when I was alive, I never knew they were yours, the songs I mean.”

Hèctor gives the man a “Gracias” he doesn’t deserve.

“Ay, but they’re so good! Your songs! Even when he was singing them, there was something about them—I always wanted to hear them played in person, but I never could.” He gives a nervous, expectant sort of laugh—more expectant than nervous, she thinks.

He deserves the next “Gracias” even less than the first, but he receives it anyway.

“You write the best songs.”

Those words.

Those words

“You write the best songs, mi amigo.”

Those words, in another voice but with the same smile, said just as sincerely in a different city in the sunlight and the dust and that smile.

Said again after a show, making it sound like a compliment and not the threat it would become, the threat she’d see too late. 

“I can’t do it without your songs, Hèctor!” 

A toast. 


Hèctor collapsing in the street.

That voice, reassuring and gentle and too kind for what its owner had just done.

The stranger is smiling and she doesn’t know what’s behind that smile but she knows it can’t get loose and it’s going to because it always does, it always will—

Hèctor doesn’t even get to say his third “Gracias” before she strikes.

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cinema-corner·12 days agoText


Fun with sketching with green ink at one of the best cafes in town. Forgot all my pencils at home which made me sad but luckily they could lend one.

Had the last part in mind for a while. I can totally see Héctor absolutely losing his freakin’ mind over Miguel starting to grow into romance (after having gotten of his disgust with kisses on TV lol) since he’s such a romantic himself

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