copperbadge:
shanology:
thisisamarvelblogg:
i have
so many feelings
about photo booths
for a lot of people (read: lgbt people) it was the first/only opportunity a lot of them had to have pictures of themselves as a couple, because there was no photographer, so it was a few seconds to be themselves and have PROOF of themselves to hide away for when they needed it
and uh since this is technically a fandom blog??
Fandom:
Whoever cleaned out Steve’s apartment definitely found at least one sheet of three increasingly close hugs and then a kiss tucked inside a book hidden under something.
This made me wonder so then I had to research and – the first photo booth debuted in 1925, in Manhattan. Headcanon 100% accepted, this was absolutely a thing that Science Nerd Bucky Barnes would have made Steve go check out.
I messed around with timing a little and it’s probably not 100% historically accurate but also the US never developed a super soldier serum so I’m feeling okay about my inaccuracies.
This is the debut fic for the June Fic Fest, where I’ll be posting at least one short fic per day every day I’m not in the office, which means the 6th through the 8th and the 14th through the 24th. Have fun everyone!
Also you guys, the banana cream twinkies are real.
***
“We gotta go, Steve!”
Steve, tired from the stifling July heat and aching in his joints from the humidity, gave Bucky a cranky look over the top of his drafting table. “What’s so great about it? It’s just a photographer, Buck. Gonna be the death of art anyhow, photography,” he muttered, mostly to himself, because Bucky had heard Steve’s rant about photography killing the ad illustration industry a few too many times already.
“It’s not a photographer!” Bucky insisted, leaning on the top of the drafting table. “It’s all mechanical! There’s no person at all. Not even like the attendants at the photomatons. Totally automatic. And nearly instant!”
Steve narrowed his eyes. “That’s even worse,” he declared, but he put his pencil down and wiped the graphite off his hands on a rag that had once been one of Bucky’s shirts (and then one of Steve’s nightshirts, before being consigned to the rag heap). A walk would help his joints, true, and there would probably be a breeze at street level.
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