steve bates

Thank you so very much @lunabellesfor for tagging me :)

  • name: Nadin
  • nickname(s): a few friends call me Capone
  • zodiac sign: gemini
  • height: between 5′1″ and 5′2″
  • orientation: straight
  • nationality: [secret] 
  • favorite fruit: mango
  • favorite season: autumn 
  • favorite book: The Ocean At The End Of The Lane by Neil Gaiman 
  • favorite flower: calla lily 
  • favorite scent: citrus
  • favorite color: purple
  • favorite animal: turtle/tortoise 
  • coffee | tea | hot cocoa
  • average hours of sleep: 5-6 (which is insane because I need 8 just to function)
  • cat or dog person: cat
  • favorite fictional character(s): oh…. many. Pepper Potts, Tony Stark, Diana Prince, Norma Bates, Steve Trevor, you bored yet? Jamie Fraser, and probably a million more. 
  • number of blankets you sleep with: now - 4
  • dream trip: Machu Picchu 
  • blog created: January 2011
  • number of followers: 1359

I tag: @wonderrbat, @thatgirlyouvenevertalkedto, @dolorelovesrocks, @drclarkedison, @akastarlord, @birdmacklin, @hufflehugg, @cemeterydreamer, @kylieren :))

I Didn’t Understand That Reference (Rogers/Wilson x reader)

Request: This is based on a true story of how I tainted my most innocent of friends. But Steve’s reactions to urban dictionary requests like you are hanging with a friend and for fun you were skimming it so he asks about it and he is mortified

“I swear, that’s the last time that I fly commercial,” you hissed, storming through the door and throwing your suitcase into the center of the Avenger’s Compound living room, leaving your belongings to break free and litter the area, “what good is it to know Tony goddamn Stark if you can’t borrow a jet once in a while?”

Keep reading


12 years ago Steve Martin hosted the 75th Oscars in 2003. This was his opening monologue. 

Killing him softly

according to the prompt/idea by bluandorange. Excuse the shitty ‘lyrics’ that I made up on the spot as opposed to just searching for some real ones. 




“Yes! C’mon Steve, you haven’t gone out in like, six months.”

Steve frowns at his friend, “That is a gross exaggeration.” (It’s not, actually. But Steve is stubborn and can’t help but stick his feet in the sand and resist).

Bucky just raises an unimpressed brow, “Is it really? Stevie, name the last time you went out for the night.”

It takes him longer than it probably should to think of something, “Just the other week! We went and saw that movie you wanted to see- y’know, the one about Amy Winehouse.”

“That was a month and a half ago.”

He blinks, “Oh.”

How time flies.

“Yeah, Oh. So c’mon- the concert’s in two hours, and I know for a fact that you don’t have anything due until the week after next! You can spare a lousy Wednesday night.”

Steve stares down at his too-thin arms; the way his fingers clench. Bone and skin stretched thin. He should probably eat something, he thinks absently as the familiar sensation of anger and despair churns in his gut.

‘C’mon Stevie. You gotta get off this campus every once in a while. An art degree doesn’t merit you turning yourself into a hermit.”

Steve gets off the couch without answering. Grabs a bowl and a pack of instant noodles to make for himself. Bucky shakes his head when he offers; he’s almost as stubborn as Steve (but considerably better fed), and he’s determined to get his way.

Bucky’s right of course. He has no real reason not to go out tonight. Classes are only in the late afternoon tomorrow, and Steve would have just stayed up til midnight watching Netflix elsewise. He’s just… not had the energy to go further than the college grounds in the last few months, save for the occasional trips to the convenience store down the road for essentials. Winters are always bad for Steve, but this one feels especially awful. Whatever doesn’t hurt feels like it’s about to, and what art he does produce is definitely feeling the pinch of it. Bucky tries to help- tries to get him out and about- but Steve’s bailed on him so many times he can hardly count them all (or find the energy to do so in the first place). Honestly it’s a surprise Bucky’s even bothered to stick around.

“You’ll love it,” Bucky promises as Steve pours boiling water over his meal, “This guy’s voice, man… it’s better than sex.”

Steve snorts, “Not had the best of sex lives, have you Buck?”

He easily dodges the book thrown his way and laughs as it hits the mini-fridge with a dull thunk.

“Laugh it up, punk. When’s the last time you even got laid?”

Steve grimaces. A long, long time is the answer to that, and he can’t for the life of him think of a remark glib enough to deflect from that fact.

Bucky huffs- he already knows the answer too- and flops onto his back on Steve’s bed, “You’ll enjoy it Steve. It’s a Wednesday- not even like there’s gonna be that many people around. You don’t even have to mingle in the crowd! You know what Shield’s like; there’s plenty of tables and booths to hide yourself in, if you really want.”

Steve scowls at him, “I am not that bad.”

“Mm, but you’re close.” He turns onto his side. He’s got his Serious Face on, “You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever’s been eating at you, you don’t gotta keep it under wraps all the time. I’m here for you… I love you, man.”

Steve drains the water on his noodles. He says nothing about the letters he writes- to himself, to Bucky, to his mother or the world at large. Says nothing about the countless artworks hidden under his bed, angrier and darker and uglier than anything his friends are used to.

“I know,” he says instead. He stirs the shitty seasonings into his noodles. Bucky sighs heavily.

“Please come,” he says finally, “it’ll just be a nice, sedate night with Nat and Barton. You can just chill and listen to the music.”

Steve makes a show of thinking about it, but he already knows he’s going to say yes. Shitty winter or not, Bucky deserves a better friend that Steve’s been for a while now, and he wasn’t going to get anything done by just moping around in his dorm room.

“Fine,” he murmurs eventually, sitting down beside the mini-fridge, “but you’re buying the first drinks.”

Bucky’s smile is bright enough that it’s worth leaving the campus just for that.


Natasha, when she meets them outside the jazz bar, is as stunning as ever. She smiles at them warmly and pulls Steve into a hug with more fondness in her strong, sure touch than he probably deserves.

“It’s good to see you,” she murmurs in his ear, “I’m glad Bucky convinced you to come out tonight.” She pulls away to address the both of them, “Clint’s already inside. He saved us a table.”

Bucky grins. “Aces.”

Natasha offers Steve the crook of her arm, an artful brow raised in challenge. Steve rolls his eyes, but takes it anyway (never let it be said that Natasha never got her way). They follow behind Bucky, who’s all but vibrating with energy. Wilson must be good- it’s been a while since Steve’s seen him this excited for anyone.

The interior of the bar is exactly like Steve remembers- dimly lit, with dark furnishings and red leather stools, the exposed brick walls minimally decorated with black and white photographs and the odd framed poster. A permanent haze sits over the place, as though shrouded in cigarette smoke- though Steve knows smoking has been banned here for years. It’s more crowded than Steve was promised. Most tables and high seated stools are filled. This Wilson guy must be really good.

Natasha drags him over to one of the table’s right up the front that Clint has by some miracle obtained. Bucky disappears with mentions of getting them some drinks, and Clint bumps him after he gets settled on one of the spare stools, “Good to see you man! How’s college?”

Steve gives him a smile that he hopes is more genuine that it feels, “College is good. Last semester’s been pretty hectic- who knew a gallery opening would be so much work, right?”

Steve’s the last one at college now. He’d taken a semester off to work and take care of his mom just over a year ago. Then he’d gotten sick not long after she’d passed and that was another semester down the drain. Now he’s stuck in classes with people he doesn’t know, feeling old and out of place despite it not being the case at all.

Clint hums and gives him a crooked smile, “When’s the opening?”

“Next month,” Steve catches sight of Bucky, leaning against the bar and chatting with the bartender as though he owned the place, “I can get a hold of some tickets for the open night if you’d like.”

“Yes please,” Natasha purrs. Bucky returns, three beers and a coke gathered carefully between his hands. Some kind of stow-toned guitar music plays through the speakers- dark and sedate. It drags and reverberates through the air like some kind of sinister prowling predator, and Steve lets himself focus on the music and the steady chatter between his friends while he waits for the actual music to start.

A man hops up onto the stage at some point- several others trail in as he fiddles with the microphone over the piano. Bucky elbows him in the side and motions at the guy with his head, “That’s him!” and bless him, but he sounds so excited. Bucky adores Jazz.

Natasha smirks, “I know him, by the way.”

Bucky’s grin grows wider, “Yeah?”

“We work at the shelter together on Sundays. He’s a counsellor at the youth center.”

Steve nods absently as Natasha espouses his various qualities to Bucky. His eyes are drawn to Wilson working through his sound check; under the yellow lights is skin is like honey and chocolate. Steve likes the upturned corners of his mouth, like he’s constantly battling with a smile.  His voice over the mics is warm and lively and there’s a confidence and energy to his movements that Steve can’t help but admire; he wants to paint him in the scene, relaxed and at ease under the lights of the stage.

The club grows quieter and quieter, people waiting with anticipation for the band to start. The conversation between Bucky and Natasha peters off when the man finally settles at the grand piano. His cufflinks glint as his shakes himself out.

“Evening everyone,” he says, the hints of a smile at his lips turning into a friendly smirk easily enough, “hope Wednesday’s been treating you well enough. We’re Redwing Etcetera- it’s nice to be here again.” The other men in his group wave, and settle down with their own instruments, “We’re gonna start with a lively one to get the ball rolling, and then we’ll see where that takes us.”

Polite clapping fills the club and the music starts- a bright jazzy number that Steve vaguely recognises from Bucky’s collection.

And then Wilson opens his mouth and sings.

And yeah.

Yeah okay. Steve can see why Bucky likes him so much.

Rich and mellow, his voice rumbles through Steve’s empty chest, striking at something in his bones and he forgets about his woes, forgets about the anger and the depression and his stupid, useless body. His range is glorious and Steve never wants the song to end.

But like all good things, it does, and just as quickly as it came Steve loses that little piece of something to the applause. Bucky whistles loudly and Wilson grins over at them and winks.

Steve’s heart almost exits straight through his ribcage.

When the applause dies down again, the singer bends back into the microphone, “Glad you all like that- woulda been real awkward had you not.”

On the other side of their Table, Natasha rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“This next one’s one of my own creations,” his voice turns somber, “I wrote this for a close friend of mine in a time of great need.”

The music starts; some slow piece with trumpet and piano and the faintest whiff of a snare drum and bass guitar. And Steve waits. Waits with bated breath even as the music pulls the emotions from him- all the feelings he’s been bottling away in himself, in his art and the letters he writes to his mother- out of reach now. When the words finally come, it’s almost like a surprise, and they catch him off guard.

You turned your back from us. My wingman, my friend I watched your colours fade to grey.

But I know you tried. You hid so well…



But this song is breaking him. The dragged out vocals, the sincerity and the sorrow, tinted with a subtle anger- why did you not say-  Steve’s sure he’s crying, but when he touches his cheeks they’re dry. He swallows back his emotions and wishes this would just. End. His face feels hot and tight- feverish. It’s as though this song was written about Steve. As though this Sam Wilson had read the letters he’d written and burnt- brother you smile, my skin don’t feel like mine- seen the art he’d hidden from Bucky and now he’s brought it out- strung it out for all these people in the club to laugh and stare at.

He brings his glass of coke to his mouth and silently wishes for it to just. Stop.

You turned the lock on more than just that door.”

Steve is fairly sure he’s in love.

We will all just fade someday…”


Steve Bates, designer of the Hitman glass torch line, boroscilicate flamethrower made at the Pipe Classic 6.