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#dilated
highonmarvel · 2 months
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Dilated [I]
Steve Rogers bumps into a woman whose pupils are larger than normal.
Previous Part: [Prologue]
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content warnings here!
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You startle at the contact and quickly slap his hands off, immediately groaning at the cramp suffocating your left upper arm as you pull it back. You can’t really see the tall man in front of you through your watery eyes, and you can’t wipe your eyes due to your sweaty palms.
You’re struggling to really comprehend what he’s saying; you know he asked if you’re okay, and then?
“Can I take you home?” his voice comes through hazily.
“Wh- What?” you ask, the question immediately flying out of your head as your eyes rapidly scan the streets, like looking for signs of danger, when you’re sure there aren’t any.
“Can I take you home,” he repeats, slowly and louder. You turn your head to wipe your face on your shoulder as he continues, “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”
That’s Captain America, no?
With your eyes less blurry now, you’re just able to make out the blue eyes and golden hair under the warm streetlights.
“Okay!” is all you can muster, and you’re not sure to what he took it: okay to take you home or okay that’s his name? Maybe you should give your name in response but you don’t, you can’t. When he asks for your address, you snap something at him that you think is where you live, though you can’t tell through your irritation; he’s really agitating you for some reason; he’s done nothing, but he’s got you annoyed, or maybe you’re just annoyed in general after Sharon cut you off. You wonder why, because it’s not like she doesn’t have a supply, and it’s not like she cares whether you live or die.
You stumble a few times and sway slightly as you stay just a little ahead of him in beat to get to your flat but refuse his offer of a strong, steady arm around your waist to keep your stable. You don’t want to touch him at all, feeling hot and hotter even just walking beside him, everything radiating heat, but especially his body.
You get to the entrance of your building and push your shoulder against the door to stumble into the hall. You don’t notice Steve come in behind you under he places a large hand on the small of your back and you jump in fright with a yelp, whipping around to face him.
“Sorry!” he apologises, “I’m sorry, but I really need to make sure you get in safe. Is that okay?”
You wish he would stop talking, and you guess he knows you’re not really processing what he’s saying, but you don’t really have the drive to snap at him, just letting him trail you as you walk up four flights of stairs to get to your door. He stays alert behind you, ready for you to fall backwards and into his arms, but you make it, surprising even yourself.
You fumble with your keys, ignoring his offer to help as you drop the key four times before you get it in the lock and then another three trying to turn it. You don’t kick off your shoes, don’t take off your jacket or even pull your sling bag off, you just crash face first into the couch and fall right asleep.
***
Steve is surprised at your exhaustion. His first guess was heroin withdrawal but that’s more likely to cause insomnia, and then he worries you may have died in front of him, but your breathing slowly returning to regular and your snoring assure him you’re alive. Well, barely.
He has to stay overnight, how can he just leave you like this? Tomorrow will probably be worse, you can’t be alone by yourself right now. He’s not sure if he should pull a blanket over you, take your shoes off and rest your head more comfortably on a pillow. He decides to leave you, worried if he takes one thing off he may not be able to stop.
But he should probably get something to help you, right? And he needs a glass of water himself. Your kitchen opens right into the living room so it’s easy to find. He pours himself an ice cold glass, sipping it as he walks back to you and settles in an armchair across from the sofa you’re passed out on. Your place isn’t really decorated; he can see lighter squares against your walls, and wonders if you sold those pieces of if you’ve recently moved and a previous tenant took their frames.
Maybe you’re an artist; he’s heard artists are tortured, a lot of them do drugs, or maybe a musician; he should probably check your bedroom to be sure, just to learn about you so tomorrow he can get you the appropriate help.
There are only two doors, one leading to the bathroom. He’s immediately drawn to your medicine cabinet to check if you’ve got anything here, because if you do, he needs to get rid of it. He finds more bottles of sleeping pills than needed and a prescription for depression or anxiety meds, making a mental note to flush the sedatives down the toilet in a few hours; not now, he doesn’t want to wake you.
Adjacent to the bathroom is what he assumes if your bedroom door, which he is right about, and as messy as expected (he wondered how your living room, kitchen and bathroom appeared tidy enough—if you were in this state often, you’d definitely be unable to maintain even basic cleaning). Maybe you didn’t use those rooms. Not even the bathroom?
Clothes are scattered on the floor and pillows and blankets have been thrown off the bed, sheets too, leaving a bare mattress with a small bloodstain on it. A desk sits by the window, looking out to just another red brick apartment complex, with a broken laptop and scraps of paper cluttering the surface and the ground, a small bin overflowing with paper and broken pens.
He finds a manuscript laying on the floor—so you’re a writer—and finally he can put a name to your face. Should he clean your room, or is that really weird? In less than an hour he’s developing this caring instinct, and he tells himself it’s just his job, Captain America wanting to help everyone and all, he’s a superhero after and before all.
Steve gets another cold glass of water and settles in his seat across from you. For the first time tonight, you look at peace; your eye lids aren’t moving as rapidly, your breathing is steady and deep, your limbs aren’t trembling, muscles aren’t cramped, and your wild sweating has slowed, though he can still even see the layer sticking to your skin.
***
When you peel your eyes open, you’re grateful for the overcast weather, though you’re still a little blinded by the light. You feel like pure shit: weak and sore with a pounding headache and overwhelming nausea. You turn your head to vomit off the couch, surprised to land it in a bucket waiting for you and not your stained carpet. Blinking is hardly helping as you try to get your lashes to unstick each time they flutter. Your heartbeat is slow, slow enough that were you feeling more aware, it would concern you, and you wonder if you’re dying.
You’re hardly regaining full consciousness when your gaze finally lands on a man sitting across from you. You scream as you sit up and jump further back into the couch, but you can’t hold yourself up for long before you tumble back to the cushions, your shoulder hitting the edge making you wince in pain and heavy head lolling over the armrest, straining your neck.
“Relax, relax, you’re gonna hurt yourself, you need to calm down. I’m Steve,” he introduces himself in a friendly manner but he doesn’t smile, instead scanning your face with furrowed brows like he’s looking for any injuries.
He looks like the man from last night, yeah, and it takes you a few moments to grasp that he’s Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. Your breathing rate increases as your mind races to find a reason as to why Captain America is in your apartment. You vaguely remember being turned away again by Sharon last night, and you remember someone mentioning she was dealing some more serious shit than what you needed, had he found out about that? Thought you were an accomplice? Or maybe you were in danger; maybe Sharon had found out you knew and was going to kill you, and he was here for protection. Did you do something really illegal last night to the point one of the world’s greatest superheroes had to watch over you?
“I know who you are what are you doing here?” you plead for an answer, desperation coating your tone as your heart beats wildly.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he coos, taking a step towards you and keeping his hands visible, like approaching a stray dog, “I was really, really concerned about you last night, I couldn’t in good faith leave you, I had to make sure you got home safe.”
But… it’s the morning. Did he stay all night? You kind of hope he did instead of leaving and somehow breaking into your place when you were passed out, if anything.
You’re shaking, and you can’t tell if it’s from withdrawal or if you’re scared. But why would you be scared? You have the world’s greatest protector concerned with your health and safety. Something about him is unsettling, and at first you think it’s just your agitation finding reasons for anxiety when there are none. He was just being nice, being so much more helpful than you could have ever asked for, but you can’t help but wonder, wouldn’t he have better things to do? More serious threats to take care of? Why would an Avenger prowl the streets and take such an interest in a random woman rather than an inter-dimensional threat?
Something just isn’t sitting right, and you can’t tell if it’s your scattered imagination or a real possibility of danger.
[taglist; @cjand10, @pr300877, fill out this form if you’d like to be added]
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ovvercome · 1 year
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madc0w · 19 days
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Listen/purchase: Dilated by Dramamine
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sc1v14s · 9 months
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dilated pupils
During the Renaissance in Italy, eyedrops made made from an extract of nightshade berries (also called atropa belladonna) were used to dilate the pupils. 
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Why on earth would you want to have enormous pupils? 
Well, they provided a 'soft and seductive' effect, just like in a romance scene of a novel where someone’s eyes ‘darken with desire.’  (The pupils expand when looking at something one considers attractive, due to oxytocin). Someone with aniridia must have seemed like they were permanently DTF. 
But using nightshade in the eyes caused blurred vision, and inability to focus on close objects (so sexy) and long-term abuse also caused blindness, oof.
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lamtrappedindespair · 4 months
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Dilated by Tuxedo Gleam
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jimbloom68 · 6 months
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(via GIPHY)
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weeblmaodotcom · 7 months
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Why are Pain's pupils dilated? Wrong answers only , Meme by Weeblmao.com
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olessan · 3 months
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ma'am
(Dragon's Dogma 2: Get to Know the Sphinx - IGN First)
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highonmarvel · 3 months
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Dilated
Steve Rogers bumps into a woman whose pupils are larger than normal.
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Prologue
Part I
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aivy-saur · 14 days
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REPOST CUZ IT WASN'T IN THE TAGS PUTCHA 👹
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skyppl-e · 2 months
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FOURTH ATTEMPT AT UPLOADING THIS.... AAAA
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remember what the dormouse said
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globalatomic · 1 year
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La Haine Inside Us 3M DILATED Fleece Multi Zip skirted trousers
95%cotton 5%elastane
Made In Italy
Unisex Fleece stretch trouser with apron skirt panels- Low crotch - Front double zip - Pockets with zip - Raw edged cut - Tight legging fit - Wide elasticated waist
Model is Wearing Size M
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ghostbsuter · 6 months
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Danny loved this dimension!
First, the yellow ring powered attacks, and now the fear gas! Jazz would have an aneurysm if she ever found out how high he's gotten in the past week alone.
Now, if only he could shake off these pesky green lanterns and the giant bat guy.
Haunting this dimension seems like promising bonding activity between him, Ember, Kitty, and Johnny!
He really should hunt down that yellow lantern guy, tho, that stuff was great quality.
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fnbskincare · 2 years
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Dilated pores: a routine against the pores that make life hard for us?
Dilated pores: a routine against the pores that make life hard for us?
Every week (or almost) I invite you to answer your questions in stories on Instagram. But sometimes the asked answer makes it a little too short to answer just in stories. So I thought that doing it in post, well, that would be pretty good. Especially on weight issues… like here, pores! Ahhh I love these pore stories. Maybe because I’m lucky to have come back from it and to have very tight pores…
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View On WordPress
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redcallisto · 1 month
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