rodrikstark's headcanons (part 1)

s. rogers + helping him with his pull-ups

"you are something else, rogers."

steve looks down at you, a cheeky grin on his face.

the bastard uses one hand to hang off the pull-up bar, a 45-pound olympic plate tucked under his other arm as he pumps up and down.

you pointedly avoid looking at the muscles straining under his pale skin, the prominent veins popping out from his wrist and forearm, his collarbone slightly shiny with sweat.

"like what you see?"

"oh, fuck you."

he lets go of the bar, light on his feet as he drops to the ground. setting down the plate, he saunters over to where you sit on the bench of a random weight machine. "your turn."

you scoff as he takes your hand, dragging you toward the pull-up bar. "i feel objectified. literally." you roll your eyes when steve pulls you close, staring at you a little too intensely to be considered appropriate for a public gym. "no better than this stupid weight." you kick at the heavy metal disk on the floor.

"and you ogling me doesn't count as objectification?" steve asks. he hops up to grab the bar—both hands, this time. with a knee, he nudges at your elbow, urging you to wrap your arms tightly around him, right above his hips.

steve lifts you up and down at a steady pace. "but to me, you are still a person. just a ridiculously strong, annoyingly sexy person."

you can't help but smile and sneak a quick kiss to his lower torso, taut underneath his white t-shirt.

"can i ask you to count reps, or are you gonna lose track like last time?"

"i was busy enjoying the view," you laugh, looking up at his pecs and biceps on full display.

"ha ha." he readjusts his grip on the bar. "count."