built like a hero, dense like a brick
Vasco x Reader
request: vasco = dense as a brick
a/n: i'm not a huge vasco fan, so i hope i did him justice 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝
You weren’t sure exactly when it happened—when Vasco went from “weirdly strong guy who reads dictionaries for fun” to someone who made heads turn just by walking into a room.
It was gradual, like most things with him. His training with Burn Knuckles had always been intense, but lately it seemed like he was sculpting himself into a walking statue. Broader chest, stronger arms, tighter shirts that no longer hung off him like laundry. Even his voice had deepened, just enough to catch people off guard when he spoke.
Not that Vasco noticed. Of course he didn’t.
You noticed, though. And apparently so did half the population.
Today was meant to be a quiet Saturday. Just you and Vasco. No Burn Knuckles chaos, no errands, no stress. You'd planned to grab lunch, maybe browse a few stores, and hit the arcade. Something normal. Something you didn’t have to share with anyone else.
But normal wasn’t in the cards.
It started at the ramen shop.
The waitress had been way too friendly from the moment you sat down. At first you tried not to think anything of it—maybe she was just bubbly. Until she leaned in, elbows on the table, and said with a grin, “You’ve really been hitting the gym, huh?”
Vasco looked up from his menu, blinking like a confused puppy. “I do push-ups every morning.”
You hid your smile behind your hand. Of course that was his response.
The waitress giggled. “Well, it’s working. You’re built. You know that, right?”
He paused. “I am built?”
“Totally. You’ve got a superhero kind of thing going on. Bet you could lift me.”
Vasco blinked again, then tilted his head. “Why would I lift you?”
You choked on your water.
The waitress laughed again, a little forced now. “Just saying. You’ve got the look. Tall, strong, handsome... kind of hard to miss.”
That’s when Vasco turned to you, dead serious. “Do I have a look now?”
You grinned. “Apparently. Eat your noodles.”
He did. But not before whispering, “She keeps blinking weirdly. Is that a signal?”
Later, when you were walking through the market, the sun warm on your backs and the streets buzzing with weekend energy, it started to wear on you. The waitress hadn’t been the only one.
Three different girls had stopped him on the sidewalk to ask for directions they didn’t need. One gym bro had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Damn, dude. What’s your routine?” Even the cashier at the bookstore looked like she forgot how numbers worked for a second.
It wasn’t Vasco’s fault. That was the worst part. He never played into it, never flirted back—he didn’t even seem to realize it was flirting. But that didn’t stop the heat curling in your stomach every time it happened.
You told yourself you weren’t the jealous type.
But you were starting to wonder.
You stopped on the bridge overlooking the river, the breeze tugging gently at your shirt. Vasco was beside you, his bag full of claw machine prizes (all won by him, naturally—his grip strength was terrifying). His expression was soft, like he could stand there forever.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “What? No. Why would I be mad?”
“You keep sighing. And frowning. And your walking speed increased by twenty percent.”
You stared at him. “Did you measure that?”
He nodded, dead serious. “Rough estimate. But noticeable.”
You rolled your eyes, then looked out at the water. “I’m not mad. Just… irritated.”
“With me?”
“No. Just... people.”
He tilted his head. “Because of the compliments?”
You exhaled. “Yeah, maybe.”
He frowned. “Compliments are supposed to make people feel good. Did I do something wrong?”
“No, Vasco. That’s the thing—you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just... you. And people notice now. And they flirt. A lot. And you don’t realize it, which somehow makes it worse.”
“Oh,” he said softly.
You expected him to say something awkward or oblivious—but instead, he stayed quiet for a moment, thoughtful in that rare way he got when he was truly trying to understand something.
“I don’t care about being noticed,” he said finally. “I just want to be with you.”
You turned your head, surprised by how calm and certain his voice was.
“I don’t like the compliments,” he added, almost like a confession. “They confuse me. They feel… slippery. Yours don’t.”
“Mine don’t?” you echoed.
He shook his head. “When you say nice things, they make sense. They come with your smile. Or your hand on my arm. Or your laugh. I know what you mean. With them… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like anything I want.”
Your chest did a little twist at that.
“You always make sense to me,” he said, turning to face you fully. “Even when you’re mad. Even when you sigh a lot.”
A beat of silence passed before you leaned your head against his shoulder. He was warm and solid and didn’t flinch, even though you knew the move probably still surprised him.
“You’re really dense sometimes, you know that?” you murmured.
“I know. Jace tells me every day.”
You laughed.
“Just promise you won’t fall for any random waitress with big eyes and a fake laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t let anyone lift you.”
“Why would they lift me?”
“I don’t know. Revenge.”
He smiled, and it was the kind that made your stomach flutter.
He reached for your hand, a little hesitant, like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want something so small. But when you laced your fingers through his, you felt him relax, just slightly.
The two of you stood there for a while, watching the sky slowly bleed into a richer blue. Boats rocked gently below, and somewhere nearby, a musician played soft guitar.
Eventually, he walked you home, and you both stopped at a food truck for something sweet. You got ice cream. He got two because he couldn’t decide.
At your door, you turned to him, still holding hands, still riding that soft buzz in your chest.
“Thanks for today,” you said.
He nodded. “Even the confusing parts?”
“Especially those.”
You kissed him quickly—just a brush against his cheek, but it turned him bright red.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here,” he said, voice a little too loud from nerves.
You stepped inside and closed the door, pressing your back against it for a second with a ridiculous grin on your face.
Outside, Vasco stood on your porch for a few seconds longer than he needed to, staring at the spot where you’d kissed him. Then, with a big, dopey smile, he walked off into the night.
