#also read study’s silco POV for that art it’s AMAZING

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Eh fuck it. I’m not done, but here’s the first part of a three part ficlet starring boxer!Silco (more like fighter!silco in this, cause I did research on ufc, but whatever). I just named it the same thing as @aromansoul ‘s original artwork ^^’ Idk if/when the rest will get posted, but this is been mocking me from my drafts, and to refrain from posting ch9 of A Helping Hand, I’ll just post this instead OuO’

Zaun Underground Champion (1/3)

[silco x gn!reader*] [sfw] [boxer!silco] [part 1 of 3; short] [pt 2]

*there’s a pejorative that some might see as gendered femme but I don’t think it is, so idk, up to you

You took notice of him the first night you went.

He didn’t look like the type of guy who could last in the ring, and - honestly - you kind of expected him to lose. Maybe even in a spectacular fashion. He was too scrawny— not bone thin, but he didn’t have the heft of some of the other guys you saw that night; there was no way he could stack up to someone like, for instance, the last big name champion, Vander.

(Not that you’d ever found your way to underground fighting tournaments before now, but that was the name circulating the crowd. Apparently he’d given up the profession shortly after his championship a few years ago.)

His first bout was against someone of similar build, both announced by the ref, both names slipping your mind almost immediately. What didn’t slip your mind was the nickname. The Eye of Zaun. It wasn’t hard to guess why.

That first bout was tame, though you didn’t realize it at the time. Both fighters tried for grappling more than strikes, each escaping the hold of the other. It was a slow burn for that night, until the Eye got his opponent in a hold and made a solid strike to the kidneys. Suddenly things amped up, but not for long. First round was called on time, but in the second round he landed a blow to the opponent’s stomach that put him down and in a submission hold, leg ready to break before the guy tapped out.

Second bout earned him a few rough body shots, but he still came out on top. He was nearly fouled on an iffy elbow strike, but no ref called it despite the uproar from a few enthusiastic attendees outside the ring. Third fight was an absolute mess. The Eye may not have had the mass of some other fighters that night, but he certainly had the brutality. Both sides got fouled for violations to the loose rules of the tournament, strikes that left both men bloody and swollen, the Eye practically spitting fury after his opponent scratched at the man’s already scarred face.

That was the first night you saw him.

But it wasn’t the last.

It became your guilty secret, hearing about the matches from customers, figuring out how to get to them (when you could, with your odd schedule). Every night you went, you hoped to see him. The speed, the agility, the grace of the man was unparalleled. A scrappy underdog at first sight, if you saw him from the wrong side; a truly imposing threat if you saw the other.

He stayed high in the rankings for his class, even participating in a few cross-class fights for higher winnings. He won probably 90% of his matches. The man was good. An expert at weaving and dodging, with wiry arms that could get around a man’s neck and choke him out. Even if there were a few dirty tricks he pulled on occasion, sometimes getting called for it and other times slipping it in unnoticed.

You never expected to actually meet the man in person. But after a match held conveniently close to your workplace, you lingered in the area after most had cleared out, visiting one of your favorite food stalls around the corner.

When you came back, needing to pass the fight venue to reach your bar, you spotted him leaned against the wall, hand cupped around a lighter, cigarette loosely resting between his lips.

You couldn’t help but stare. There was a butterfly bandage across a thin laceration that marred his forehead, and the fire wasn’t the only thing burning dimly in the shadow of the rickety roof/second level of the venue building; there were tiny points of glow in the deepest furrows around his eye, not to mention the eye itself, like an ember on coal. From afar the darkened skin around the eye - or even the eye itself - might pass for an injury if not for the sparks.

He spotted your stare, and raised a brow, apparently unfazed by any pain from the now scrunched wound on his forehead. “What are you looking at?”

Shaking your head, you looked down. Only to look up again, and take a calculated few steps in his direction. “I’ve seen you fight,” you explained. “You’re really good.”

“Appreciated,” his tone was dry. He didn’t offer any more beyond that.

You wanted to say more, but weren’t sure what else to add. You simply paused, fidgeted, looked at the bruises on his hands.

It took him a couple tries with the lighter, seemingly low on fuel, but then the thing was lit and the burn matched his eye. “…Anything else?” It was a pointed look, telling you to politely step the fuck off.

You didn’t take the hint. “Let me buy you a drink.”

The Eye huffed a sardonic laugh. “Sweetheart,” the name was obviously mocking you, “now is not the time.”

“Some other time then,” you said boldly, shrugging a shoulder. Jerking your chin to the building beyond, you added, “Find me behind the bar. A drink on the house, next time you’re in.”

Thin lips formed a grim smile. “We’ll see. Regardless; appreciate the offer.”

—

[next part]