Loki Oneshots (Loki X Reader)

Street fighter

A/n: I've been kinda nervous to post this story because its... it's different... an unusual kind of hurt/comfort?

Warnings!: Illegal/underground fighting, strong language, slight gore, implied abuse and past trauma

I think that's it... yeah, I'm sorry.

Enjoy <3
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You threw off your shirt, chucking it into a corner and hobbled over to the small closet across the room and pulled out the med kit. Limping over to a bench, you sat with a wince, pain shooting through you.

"Fucking hell..." You grumbled, removing your bloodied hand from your torso. A low, pained growl rumbled through your chest as you looked down at the fresh gash in your side. Whoever that idiot was, they were going to pay.

You unrolled the gauze, setting it by you at the ready. It took a moment before you brought yourself to stuff your screaming sock into your mouth, muffling out the cries out as you washed the wound. Tears burning in your eyes, you took a needle and thread it. The lighters flame made the metal pin burn and you sighed. Reluctantly, you readied the needle against your cut skin and began stitching it up.

Your howls of pain didn't cease until you finished the job. With shaky, uneven breaths, you delicately wrapped your torso up tight, making sure it was secure.

When you finished your surgery, you spat the sock out, licking your bleeding lips from biting down so hard. You hunched over and cradled your heavy head in your sore, calloused hands. Sobs of pain escaped from your clenched teeth as the intense pain lingered.

A knock from the door had you cleaned up and ready to socialize without anyone realizing you were crying. With a faint 'come in,' the door opened.

"You okay, kiddo?" Your Uncle's gruff voice coughed out. You nodded, keeping your head low. "How much longer do you need? People are startin' to talk - saying you're weak. You're not weak, are ya?"

"No, sir." You wiped at your eyes, forcing your breathing to slow.

"Good girl," He chuckled before coughing again. "I need you fighting as soon as possible, so how much fucking longer!?"

You winced. You hated when he used such vulgar language. You hate him, period.

"I don't know sir, they got a good slice."

"No they didn'! I saw the whole thing. You're bein' dramatic again, aren't you?!"

"No sir, I'm not!" You pleaded, sitting up with a small cry. "I had to stitch it!"

He stomped over, his hot breath reeked of alcohol as he stood above you. He bent in close, examining the wrapped wound. He smacked your side and your face twisted in pain. But you didn't cry, you couldn't, not in front of him.

"You're fine," He spat. "Ten minutes, then ya fight."

"Yes, sir." He left, satisfied, slamming the door behind him. Silent tears rolled down your face. You gave yourself a moment to cry then forced yourself up, ready to fight.

You decided against wearing that stingy old t-shirt, hating the why the fabric rubbed against your brusing skin. It only slowed you down anyways. Sticking with your sports bra and sweat pants, you walked back into the underground arena.

The smell of dirty money and tobacco never failed to override your senses, but you've been there long enough to get over it without coughing. You quickly shook out your nerves and headed out.

You threw on a wide grin for the crowd, waving as they cheered your name. No matter how many times you've fought, your nerves always threw a fit. It was a dangerous game but going against your Uncle was worse. Fastening your hand wraps, you hopped into the arena and got in a fighting position.