No Marks Left
Summary: When Loki sees bruises and marks all over your body, he demands a name. [WC 1.1K] [ao3]
Warnings: Mafia au, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, no use of "y/n"
Pairing: Loki x Reader
Fandom: Marvel/MCU
A/N: written for @fandombingo & their The Blooming Hour Prompt Challenge the prompt for this one: "I don't need a mark to know." filling my third square.
The first thing Loki notices is how carefully you move. Not slow—no, you’re too clever for that. Too practiced. You still laugh at the right moments, still weave through the dim, velvet-drenched lounge like nothing’s wrong.
But he sees it.
The way your shoulders stiffen when someone brushes too close. The way your smile falters—just for a second—when you think no one’s looking.
Unfortunately for you… he always is.
From his seat in the corner, glass of something expensive untouched in his hand, Loki watches as you lean against the bar. One of the lower men—some idiot trying to climb the ranks—leans in too close.
Your body tenses. You don’t pull away. That’s what does it. Loki sets his glass down. Hard.
—
You barely register him crossing the room until he’s there—sudden, overwhelming, a presence that swallows the space whole.
“Leave.” The word is quiet. Deadly.
The man beside you freezes, then pales, scrambling back with a muttered apology before disappearing into the crowd.
You exhale, tension slipping from your shoulders—just slightly. “Thank you,” you murmur, not quite meeting Loki’s eyes.
He doesn’t respond. Not right away. Instead, his gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate. Not possessive—not exactly. Assessing. Calculating. “…You’re injured.”
It’s not a question.
You scoff softly. “I’m fine, Loki.”
His eyes flick to your wrist. There’s a faint discoloration there, just peeking out beneath your sleeve. Barely visible. To anyone else.
You tug your sleeve down instinctively. “It’s nothing. I just bumped into—”
“Don’t.” The word cuts clean through your excuse.
You still. “…Don’t what?”
“Lie to me.”
Your stomach twists. You force a small smile. “I’m not—”
He moves. Fast. One moment there’s space between you, the next his hand is around your wrist—not rough, but firm enough that you can’t pull away as he pushes your sleeve up.
The bruise is worse than you thought. Dark. Spreading. Finger-shaped. Silence. Thick. Heavy. Dangerous.
You try to laugh it off, but it comes out thin. “Like I said. Clumsy—”
His grip tightens. Not enough to hurt. Enough to warn. “Who.” One word. Sharp as a blade.
You shake your head. “Loki, it’s not a big deal—”
His other hand comes up, slower this time, brushing just beneath your jaw.
You flinch. It’s subtle. Most wouldn’t notice. He does. Always does. Something in his expression shifts. Not explosive. Not loud. Worse. Quieter. Colder.
“Look at me.”
You don’t want to. That’s exactly why he insists. His fingers tilt your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. There’s no anger there. Not yet. Just… certainty.
“You think I require some visible proof?” he murmurs, voice low, controlled in a way that makes your pulse spike. “A mark. Blood. A confession?”
Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His thumb brushes just under your eye—gentler than it has any right to be. “You’re afraid,” he says simply.
You freeze.
“I can feel it in the way you breathe. In the way you stand. In the way you avoid me.”
Your chest rises sharply. “That is not nothing.”
You pull your wrist free, stepping back. “I said I’m fine.”
“And I’m telling you that you’re not.”
Your voice cracks, frustration bleeding through. “Why does it matter so much to you?”
The question hangs there. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. But then he steps closer again, slower this time. Deliberate. Giving you time to move.
You don’t.
“You belong to my world,” he says quietly. “That makes it my concern.”
“That’s not the same as caring.” It slips out before you can stop it. And that — that hits. You see it. The flicker. The almost imperceptible shift in his posture, like something struck deeper than expected.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer. More dangerous for it. “You think I need a mark to know?”
Your breath catches.
He closes the remaining distance between you, one hand coming up to cradle the side of your face—steady, grounding, nothing like the grip that left bruises behind.
“I know you,” Loki continues, eyes locked onto yours. “Better than you seem to realize.”
Your vision blurs slightly.
“I know when you’re lying to me to keep me out.”
Your lips part, but no words come.
“I know when someone has touched you in a way they should not have.”
Your hands tremble at your sides.
“And I know,” he adds, quieter now, “that you did not come to me.”
That one hurts the most.
“I didn’t want to make it worse,” you whisper.
Something dark flickers in his eyes. “Worse,” he repeats softly. “You think I would make it worse?”
“I think,” you swallow, voice shaking, “that people who cross you don’t exactly… walk away.”
A pause. “No,” Loki agrees. Honest. Cold. “But you misunderstand something crucial.” His thumb brushes away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. “They don’t walk away because they chose to hurt what is mine.”
Your heart stutters.
“And you,” he says, voice dropping to something almost gentle, “are very much under my protection.”
You shake your head weakly. “Loki…”
“Who was it?”
You hesitate.
His hand tightens just slightly against your cheek—not forceful, but anchoring.
“Tell me.”
There’s no anger in it now. Just… inevitability. And something softer beneath it.
You exhale shakily. “…One of the suppliers. He—got handsy. I shut it down, but—” Your voice falters.
Loki goes completely still. Dangerously so. “Name.”
You give it. Quiet. Reluctant. For a moment, nothing happens. Then he nods once. Sharp. Decisive. And steps back. Just like that. Panic flickers in your chest. “Loki, wait—don’t—”
He pauses, glancing back at you. And for once… there’s no mask. No smirk. No teasing edge. Just something raw. Controlled. “I am not going to make a spectacle of it,” he says.
You blink.
“I am going to make an example.”
Your stomach drops. “That’s not better—”
“It is necessary.” He takes a step toward you again, slower now, his hand lifting once more—but this time, he hesitates. Like he’s giving you the choice.
You close the distance instead. Your fingers catch his sleeve, small, uncertain. “Don’t go too far,” you whisper.
His gaze softens—just a fraction. “For you,” he says quietly, “I will show restraint.”
A beat. Then, softer still, “But I will not show mercy.”
You nod, even though your chest feels tight. Because you know him. And because, for all the darkness in him… When his hand finally settles against your cheek again, careful and warm—You also know this is the gentlest he’s ever been.
