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rentsturner · 3 years

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Bruised Knuckles | Mark Renton

Warnings - Reader has punched a wall, mentions/descriptions of injury, mentions of (non-specified) scars, alcohol and drugs, content that some people may find as very similar to self-harm, reader is paranoid and insecure. If any of this triggers you pls don’t continue to read. I’ve tried to note all the possible triggers.

wc - 1.7k

a/n - I’ve had a pretty shitty few days tbh and I still feel the lowest that I’ve felt in months. So I’ve channeled all of that into this fic. It’s quite angst heavy but there’s fluff at the end (what can I say, hurt and comfort is my shit). You may find the reader’s emotions a bit dramatic but I’ve basically self projected on to this and I’m not rlly arsed. Read the warnings and if you don’t like it, don’t read it. I don’t want any shit over this

It’s a cold day in Edinburgh, the skies grey and cloudy over the city.It’s been a long day without Mark. He’s been out since the early hours with Sickboy, no doubt dragged into another of Si’s infamous schemes, leaving you to spend the day alone in your tiny apartment. As much as you don’t want to admit it, the isolation has gotten to you - you slipped, more than once. Yeah, you regret it, but also there’s that nagging need for more at the back of your mind. You try to push it out, to forget about it, but the cold in the air doesn’t help to ease the ache in your knuckles.

The door to the apartment shuts with a click and a jangle of keys, footsteps heading towards the door. He’s back. A wave of relief, before you remember and your chest clenches in panic.

‘Alright, love?’ Mark flops onto the bed with a lazy grin, stretching his arms up over his head.

‘Yeah, fine, you?’ Keep it simple. You busy yourself with a stack of books by the bed, straightening the pile of novels so it’s not about to topple over. Keep the hand busy.

‘Yeah, alright. Si led us on a fucking wild goose chase but we got there in the end, y’know?’

You didn’t know, but you nodded along anyway and let him recount the story. You’re admiring the way his lashes flutter against his pale skin and how his arms flex as his hands come to rest behind his head, when you realise that Mark’s stopped talking. And you’ve stopped moving.

‘Your knuckle...” his eyes dart down to the hand you’ve been trying to hide ever since he walked through the door. Busted.

‘Oh.’ You move to get up, anything to get his eyes away from your swollen knuckles, red lines criss crossing over the flowering purple bruises where your hand collided with a solid wall. Multiple times. The open cuts are still weeping, even though it had happened hours ago.

‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ You offer a small smile, but it doesn’t fool Mark.

‘No.’ He moves as you do, standing in front of the bedroom door to block your escape. His arms are crossed over his chest, stance serious , but the worry in his blue eyes betrays him. ‘Love. Let me see it.’

He holds out his hand, pale fingers reaching out to you, his skin just as scarred as yours - different actions, same result. He knows how to help. The hand reaching,an offer of support, reassurance, love, all those things that you crave but can never admit. Emotions aren’t your forté - never have been.But Mark knows that. There’s no secrets between you. You almost laugh out loud at the thought. No secrets, but you won’t even show Mark your hand.

Mark would do anything for you, you know that - he tells you all the time. Days spent in bed chatting shit to each other.

‘I’d run to John O'Groats and back for you, y’know?’

‘Would you now, Mark? What about down to Land’s End?’

‘In a heartbeat.’

Bright eyes, wide smile. Your Mark. He’s joking, of course, but his tone is so serious, his answer without a second of hesitation. Your heart skips a beat.

So now, you give him your hand (and your heart).

He takes it tentatively, one cold hand underneath, the other poking at your raw knuckles gently. When one of his prods reaches a tender spot, you wince and he moves his finger away, meeting your gaze in apology.

‘You punch something?’ His brow creases, a hand running instinctively over his closely cropped hair, before scratching at the back of his neck. He refuses to grow it out, no matter how much you try to persuade him, still getting his razor out every other month like clockwork.

‘It’s easier this way.’ He insists. Less hassle in the morning is what he means.

The sting in your hand brings you back to the present.

‘No.’ You look away from Mark’s gaze, knowing that in doing so you’ll give yourself away, but not having the energy or willpower to stop yourself. Much like the ‘incident’ earlier in the day.

‘I’m going to take that as a yes.’ Mark huffs, not in anger, but in frustration - frustration that he wasn’t there to help, to calm you down. ‘Let me clean it up, give me a sec.’

His hand rubs at his eyes, scrunched shut for a moment. There’s dark bags marring his pale skin there - he’s tired too. He goes to move to the bathroom, but you grab his arm with your good hand, gripping it as tight as you can. Don’t leave.

‘No, Mark, it’s alright, I’ll sort it.’

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t look happy. Not that you’d expect him to, but...he’s frustrated with you, you can tell.

‘You can’t clean yourself up with one hand. Just wait here, alright?’

The inkling is worming its way in now, from your subconscious to your conscious, until its at the forefront of your mind. He’s angry, he’s disgusted, he’s going to leave. He’s not going to the bathroom, he’s going to the front door so he can get out of here. You’re sure of it.

‘I’m sorry.’ The whisper escapes you and you have to bite the inside of your cheek so no tears will spill. The words are almost silent, your hand dropping Mark’s in defeat.

But Mark turns his head at your weak apology, stopping in his tracks.

‘What? Why -‘

With a jolt, he notices the way you’ve changed - unable to look at him, arms beginning to wrap around yourself, one fist clenched. He knows what’s happening.

‘No, no, love, I’m not angry.’

He’s back at your side in a heartbeat, bringing his hand up to your chest, thumb carefully wiping away the rogue tear that’s tracking a salty path over your cheekbone.

‘I love you. I just want the best for you, alright? I don’t like seeing you hurt, just like I’d fucking hope you wouldn’t like seeing me hurt.’

His face breaks into a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you realise he’s right - of course he is. You don’t want to see him hurt, he’s been through enough, but that’s what you’re doing. He’s hurting just from seeing your hand, it’s obvious from the crease in his brow, the blue of his eyes dulled and flat. Mark’s got too much to deal with already, you’re just one extra problem to add to the mix. You don’t want to be his problem.

And suddenly it’s all coming up to the surface, ready to combust, explode, these emotions that you never really have a grip on. You bottle them up and push them down, so far down that the only way they can escape is through a rush of anger, jagged and uncontrollable.

But instead of that, you bury your face into Mark’s neck and let it out as slowly as you can.

‘I’m sorry, I was angry, I just wanted to feel something. Some pain. I don’t want to make you feel like this. I’m sorry.’

You’re clutching onto the worn fabric of Mark’s shirt like your life depends on it. You can’t possibly let go of him, the only one you have left.

Mark is steady, your rock in a storm of emotions. He listens, stroking your hair, pale fingers threading through the strands to knead at your scalp, knowing it tends to calm you down.

‘You’re alright, I promise. I promise you, love. I know you get angry. I know you. And I know what it’s like to want to feel something, trust me. We can get through it together, or we can be a mess together. I don’t care, as long as we’re together, honest. I’m not going anywhere.’

And the sincerity in his eyes, those familiar bright blue eyes, it convinces you. He means it.

You stay like this for a few minutes, your good hand clinging onto Mark’s ratty jumper, the other grasped tightly (but not too tightly) in Mark’ grip. His right arm is around your waist, pulling you closer, as if in doing so he can pour all of his reassurance, all of his love, directly to your heart. He knows it’s not possible. But he tries anyway. Because he’ll do anything for you. Your Mark.

Mark helps you clean your hand later, shushing you everything you wince (though that isn’t often). His hands are steady and practiced as he dabs at the cuts with alcohol, wrapping the gauze over your knuckles and securing it with some tape, humming to himself as he works, the steady tune in time with his deft movement. He doesn’t look up until the job is done - and a good job it is too. He knows what he’s doing, probably after years of wrapping Sickboy’s hands up in the same way - late nights out in the rough streets of Leith, fuelled by alcohol and amphetamines (and worse)

Mark kisses the bandages gently when he’s done - a silent ‘I love you. I care for you and I love you.’

And you smile, a smile that fills your whole body with warmth, a smile that drowns out the demons, if only for a little while. Because how can you not, when you have Mark. He tries his best and so do you - neither of you can ask anymore. You’ll be a mess together.

‘Let’s order Chinese and watch Dr No, eh?’

Or you’ll get through this together

*~*~*~*

@callmearwen @ohhellokenobi @darthserling @stardancerluv @goldenkenobi @lunarthoughts @saintlaurentkenobi @million-dollar-legs @i-am-i-am-obiwankenobi @letmybabysleep @haydens-moles @alideetoo @all-hallows-evie @junkieboyfriend @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @star-whores-a-new-hoe @arianalilyblack @sigynragnarsdottir @funkytxwn @drinksomecoco @darlingkenobi

#mark renton imagine #mark renton x reader #mark renton #mark renton headcanons #trainspotting #ewan mcgregor #ewan mcgregor x reader #fic recs #my writing #scotland #mark renton blurb #mark renton one shot #alex law

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rentsturner · 4 years

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Home | Mark Renton Blurb

Request: 8 from the cuddle prompts with rent boy? // ANON

8. Reluctantly

(a/n: I know I said I’d do headcanons, but I wanted to turn this one into a short piece/blurb. First time properly writing for Rents, let me know what you think. Not my gif, but what a fashion icon. I love rents with all my heart)

tw: mentions of drug abuse

You went to visit after Mark’s stint in rehab, when he was back at his parent’s house still not fully recovered from the effects of heroin withdrawal. You were nervous, not having seen him for a few months, anxious to see how much he had changed. You missed your Renton, your best friend, your partner in crime, most recently your boyfriend. But not anymore.

You opened the bedroom door to be greeted by the familiar peeling wallpaper, collections of Hibs posters tacked to the wall and a dusty record player that hadn’t been used months sat abandoned in the corner. Mark was lying on his bed, still as lanky as ever, absentmindedly flicking through a magazine with Iggy Pop was splashed across the cover - most likely the only reason Mark had bought the thing. Or more likely stolen it.

He looked up, having noticed you at the doorway. Dark bags under his eyes, a slight sheen of sweat covering his pale skin, but the corners of his mouth were pulled up into a smile. A small one at that, but definitely a smile. It had been a long time since you’d seen Mark smile sober. It was good to see.

‘Mark. Hi’

‘You came. I didn’t think you would.’

The magazine was discarded on the floor now. Mark quickly shuffled to the side and patted the space he’d made, his smile growing into a grin as you walked over.

‘Of course I came. I should have come sooner really.’

You perched on the edge of the mattress. The sheets under your palms were threadbare and old, but familiar. You remembered the two of you snuggling under them as children, bodies pushed together as you hid from Mark’s parents. The light of Mark’s brand new torch, his pride and joy, lighting up the comic you had brought round for a sleepover. Stifling giggles as you entertained each other deep into the night, when you knew you should really be sleeping. Falling asleep in each other’s arms as teenagers, lips ghosting across skin and hands skimming up and down each other’s bodies.

Inseparable, until you were torn apart by the reality of adulthood and heroin.

‘You’re clean?’ you looked at Mark, already knowing the answer but wanting to see his reaction anyway.

‘For now...’ his blue eyes flickered down, not meeting yours, his smile dimming a little. ‘Don’t get your hopes up or anything.’

‘But you’re clean now, Mark. That’s what matters.’

Silence for a few moments. You gazed around the childhood bedroom again, looking for memories while you waited for a reply.

His ginger eyelashes flickered again and he spoke up.

‘I’m gonna try this time, I promise.’

He sounded serious, but his eyes were unreadable, as they always had been. Even as best friends, then lovers, you’d never been able to figure out exactly what made Mark tick. Even Sick Boy didn’t know. He was a mystery you were still solving.

‘Whatever happens, Mark, I’m staying with you this time.’ You took his clammy hand gently and squeezed it. ‘We’ll get through it together, yeah?’

An almost imperceptible nod, and then that faint smile reappearing.

‘Yeah.’ His slender fingers squeezed your hand in return, an unspoken promise.

‘One more thing..’

His eyebrows raised in anticipation.

‘I haven’t seen you in months. Please give me a hug?’

The hand was pulled away, retreating into himself again.

‘Aw no come on, love, I’m sweaty and disgusting, you don’t-’

‘Mark. You need a hug. I want to hug you.’

More silence. It was now or never.

‘Just come here.’ You leaned towards him, scooting forward until you were practically on his lap and he groaned quietly, long arms opening to welcome you in despite his reluctance.

And it was just like you’d remembered, your chests pressed together once again, arms wrapped and tangled in each other.

You buried your head in Mark’s chest while he practically collapsed into your shoulder, the feeling of human touch overwhelming after months of starvation. Mark’s eyelashes tickled your skin and you rubbed your hand over his buzz cut, savouring the sensation of the hair soft against the pads of your fingers.

A sharp intake of breath followed by a shudder and then you felt him finally relax into you. You melted into one another, bodies fitting together like they had been made for it.

He may have been clammy and shaky and still not fully there, but he was still Mark and he was still home. And it was a start.

‘I missed you.’ The words were mouthed quietly into the crook of your neck, lips soft against your skin.

‘I missed you too, Rents.’

{Renton tags: @rosionis @callmearwen @ohhellokenobi @afogocado @stardancerluv @goldenkenobi @a-seeker-of-imagination @saintlaurentkenobi @kuailiangs }

#mark renton #mark renton x reader #trainspotting #ewan mcgregor #mark renton imagine #my writing #my favourite junkie

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