rangewithme

[rangewithme]

@kiurona this is the only page I ever got even halfway done on. like 1/4 except I didn’t even start on the last two ✌️😂

just touched this one up because I’m sick of it rotting in my WIPS !!!!! I’m never finishing this fuckass comic

[rangewithme]

Scars

NatsuShin fic | 1,100 words

There’s a scar along Shin’s left side, tucked between the seventh and eighth rib—a pale, jagged line, long since healed but fresh enough that it still carries a purplish tone. The wound dips unevenly at one end, a sharp, unnatural gouge where the blade had been shoved at the last second, severing muscle and defecting off bone instead of burying itself clean into his spleen. A deliberate choice, a desperate choice—one that had saved his life by a margin too thin to think about.

It’s one mark in a vast collection.

A lifetime carved into Shin’s skin, cruel and careless, and deceptively long. More marks than Natsuki can count, and he’s tried once or twice in the pale hours of a lazy morning, passively cataloging them under a careful touch.

More, even, than Natsuki himself bears—which is saying something, considering how early he'd been thrown into the proverbial fire. Trained as a weapon under his father’s hand, a hand that never pulled punches, never offered mercy. His own body carries those memories, but seeing Shin’s…

The comparison turns his stomach.

When he lets himself think about it too long, it feels like his heart drops straight through his chest, sinks heavy and cold into the pit of his gut, where it stays.

Shin rarely talks about any of them, and Natsuki rarely asks.

Still, sometimes, when the light hits just right and Shin shifts in a way that pulls the old wounds taut across his ribs, Natsuki’s gaze catches there, on that once jagged line, and he feels it again—

The weight of the knife in his hand, the way it had slid through flesh, the sickening grind as the steel deflected off bone instead of sinking deeper. His knife. His hand. His mark carved into Shin’s skin.

He doesn't always feel bad about it. Not enough to lose sleep, not enough to keep him tossing in bed at night, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Back then, Shin had been a job like any other, a clean solution to someone else's problem. Natsuki hadn't even known who he was, hadn't looked closely enough to see anything worth hesitating for.

And Shin understands that, has never even held it against him.

Not even later, when it would have been easy, when it would have made sense. He had accepted it with a sort of dismissively maddening grace, like it was just another tally in a life already stitched together by violence. Sure, he makes jokes about it, teases Natsuki about it, but he’d never really cared, not truly. Like it didn’t matter at all.

Natsuki tells himself that should make it easier.

It doesn’t.

Not in the quiet moments like this where they’re laying together, no weight of expectation on their shoulders, some mindless B-movie playing half in the background. Or at least, it’s in the background to Natsuki, who spends half of the movie looking at the side of Shin’s face, watching the way the TV light bounces off the tops of his cheekbones.

His hand moves without thinking, drawing slow, idle circles wherever there’s bare skin to find—Shin’s forearm, the stretch of his ribs where his shirt’s ridden up, the delicate jut of his hip bone. He isn't asking for anything. He isn't searching. He's just...feeling. Grounding himself.

And then, his thumb grazes it.

That familiar scar between Shin’s seventh and eighth rib. He freezes for a moment, the weight of the memory pushing at him, before he pushes it back down, continuing his lazy trail across Shin’s skin. The TV continues to play, the moment settles again, and then-

“It’s not your fault,” Shin says, voice soft in the quiet, as if to not break the moment.

He doesn’t move much—just shifts enough to tilt his face upward, resting his chin lightly against Natsuki's shoulder. His eyes catch Natsuki’s, pale lashes blinking slowly like he already knows exactly what he’ll find there.

“What?” Natsuki says before he realizes what Shin is talking about. He hadn’t realized his thoughts had been so loud.

"It was a year ago last week," Shin says simply, as if he’s been waiting for Natsuki to catch up. "That’s why you’ve been thinking about it more."

“Oh,” the sound slips out of Natsuki’s mouth. He hadn’t realized that at all. He hadn't let himself count the days.

Shin’s hand finds his forearm, warm and steady, grounding him in a way he can't manage on his own.

"It’s not your fault," Shin repeats, softer this time. He says it like a truth so absolute it doesn't need proof. Like he believes it enough for both of them. "So stop thinking that, invisible bastard."

"I know it’s not," Natsuki answers, though the words taste awkward and foreign in his mouth.

“No, you don’t,” Shin replies. It should sound like an argument, but it doesn’t. He says it as if it’s a statement of fact, as obvious as telling him that the sky is blue and grass is green. “But I’m just going to keep telling you until you do.”

Natsuki doesn’t know what to say. The words stick in his throat, trapped by the sudden, unshakable realization that—at least right now—Shin understands him better than he understands himself. It’s a raw, disorienting truth, the kind that should leave him feeling vulnerable, as if someone had split his skull open and laid his most private thoughts bare.

But it doesn’t.

Because there’s no criticism in Shin’s eyes, no retribution in his touch where those fingers are still pressing absentmindedly into his forearm. No sharpness in his voice, no undercurrent of disapproval waiting to catch him off guard. Shin offers him something much softer than judgment—something more gentle, something safer.

Because to be loved, truly, is to be known—and to still be welcomed afterward.

“Alright,”Natsuki says at last, the word slipping out almost without thought, because what else is there to say? Nothing else is needed. And just like that, Shin’s attention drifts easily back to the movie, squinting through a particularly dramatic spurt of cherry-red blood on the screen and muttering a half-hearted complaint about how Natsuki distracted him.

Later, the next time Natsuki’s fingers brush that familiar scar between Shin’s seventh and eighth rib, that little spark of guilt still flickers to life in the back of his mind, but it's smaller this time, muted.

And in the dim, flickering light of the TV, he just barely catches it — the small, almost imperceptible smile that tugs at the corner of Shin’s mouth. It’s a quiet thing, easily missed if he hadn’t been looking. But he sees it.

And he knows.

[rangewithme]

have your cake and eat it, baby it’s your birthday !

[rangewithme]

legalize nuclear gay bombs

[rangewithme]

summertime

[rangewithme]

[rangewithme]

me when I’m getting paid with free lunch to repair this fuckass weapon for the fifth time in a fortnight because I’m allergic to buying my own food or something idk

[rangewithme]

[rangewithme]

congratulations to taro for giving birth to three grown ass adults

[rangewithme]

2025.05.13 asakura shin

[rangewithme]

[rangewithme]

[rangewithme]

I'm in your balls

[rangewithme]

it is absolutely essential to have friends you can have extremely insane pervert conversations with. this is kind of what makes life worth living

[rangewithme]

another one for the shrine

this one is for you @kiurona

[rangewithme]