Reborn/Assassin's Creed x-over drabbles
Here are some drabbles written for andreaphobia , who bid on my offering over at helpthesouth . She requested Reborn!/Assassin’s Creed crossover. holy shit melissa’s writing for another fandom but not really wut If you’re not familiar with AssCreed, just think of this as a collection of AU drabbles. ;’) I basically just dropped the boys into Masyaf.
Warning for violence in the Lambo one.
Latent || Tsuna
In his short time knowing them, Tsuna has never been more grateful to hear his friends’ bickering voices-alright, maybe it’s just Gokudera crabbing to the backdrop of Yamamoto’s bubbling laughter, but whatever they’re doing, it’s Tsuna’s chance for a reprieve.
Or not. He’s sent sprawling to the ground with a kick to the back of his head.
“You are dead. Again,” Reborn drawls. “Your scheme of keeping your greys for at least another two decades is truly impressive, novice.”
After the world’s spinning slows a bit, Tsuna rises, not even bothering to brush off his filthy tunic. He knows he is envied for being singled out by the grand master but for the life of him cannot understand why. All that the attention has earned him are bruises upon bruises and a constant reminder of his incompetence.
He groans when it seems like Reborn is about to adopt a defensive stance again, but breathes an immediate sigh of relief when the master’s shoulders relax.
“It seems we are finished for the day,” Reborn says, glancing at Gokudera and Yamamoto, who have just entered the courtyard and are waving animatedly at Tsuna (Gokudera seems to think it is a contest to win his attention, as his hand smacks Yamamoto in the nose a few more times than necessary).
Tsuna recalls hearing from one of the other instructors that one should not end a day of training on a failure, but at this point he’s not prepared to endure the fifty extra rounds it would take for a success.
Still, as he jogs over to his friends under a barrage of unnecessary praise, he cannot help but stroke his thumb over the bare skin of his left wrist and hope that whatever Reborn sees in him is like the hidden blade he does not yet possess, ready the extend when the time is right.
Slight || Hibari/Yamamoto
Yamamoto expects a derisively drawled ‘novice’ when he returns, or at the very least a scoff. The gash on his chin is the product of his own stupidity, a second-too-long pause that left him open to a guard’s blade. Well, the guard is dead now, for what it’s worth, but he still expects Hibari to jump at the chance to cut him down even further.
The others can't seem to fathom why anyone would want to draw Hibari’s attention. Hell, Yamamoto still does not completely understand why he likes the man’s fierce gaze on him, or why his skin feels charged, like the air before a thunderstorm, when one of his limbs is caught in that talon grip. Though his face is now marred, he hopes it will make Hibari take more notice of him, if only to contemplate his ineptitude.
When Yamamoto strides through the main courtyard, blood seeping from his makeshift dressing, and Hibari does not even spare him a glance, it is like a slap to the face.
Expectations ≠ Reality || Lambo
It is supposed to be a moment of glory.
It is supposed to be a moment of glory, one he can recount at the mess table with his head held high and the sparkling eyes of the younger novices trained on him in awe. He used to love listening to the gripping tales his older brothers would spin, stories of harrowing rooftop chases, near captures, and swiftly dealt justice. He wanted to come back with stories of his own. He wanted to be a hero.
His first stab goes wildly askew. The warm, sticky blood splashes against his face, into his mouth, metallic and nauseating, but the man’s body still clings to life. Lambo knows he should look away, he knows he should look away and slash the man’s jugular again to finish the job, but he can’t tear his eyes from the dying man’s terrified ones, can’t stop himself from mirroring the drunken twitching of the man’s gaping mouth, can’t pry his fingers from the man’s shoulder until all he’s left holding is an empty shell of a human.
He hopes his brothers won’t notice his bloodshot eyes and irregular breathing when he returns.
It is supposed to be a moment of glory.
Live || Yamamoto/Gokudera
There is no shrouded past. There is no forsaken future. There is only now, only this: wind whistling, blood rushing, feet pounding, muscles coiling, leaping-
infinite space
-landing, joints taking the brunt of the shock, no stopping, pressing forward. Gokudera can see the tails of Yamamoto’s tunic fluttering ahead of him, the red sash rippling, taunting him.
No. Beckoning him. He really needs to stop thinking of their relationship as a competition. (Yamamoto might have more physical prowess, but Gokudera is more adept at the technical aspects of their trade). It doesn’t help that Yamamoto, too, is a competitive spirit, but he isn’t trying to rub his abilities in Gokudera’s face. The staccato of their boots against the stone rooftops tell the story.
faster - join me - let’s do this together
He catches up to Yamamoto at the edge of another roof so they are abreast when they jump this time-
teeming city below - endless sky above - so many possibilities - so much freedom
-and onto the next rooftop without missing a beat. Yamamoto chances a glance to the side, catching Gokudera’s eyes, and Gokudera can’t help but bark out a breathless laugh at the absurdity of their existence - that as distributors of death, they can feel so alive. So immediate.
So here.
So now.
So-
soaring
plz ignore the pretentious artsy-fartsy-ness of the last one IDK WHAT I WAS THINKING
Warning for violence in the Lambo one.
Latent || Tsuna
In his short time knowing them, Tsuna has never been more grateful to hear his friends’ bickering voices-alright, maybe it’s just Gokudera crabbing to the backdrop of Yamamoto’s bubbling laughter, but whatever they’re doing, it’s Tsuna’s chance for a reprieve.
Or not. He’s sent sprawling to the ground with a kick to the back of his head.
“You are dead. Again,” Reborn drawls. “Your scheme of keeping your greys for at least another two decades is truly impressive, novice.”
After the world’s spinning slows a bit, Tsuna rises, not even bothering to brush off his filthy tunic. He knows he is envied for being singled out by the grand master but for the life of him cannot understand why. All that the attention has earned him are bruises upon bruises and a constant reminder of his incompetence.
He groans when it seems like Reborn is about to adopt a defensive stance again, but breathes an immediate sigh of relief when the master’s shoulders relax.
“It seems we are finished for the day,” Reborn says, glancing at Gokudera and Yamamoto, who have just entered the courtyard and are waving animatedly at Tsuna (Gokudera seems to think it is a contest to win his attention, as his hand smacks Yamamoto in the nose a few more times than necessary).
Tsuna recalls hearing from one of the other instructors that one should not end a day of training on a failure, but at this point he’s not prepared to endure the fifty extra rounds it would take for a success.
Still, as he jogs over to his friends under a barrage of unnecessary praise, he cannot help but stroke his thumb over the bare skin of his left wrist and hope that whatever Reborn sees in him is like the hidden blade he does not yet possess, ready the extend when the time is right.
Slight || Hibari/Yamamoto
Yamamoto expects a derisively drawled ‘novice’ when he returns, or at the very least a scoff. The gash on his chin is the product of his own stupidity, a second-too-long pause that left him open to a guard’s blade. Well, the guard is dead now, for what it’s worth, but he still expects Hibari to jump at the chance to cut him down even further.
The others can't seem to fathom why anyone would want to draw Hibari’s attention. Hell, Yamamoto still does not completely understand why he likes the man’s fierce gaze on him, or why his skin feels charged, like the air before a thunderstorm, when one of his limbs is caught in that talon grip. Though his face is now marred, he hopes it will make Hibari take more notice of him, if only to contemplate his ineptitude.
When Yamamoto strides through the main courtyard, blood seeping from his makeshift dressing, and Hibari does not even spare him a glance, it is like a slap to the face.
Expectations ≠ Reality || Lambo
It is supposed to be a moment of glory.
It is supposed to be a moment of glory, one he can recount at the mess table with his head held high and the sparkling eyes of the younger novices trained on him in awe. He used to love listening to the gripping tales his older brothers would spin, stories of harrowing rooftop chases, near captures, and swiftly dealt justice. He wanted to come back with stories of his own. He wanted to be a hero.
His first stab goes wildly askew. The warm, sticky blood splashes against his face, into his mouth, metallic and nauseating, but the man’s body still clings to life. Lambo knows he should look away, he knows he should look away and slash the man’s jugular again to finish the job, but he can’t tear his eyes from the dying man’s terrified ones, can’t stop himself from mirroring the drunken twitching of the man’s gaping mouth, can’t pry his fingers from the man’s shoulder until all he’s left holding is an empty shell of a human.
He hopes his brothers won’t notice his bloodshot eyes and irregular breathing when he returns.
It is supposed to be a moment of glory.
Live || Yamamoto/Gokudera
There is no shrouded past. There is no forsaken future. There is only now, only this: wind whistling, blood rushing, feet pounding, muscles coiling, leaping-
infinite space
-landing, joints taking the brunt of the shock, no stopping, pressing forward. Gokudera can see the tails of Yamamoto’s tunic fluttering ahead of him, the red sash rippling, taunting him.
No. Beckoning him. He really needs to stop thinking of their relationship as a competition. (Yamamoto might have more physical prowess, but Gokudera is more adept at the technical aspects of their trade). It doesn’t help that Yamamoto, too, is a competitive spirit, but he isn’t trying to rub his abilities in Gokudera’s face. The staccato of their boots against the stone rooftops tell the story.
faster - join me - let’s do this together
He catches up to Yamamoto at the edge of another roof so they are abreast when they jump this time-
teeming city below - endless sky above - so many possibilities - so much freedom
-and onto the next rooftop without missing a beat. Yamamoto chances a glance to the side, catching Gokudera’s eyes, and Gokudera can’t help but bark out a breathless laugh at the absurdity of their existence - that as distributors of death, they can feel so alive. So immediate.
So here.
So now.
So-
soaring
plz ignore the pretentious artsy-fartsy-ness of the last one IDK WHAT I WAS THINKING