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The Land of Dawn was, as usual, saturated with the frantic clamor of battle. It was already 14 mins of the game, the late game where every fight determined the fate of win or lose, for both teams.
In the Gold Lane, beneath the cracked remains of the outer turret, stood Claude, the team's marksman, agile and lethal. His broad shoulders were tense with focus, his muscular frame encased in thick leather that offered little concealment, but plenty of mobility.
He wore his signature confident smirk, a look that rarely faded, even when dodging four enemy skills simultaneously. Beside him, almost hidden in his imposing shadow, was Gusion, the team's only assassin.
Gusion was a breathtaking contrast to Claude’s rogueish swagger. At such young age, he possessed a delicate beauty; lean, soft-featured, and radiating a nervous energy. He was cold, reserved, (yet a softie), and incredibly lethal when his daggers found their mark.
Right now, his full concentration was devoted to positioning himself for a risky flank, his brow furrowed slightly as he tracked the enemy tank, Franco.
“Focus, sweetheart..” Claude murmured over their private voice channel, his tone a low rumble that managed to be both commanding and affectionate. “Franco’s flicker is in cooldown. X.borg is clearing the creep wave in the Mid Lane with no sense to the map. You go in low, I’ll bait the tower aggro.”
“I know, Claude..” Gusion replied, his voice a soft, nervous tremor, though his actions were anything but weak. He darted into the bush, his boots barely whispering against the grass. “S-Stop using those nicknames on comms. Others might hear.....”
“Let them hear...” Claude chuckled, switching his target priority to the exposed mage, Lunox. “I own you, baby blade. Everyone needs to know..”
Gusion ignored the familiar flush rising in his neck. He tried to focus on the game, but Claude’s casual use of pet names always threw his concentration aside, reminding him of moments far removed from the brutal reality of the arena— moments spent tangled in silk sheets, where Claude’s voice was the only sound and his touch utterly consumed him.
With a final deep breath, Gusion lunged. The light surrounding him flared, and a storm of daggers erupted, tearing through Lunox. Claude followed swiftly, leaping in with his Ultimate, showering the area with bullets while Dexter, his loyal monkey companion, provided cover fire.
A double kill flashed across the screen. Gusion had secured a crucial pick-off, leaving the remaining three enemies scattered and demoralized.
A wave of triumphant relief washed over the team chat, followed quickly by the bitter sting of enemy resentment.
It was the enemy X.Borg, clearly frustrated after being sliced into ribbons by Gusion’s precision, who broke the tension in All Chat.
[All] X.Borg: gusion u little wh*re
[All] X.Borg: u and the marksman r always together. is it true u 2 r sleeping together?
The atmosphere in the voice channel, which had been buzzing with tactical calls, died instantly. Tigreal cleared his throat loudly.
“Focus on the Lord, guys!” Tigreal muttered awkwardly. “Ignore the chat.”
Gusion’s hands, which had been deftly preparing his cooldowns for the next wave, froze mid-air. He felt the heat start in his cheeks and spread rapidly toward his ears. Oh, the shame. He was used to the occasional teasing about their duo-synergy, but this was too explicit, too intimate for the public forum. He clenched his jaw, willing Claude to just ignore it.
Claude, however, was delighted. His smirk widened so much it threatened to split his face.
“Well, well....” Claude drawled, adjusting his headset. His voice, usually only heard in the private channel, was suddenly switched to the public server. “A fan wants to know about our personal life. How charming..”
“Claude, don’t!” Gusion hissed in their private channel, his embarrassment escalating into mild panic. “J-Just mute him! We need to push for god's sakeee!”
“Relax, gorgeous,” Claude purred, though his public voice was loud and clear. He was standing safely behind a revived turret, executing a perfect creep wave clear. “A man should be proud of his accomplishments.... ;)”
He switched back to All Chat voice:
[All] Claude: “To answer your question, X.Borg. Yes. We are intimately involved. Why? Jealous you haven’t secured an Assassin of this caliber for yourself?”
The chat exploded with astonished emojis and silence from the remaining enemies.
Gusion felt his face burn. He looked like an overripe tomato, his usually pale skin now a violent scarlet and he felt heated all over his skin.
[All] X.Borg: lol i knew it. but r u 2 actually serious or just timepass? is he even a good bottom?
Gusion gasped, a small, choked sound that was barely audible over the roar of the turret. His fingers trembled so hard he almost lost his balance. A good bottom? That was a conversation that absolutely did not belong in the Land of Dawn. His mind flashed to the previous night, where Claude had relentlessly praised him, whispering sweet, possessive things that were currently making his head light.
“C-Claude, please....” Gusion pleaded weakly. “I’m going to throw the match if you keep this up!!!”
Claude glanced at Gusion’s icon, seeing the little "disconnect" symbol flicker beside his name—a sure sign of extreme internal instability. He found Gusion's distress endearing. He loved nothing more than seeing the cool, collected assassin dissolve into a flustered mess because of him.
[All] Claude: “Serious? Absolutely. Gusion is my future. As for his skill set in the bedroom—let me put it this way, X.Borg. He performs with the precision of his daggers, every move calculated, every touch intentional. He’s elegant, agile, and his endurance is far superior to any enemy I’ve ever faced. He can handle my highest DPS rotation, no problem. Trust me, I’m the one who often needs a defensive reset.”
Claude punctuated the statement with a perfect usage of his second skill, dashing away from an incoming stun just to show off his casual focus despite the subject matter.
Gusion made a small, wounded noise. He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to hide the mortification, but the heat rising off him felt like a literal cloud of steam.
His teammate, Tigreal, had politely muted all public chat and was spamming “REQUEST BACKUP!!!!” pings on the Lord pit, desperately trying to regain tactical stability.
[All] X.Borg: OOF. okay but like, who top who mostly? u seem like the alpha but gusion is tiny. he must be submissive right?
This was the question that truly pushed Gusion toward the critical edge. His typically quiet nature demanded total privacy; this public inquiry into their roles was agonizing. He wanted to vanish into the map, to become entirely invisible.
“Oh, that’s a juicy one,” Claude chirped, his eyes twinkling dangerously. He was enjoying this far too much. Dexter chattered happily on Claude’s shoulder, seemingly complicit in the chaos.
[All] Claude: “Well, that depends on the objective, doesn't it? Sometimes I need to dominate the battlefield and secure the kill (if you catch my drift), and sometimes Gusion wants to take the lead and show off his speed and aggressive burst damage. He’s quite bossy when he’s riding a sugar high, actually.”
Gusion’s eyes widened to saucers. Riding a sugar high? That was an extremely specific reference to the time Claude had fed him three candy bars just to see if it would loosen him up enough to try a new position. It absolutely had, and Gusion had never been so mortified in his life. He felt the world tilt precariously.
“Claude! Stop!” Gusion choked out, his internal regulator completely broken. His fingers were shaking so badly that when he tried to use his second skill, he missed the target by a mile, hitting only air.
The enemy X.Borg, realizing they had achieved ultimate distraction, pressed harder.
[All] X.Borg: what about stamina. how long can u 2 go like what's the longest session? 2 hours?
Claude had just secured the Lord and was marching toward the Mid Lane inhibitor. He delivered his answer with the calm composure of a professional analyst.
[All] Claude: “Two hours? Amateur hour. You must be confusing me with a low-tier fighter who only has one skill rotation. We don’t stop until we reach complete exhaustion—or until the sun is coming up, whichever comes first. My stamina is world-class, but honestly, Gusion works so hard that sometimes I just pin him down so he’ll take a five-minute break. I have to physically restrain him from overexerting himself.”
Gusion’s vision blurred. The combination of Claude’s casual pride, the blunt honesty, and the public nature of the admission slammed into him like a physical blow.
He remembered the time Claude had literally had to wrap him up in a duvet to prevent him from returning to the fun, insisting Gusion needed to sleep.
The image of that moment—the overwhelming physical affection, the whispered praise, and the sheer, exhausting pleasure—invaded the space previously reserved for calculating dagger trajectories.
Restrain him. The words echoed in his mind, laced with an implication of dominance and overwhelming desire that threatened to shatter his remaining composure.
“I—I can’t…” Gusion whispered, the color draining slightly from the severe red of his face, transitioning into a waxy, sickly pale. His breath was coming in short, shallow puffs. His ears were ringing, and the minimap—the source of all tactical awareness—was swimming before his eyes. He felt a profound, overwhelming sense of public violation, coupled with the realization that Claude found this whole embarrassing ordeal incredibly sexy.
Just then, the enemy X.Borg, smelling blood, fired the last, most invasive shot.
[All] X.Borg: who makes the loudest noise? is it the pretty boy? i bet he screams.
Claude paused his advance on the inhibitor turret, a flicker of genuine seriousness crossing his face. Gusion was currently standing stock-still in the middle of the lane, his health bar slowly being chipped away by minions, utterly unresponsive.
Claude looked at his partner’s unmoving avatar, concern fighting a losing battle against his immense pride.
[All] Claude: “He doesn’t... scream, X.Borg. He makes little, sweet noises—like tiny, breathless pleas. They are soft, urgent, and possessive. Every sound he makes,” Claude’s voice dropped, becoming low and resonant, laced with raw affection, “....is just for me.... and honestly? It’s the most beautiful sound in the whole damn Land of Dawn.”
That was it. The final, crushing, tender blow.
The intimate detail of the "little, sweet noises," the confession of their possessive secrecy, and the fact that Claude considered Gusion's most vulnerable moments "the most beautiful sound"—it was too much for the already overloaded systems of the quiet assassin.
Gusion’s character icon instantly went grey, the dreaded 'AFK' message popping up.
In the real world, Gusion let out a faint sigh, a sound like deflating silk. His head swam, the blood rushing out of his brain and pooling somewhere near the tips of his highly sensitive ears. His eyes rolled slightly back into his head, and he slumped sideways, his slender body going completely limp.
He had fainted from sheer, profound embarrassment.
Claude watched the AFK signal with a mixture of immense satisfaction and immediate responsibility. His cocky grin vanished, replaced by a sudden, protective seriousness.
“Well, mission accomplished,” Claude muttered to himself, switching to team chat. “Tigreal, finish the Lord push. I’m handling an emergency in the base.”
[Team] Claude: “Emergency AFK. Private health matter. End quickly.”
He executed his flawless ultimate skill to clear the minions, securing the inhibitor turret and creating enough space for his team to push. Then, he disengaged from the battle entirely.
In the physical reality of the MLBB gaming lounge, Claude yanked off his headset, tossed it onto the desk, and spun his chair around.
Gusion was slumped over the armrest of his gaming chair, his face utterly devoid of color save for the lingering crimson blush on his cheeks and neck. His lips were parted slightly, and he was breathing shallowly.
Claude stood up, his tall, muscular frame towering over the collapsed assassin. He reached out a broad hand and gently brushed Gusion’s soft, sweat-damp hair away from his forehead.
“Oh, you poor, delicate thing,” Claude murmured, his voice now entirely free of the arrogant persona he maintained in the arena, replaced by pure tenderness. “I told you that your shyness was a highly exploitable weakness, didn’t I?”
He scooped Gusion up easily. The assassin weighed almost nothing against Claude’s strength. Gusion’s head rested against Claude’s collarbone, smelling faintly of sweat and expensive cologne.
Claude cradled him against his chest, one hand supporting the small of Gusion’s back, the other protecting his head. He looked down at the peaceful, flushed face of the man who obsessed him.
“I love you when you’re flustered, my pretty star,” Claude whispered, resting his cheek against Gusion’s hair. “But I love you more when you’re breathing.”
He walked out of the roaring gaming room—where his teammates were currently screaming about the incoming victory—carrying the lean built, soft body of his beloved Gusion. He ignored the stunned stares of the other players, carrying the most lethal assassin in the land like a blushing bride.
As he reached the quiet hall, Claude adjusted his grip, settling Gusion more comfortably against his chest. Even unconscious, Gusion’s hand instinctively curled into the material of Claude’s jacket, holding on tight.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Claude sighed contentedly, looking forward to the recovery phase. “We’ll continue that demonstration later. Privately, of course.”