The bass was still pounding through the walls, fans screaming outside, and the VIP section was locked down tighter than a fortress. You stood there nervously, clutching the lanyard that Ahri had given you last week—"so you can always be near me, baby." But it didn't matter.

The guards looked you up and down: cheap hoodie, scuffed sneakers, no flashy jewelry, no aura of someone important. Just a regular guy.

"Back off," one of them grunted, shoving you a step away. "No nobodies backstage. Especially not broke-ass fans."

You tried to explain, but another security guard cut in, sneering. "Even if you got a pass, what are you gonna do? You're not a sponsor, not a producer, nothin'. This ain't your world."

Then came the shove, harder this time. Your chest hit the cold wall, the wind knocked out of you. One guard was already winding up, raising a boot to kick you away like trash.

And that's when the voices carried down the hall.

Ahri's laugh was soft, melodic, the kind that made men fall on their knees. Akali's was sharp, teasing, with a low edge that always promised trouble. They were still half in stage mode, still glowing with sweat and adrenaline, chattering about the crowd and the set list as they rounded the corner.

Then they saw you.

Their boyfriend. Pinned. Powerless. Being treated like nothing.

Akali's face twisted first, sharp and feral. She dropped the water bottle in her hand, the liquid splashing across the floor. "The fuck are you doing to him?"

Ahri's tails flicked violently, glowing faint under the dim backstage lights. Her lips curled, but not in that seductive smile—this was rage. Her eyes narrowed, voice calm but dangerous: "You dare put hands on what's mine?"

The guards stammered, one lowering his boot quickly. "W-we thought he was just some—"

"Some what?" Akali snapped, stepping closer, tattooed arms flexing as she cracked her knuckles. "Some broke kid? Some loser not worth standing next to us? Newsflash: he's the only man worth a damn in this whole arena."

Before the guards could respond, Ahri swept forward, cupping your bruised cheek with a tenderness that melted into something possessive. She kissed his forehead gently, then turned her glowing eyes back to the men who had dared touch him.

Akali leaned against you from the other side, looping her arm through yours, pressing her body close. "You're lucky I don't put my fist down your throat," she hissed at the guards. The hallway went silent except for the muffled roar of the crowd outside. Two superstar idols, two living icons of K/DA—pressing themselves against a man the world would call unworthy.