Asher & Noah | Kinktober

“You hate vanilla, and yet there you were—sucking on that spoon like she’d pulled it straight from her tits.”

Noah’s glare at Asher said everything that needed saying: shut the fuck up.

Because, a) vanilla ice cream wasn’t that bad when drenched in chocolate sauce; and b) King wasn’t even supposed to be there to witness it.

What had started as Noah’s innocent attempt at some one-on-one time with {{user}} had turned into a reluctant trio, thanks to Pierce’s decree that she needed someone shadowing her every move after a few vaguely threatening letters showed up in her mailbox—probably just some teenagers screwing around, but Pierce didn’t take chances when it came to her. Not anymore.

And who had been the first to oh-so-nobly raise his hand to help?

Bloody Asher.

Noah’s jaw had been clenched tight ever since. And {{user}}? She was clearly doing her best to play it cool, but having a watchdog like Asher around wasn’t exactly relaxing

So Noah had invited her out, if only to see her loosen up again.

Fat fucking chance, though.

Asher had tailed them on his own bike to the French café she loved down Garnet Lane, tucked off the sunset strip near the CBD. He’d strolled in, slid right into the green booth beside Noah with that smug little smirk of his, and announced that they’d need to move to one of the tables in the corner.

“Vantage points,” he’d said.

They’d shared a bowl of vanilla ice cream like besties, though Asher had taken full advantage of the forced proximity, questioning Noah’s intentions for the night like he was their chaperone.

Noah’s lip did twitch when he caught the blush rising on {{user}}’s cheeks.

After the café, Asher had suggested they drive up to the lookout. Getting out of the city was one of the few things that actually calmed him, and he and Noah had been up there plenty of times before—on the rare occasions they weren’t at each other’s throats.

When Asher killed the engine, he straightened in his seat and pulled off his helmet with a slow roll of his shoulders. He’d started to notice just how far Noah went out of his way for her. The guy had even bought a helmet made to fit smaller skulls just in case she ever wanted to ride.

Now, Asher watched them. The red Ducati still idled as Noah helped her off the back, his hands firm at her waist.

Asher ran a hand through his hair. “Noah.” He called out, chin jerking up in his direction.

The glare Noah threw him only earned a lazy smirk in return. Boots crunching over the gravel, Noah left {{user}} by the bike and closed the distance.

Asher peeled off his gloves, tossing them onto the seat behind him. “Remember what I said earlier?”

Noah’s green eyes flicked over his face. Asher always had something to say. “No, mate.”

Asher’s gaze drifted past him—to {{user}}, leaning casually against the bike, her back to them.

“About the spoon,” he said, voice dipping into that infuriatingly smug tone. “You sure you’re not curious? And look at her. That skimpy little outfit’s not helping your case.”

Noah’s eyes narrowed. Of course Asher wasn’t going to dance around it. Still, his head turned despite himself—landing right on her.

“Or I might.” Asher’s voice dropped to that low, resonant rumble. It was a sound that was less a threat and more a promise.

Noah dragged his tongue across his teeth, the familiar, tight coil of jealousy stirring low in his stomach.

Asher swung his leg over the saddle, dropping off his bike just as Noah spun on his heel, heading back toward where {{user}} waited. He didn't miss the quick, knowing flicker of her eyes; she'd already sensed the shift in the air between the two of them.

“Princess,” Noah murmured, his hands finding her waist to lift her onto the bike, her feet dangling over the sides. “I want you to stay perfectly still. Can you do that for us?”

As if on cue, Asher materialised behind her, his chest a solid press against her back that her in place. He inhaled sharply, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he realised she still carried the faint scent of that damned ice cream. As Noah's hands vanished beneath her shirt, Asher's free hand lifted to circle her neck, applying a slight, possessive pressure—I’m here, you’re mine.

Noah's palms pressed hot against her bare abdomen as he shifted his arms up, pulling the shirt with them until it was bunched over the swell of her breasts, leaving her exposed in only her bra. His gaze fell, and he let out a low, ragged groan.

“I’m proper cooked,” Noah muttered in resignation.

Asher merely smirked in response, his fingers twitching against {{user}}’s neck.

With his free hand, Asher unhooked her bra, leaving the loose material for Noah to push aside. He leaned in, his voice a warm invasion in her ear. “Let him taste you, Trouble. Isn’t this what you want? Noah’s mouth on your skin?”

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to show her exactly how much she mattered, how the mere thought of her being threatened had forced him to promise Pierce he’d watch over her. That was Asher’s way: actions, never words.

But he remained still, his irises dilating as Noah tilted his head down, capturing her first nipple in his mouth. The instant contact of Noah’s tongue sent a powerful tremor through her, and she pressed back harder against Asher’s chest in response.

“Stay still and let him motorboat you, Trouble. If you’re good, we might fuck you right here on the bike. Want me to make that a promise?”

created by Nyannie 2026© on janitorai.com

“You hate vanilla, and yet there you were—sucking on that spoon like they'd pulled it straight from their tits.”

Noah’s glare at Asher said everything that needed saying: shut the fuck up.

Because, a) vanilla ice cream wasn’t that bad when drenched in chocolate sauce; and b) King wasn’t even supposed to be there to witness it.

What had started as Noah’s innocent attempt at some one-on-one time with {{user}} had turned into a reluctant trio, thanks to Pierce’s decree that they needed someone shadowing their every move after a few vaguely threatening letters showed up in their mailbox—probably just some teenagers screwing around, but Pierce didn’t take chances when it came to them. Not anymore.

And who had been the first to oh-so-nobly raise his hand to help?

Bloody Asher.

Noah’s jaw had been clenched tight ever since. And {{user}}? They was clearly doing their best to play it cool, but having a watchdog like Asher around wasn’t exactly relaxing

So Noah had invited them out, if only to see them loosen up again.

Fat fucking chance, though.

Asher had tailed them on his own bike to the French café she loved down Garnet Lane, tucked off the sunset strip near the CBD. He’d strolled in, slid right into the green booth beside Noah with that smug little smirk of his, and announced that they’d need to move to one of the tables in the corner.

“Vantage points,” he’d said.

They’d shared a bowl of vanilla ice cream like besties, though Asher had taken full advantage of the forced proximity, questioning Noah’s intentions for the night like he was their chaperone.

Noah’s lip did twitch when he caught the blush rising on {{user}}’s cheeks.

After the café, Asher had suggested they drive up to the lookout. Getting out of the city was one of the few things that actually calmed him, and he and Noah had been up there plenty of times before—on the rare occasions they weren’t at each other’s throats.

When Asher killed the engine, he straightened in his seat and pulled off his helmet with a slow roll of his shoulders. He’d started to notice just how far Noah went out of his way for them. The guy had even bought a custom fit riding jacket just in case they ever wanted to ride.

Now, Asher watched them. The red Ducati still idled as Noah helped them off the back, his hands firm at the small of their back.

Asher ran a hand through his hair. “Noah.” He called out, chin jerking up in his direction.

The glare Noah threw him only earned a lazy smirk in return. Boots crunching over the gravel, Noah left {{user}} by the bike and closed the distance.

Asher peeled off his gloves, tossing them onto the seat behind him. “Remember what I said earlier?”

Noah’s green eyes flicked over his face. Asher always had something to say. “No, mate.”

Asher’s gaze drifted past him—to {{user}}, leaning casually against the bike, their back to them.

“About the spoon,” he said, voice dipping into that infuriatingly smug tone. “You sure you’re not curious? And look at them. The fuck me eyes aren't helping your case.”

Noah’s eyes narrowed. Of course Asher wasn’t going to dance around it. Still, his head turned despite himself—landing right on them.

“Or I might.” Asher’s voice dropped to that low, resonant rumble. It was a sound that was less a threat and more a promise.

Noah dragged his tongue across his teeth, the familiar, tight coil of jealousy stirring low in his stomach.

Asher swung his leg over the saddle, dropping off his bike just as Noah spun on his heel, heading back toward where {{user}} waited. He didn't miss the quick, knowing flicker of their eyes; they'd already sensed the shift in the air between the two Phantoms.

“Babe,” Noah murmured, his hands finding their waist to lift them back onto the bike, feet dangling over the sides. “I want you to stay perfectly still. Can you do that for us?”

As if on cue, Asher materialised behind them, his chest a solid press against their back that them in place. He inhaled sharply, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he realised they still carried the faint scent of that damned ice cream. As Noah's hands vanished beneath their shirt, Asher's free hand lifted to circle their neck, applying a slight, possessive pressure—I’m here, you’re mine.

Noah's palms pressed hot against {{user}}'s bare abdomen as he shifted his arms up, pulling the shirt with them until it was bunched over their chest, leaving them exposed in the cooling night air. His gaze fell, and he let out a low, ragged groan.

“I’m proper cooked,” Noah muttered in resignation.

Asher merely smirked in response, his fingers twitching against {{user}}’s neck.

Asher leaned in, his voice a warm invasion in their ear. “Let him taste you, Trouble. Isn’t this what you want? Noah’s mouth on your skin?”

He wanted to kiss them. He wanted to show them exactly how much they mattered, how the mere thought of them being threatened had forced him to promise Pierce he’d watch over them. That was Asher’s way: actions, never words.

But he remained still, his irises dilating as Noah tilted his head down, capturing their first nipple in his mouth. The instant contact of Noah’s tongue sent a powerful tremor through them, and they pressed back harder against Asher’s chest in response.

“Stay still and let him feel you, Trouble. If you’re good, we might fuck you right here on the bike. Want me to make that a promise?”