Chapter 29: Burrito Banter
The scent hit them first – cumin and searing meat, chilies sharp enough to make their eyes water, the warm, comforting smell of fresh tortillas. Under the sprawling oak tree, the red and yellow food truck pulsed with life, students clustered around plastic tables, laughter and chatter bouncing off the metal siding. Ahmed stretched, the movement pulling deliciously at the deep ache in his ass, a constant, intimate reminder of Manny claiming him raw on the couch last night. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, warm on his face, a stark contrast to the dim, pot-scented chaos of their dorm.
"Starving," Manny declared, already eyeing the handwritten menu board. His knuckles, resting lightly on the small of Ahmed’s back, were faintly scraped – souvenirs from pinning Ahmed down, from gripping the couch arm as he’d fucked into him. "Think I could eat the entire menu. Twice."
Ahmed leaned subtly into the touch. "Remember that time you tried the ghost pepper salsa?" He grinned, his own voice still carrying a slight rasp from the brutal throat-fucking, a roughness that sent a familiar thrill down his spine whenever he spoke. "Tears. Actual rivers."
Manny snorted, nudging him forward as the line moved. "Worth it. Built character. Unlike your delicate sand-princess palate." He winked, the casual slur landing with the warm familiarity it had developed since the ridge, the possessiveness beneath it palpable even here, surrounded by the lunchtime crowd. "Giant carnitas burrito? Split it?"
"Obviously." Ahmed scanned the options, his stomach rumbling. "Extra guac. And not stealing all my chips this time, you Filipino chip goblin."
"Hey, sharing is caring, habibi," Manny shot back, grabbing a handful of napkins as they reached the window. The cook, a burly man with a sweat-stained bandana, took their order with a grunt. The sizzle from the grill was deafening up close, fragrant smoke billowing.
They found a small, wobbly table near the edge of the shade, the plastic chairs warm from the sun. Manny plopped down, the oversized foil-wrapped burrito taking up most of the table. He unwrapped it carefully, steam rising, revealing the packed interior of rice, beans, tender pork, pico de gallo, and a generous smear of avocado. He tore it roughly in half, juice dripping onto the foil.
"Marvel," Manny stated definitively, shoving the slightly larger half towards Ahmed before stuffing a huge bite into his own mouth. "Superior characters. Better story arcs. End of discussion."
Ahmed picked up his half, the warmth seeping into his fingers. "Oh, come on," he countered, chewing. "DC has actual depth. Batman’s moral complexity? Superman's humanity? Marvel’s all quippy one-liners and CGI explosions." He pointed his burrito at Manny accusingly. "You only like Spider-Man because he’s a wise-cracking twink."
Manny swallowed, grinning widely, a fleck of salsa on his lip. "He is a wise-cracking twink! And he’s relatable! Not some godlike alien or billionaire in a bat-suit. Plus," he leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping slightly, "the MCU actually finished their fucking story. DC’s still trying to figure out its underwear situation." He stole a spoonful of Ahmed’s black beans.
"Hey!" Ahmed protested, swatting at Manny’s hand. "Thief! And DC’s just… more layered. Gotham’s atmosphere? The constant struggle with darkness?" He took a hefty bite, savoring the mix of flavors, the spice tingling pleasantly. "Marvel’s fun. DC’s art."
"Art?" Manny scoffed, stealing a chip from the shared basket. "Brooding isn’t art. It’s just… brooding. Give me Tony Stark’s messy brilliance over Batman’s endless angst any day." He dipped the chip aggressively into the shared tub of guacamole. "Your turn. Best villain: Thanos or Joker?"
Ahmed chewed thoughtfully, watching Manny lick guac off his thumb. He felt a familiar warmth spread through him, unrelated to the sun or the spicy food. This was their normal, their comfortable rhythm – bickering about comics, sharing food, existing effortlessly in each other’s space. Yet beneath it all pulsed the vivid memory of Manny’s hands on him, the guttural commands, the way he’d shuddered and filled him last night. The contrast was dizzying, intoxicating.
"Thanos had a point," Ahmed conceded, "flawed execution. Joker’s just chaos. Pure, terrifying, brilliant chaos. He wins." He reached for a chip, his fingers brushing Manny’s. A spark, small but electric.
Before Manny could retort, a loud, grating laugh cut through their bubble. Two guys in fraternity shirts leaned against a nearby table, one of them pointing vaguely in their direction. "...look like a couple of Pakis sharing a fucking burrito," the guy sneered, his voice carrying easily over the lunchtime murmur. "Bet they’re into some weird shit."
The warmth vanished. Ice flooded Ahmed’s veins. His hand froze halfway to the guacamole. He felt his jaw tighten, the familiar old anger – sharp, defensive, honed by years of microaggressions and outright hostility – surging up his throat like bile. His knuckles whitened around the chip. He started to push his chair back, the cheap plastic scraping harshly on the pavement.
Manny’s hand clamped down instantly, not on his arm, but firmly on his thigh under the table. A silent command, grounding and immediate. Ahmed looked at him. Manny hadn’t flinched. He was still chewing, his eyes fixed on his half-eaten burrito, but his jaw was set, a hard line etched beside the fading scratch marks. The easygoing roommate was gone, replaced by the focused intensity Ahmed knew from the ridge, from the couch last night – the possessor, the protector. Don’t engage. They’re not worth the sludge under your shoe. You’re mine, not theirs to fuck with. The unspoken message was crystal clear, radiating from the pressure on his thigh.
Ahmed forced air into his lungs. He slowly lowered himself back into the chair. The laughter continued, stupid and oblivious. He picked up his burrito, took a deliberate, defiant bite, staring straight ahead, not at the frat guys, but at the peeling paint on the food truck. The spicy pork suddenly tasted like ash.
Manny finally looked up, his gaze meeting Ahmed’s. There was no fear, only a simmering, contained fury and a profound understanding. He didn’t say anything. Just squeezed Ahmed’s thigh once, hard, a brutal punctuation mark beneath the tablecloth. I see it. I’m here. He then deliberately stole another one of Ahmed’s chips, crunching it loudly, a small, pointed act of normalcy in the face of ugliness.
The bell over the comic shop door jingled, a familiar, comforting sound. The air inside was cool, thick with the smell of old paper, ink, and plastic sleeves. Racks of brightly colored comics stretched into the dimness, posters of superheroes plastered on every available surface. The encounter at the food truck lingered like a bad smell, the casual cruelty a stark reminder of the world outside their bubble. It had cast a shadow over the walk here, a tense silence hanging between them heavier than the burrito they’d finished without tasting.
Manny immediately gravitated towards the new releases rack, his usual spot. Ahmed wandered deeper into the store, past boxes of back issues, seeking the solace of the familiar spines, the promise of other worlds. His body still hummed with residual anger, an uncomfortable counterpoint to the lingering soreness Manny had left inside him. He stopped in front of a display of Batman graphic novels, running a finger over the embossed title of The Killing Joke. Art. Terror.
He felt Manny come up behind him, not touching, but radiating a quiet presence. Ahmed didn’t turn. "You okay?" Manny’s voice was low, devoid of its usual playful teasing.
Ahmed shrugged, still tracing the cover. "Just assholes."
"Yeah." A beat of silence. "Wish I could’ve shoved that burrito down his throat. With extra ghost pepper." The dark edge in Manny’s voice was comforting, a shared rage.
Ahmed finally turned. Manny was holding a new Spider-Man issue, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at Ahmed, his dark eyes searching, the possessiveness now tempered with concern. The fluorescent light caught the faint bruise blooming on Ahmed’s neck, just above his t-shirt collar – a souvenir from Manny’s teeth last night. Ahmed saw Manny’s gaze flick to it, then back to his face. A silent question.
Ahmed took a breath. The anger was still there, but another feeling was pushing through, sharper, more immediate in the quiet, safe space surrounded by their childhood escapes. The memory of Manny’s hand on his thigh, the fierce protection, mingled with the raw need from the previous night. He met Manny’s gaze, a flicker of challenge lighting his own brown eyes.
"Actually," Ahmed said, his voice dropping, roughened. He stepped closer, invading Manny’s space, close enough to smell the lingering scent of carnitas and the clean cotton of his shirt. He lowered his voice to a near-whisper only Manny could hear, pitching it deliberately soft, almost submissive, but layered with heat. "I kinda want you to come back with me now. Skip the comics." He let his gaze drift down Manny’s body, then back up, slow and deliberate. "Wanna finish what that asshole interrupted."
Manny’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. His grip tightened on the comic. The concern in his eyes shifted, darkened, instantly consumed by the predatory heat Ahmed knew so well. The switch flipped effortlessly. The tension from the food truck transformed, channeled into this.
"Yeah?" Manny murmured, his own voice dropping an octave, rough and promising. He leaned in fractionally. "What exactly needs finishing, habibi? Got something specific in mind?"
Ahmed held his gaze, letting the need show plainly. "You. Inside me. Again." He let the words hang, heavy and explicit. "Slow this time, maybe? After last night..." He shifted his weight, a subtle wince touching his features, emphasizing the lingering ache. "But deep. Want to feel you… own me. Properly. Without the frat-boy soundtrack." He paused, then added, the softness layered with vulnerability he only showed Manny, "Just… you. My Manny."
Manny stared at him, the comic forgotten. The predatory look intensified, but something else flickered there too – a fierce tenderness beneath the lust. He glanced around quickly; the shop was quiet, the clerk engrossed in his phone. Manny reached out, his knuckles brushing Ahmed’s hipbone, a touch blazingly intimate in the public space. "Just me?" he repeated, the possessiveness tightening his voice. "Your jungle beast gonna take care of his little sand princess?"
Ahmed nodded, a shiver running through him at the touch, at the crude words spoken low and dangerous in this sanctuary of heroes. "Yeah, Daddy. Please."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Manny’s face. He tossed the Spider-Man issue carelessly back onto the rack. "Screw comics," he growled, the command implicit. "Let's go. Now." He turned, not waiting, knowing Ahmed would follow, and strode purposefully towards the door, the bell jingling sharply as he pushed it open. Ahmed followed instantly, the shadow of the food truck forgotten, replaced by the urgent pull towards the only thing that mattered: the rough sanctuary of Manny’s dominance, the raw, claiming heat waiting for him back in their messy room. The need was a physical ache, an echo of the one in his ass, demanding to be answered.
The dorm door slammed shut behind them, vibrating the framed Spider-Man poster hanging crookedly on the wall. The familiar reek of stale weed and yesterday’s pizza rushed back, thick and cloying after the outside air. Manny didn’t pause. He spun Ahmed around, shoving him hard against the door before he could even drop his keys. The impact rattled Ahmed’s teeth, sending a fresh jolt through his sore ass.
"Fuck," Ahmed gasped, pinned, Manny’s body already pressing against his, hard and urgent. Manny’s mouth crashed down on his, swallowing any other sound. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, demanding, tasting of carnitas and shared fury. Ahmed opened for him instantly, moaning into the kiss, the ache inside him flaring into a sharp, desperate need. His hands scrabbled at Manny’s t-shirt, pulling it up.
Manny ripped his own mouth away, breathing harshly. "Off," he growled, yanking Ahmed’s t-shirt up and over his head in one rough motion. It caught on Ahmed’s ears, briefly blinding him. He heard the rustle of Manny shoving down his shorts. Then large, warm hands were on Ahmed’s waistband, jerking his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one brutal pull. The cool air hit Ahmed’s exposed skin, making him shiver despite the heat radiating off Manny.
"Turn around," Manny commanded, his voice thick. He spun Ahmed roughly to face the door, pressing him flat against the cool wood. Ahmed braced his palms on the peeling paint, pushing his ass back instinctively, offering himself. He heard the wet sound of Manny spitting into his hand. The slickness was minimal, a ghost of preparation compared to last night’s brutal dry taking. Manny’s thick fingers probed roughly at his entrance, slicking the tight ring of muscle with spit. Ahmed hissed, pushing back against the intrusion.
"Please," Ahmed choked out, need coiling tight in his belly. "Now, Manny. Need you in me." The vulnerability he’d shown at the comic store was gone, consumed by raw hunger.
Manny didn’t make him wait. He lined up, the broad, blunt head of his cock pressing insistently against Ahmed’s entrance. He pushed in slowly, agonizingly so, stretching Ahmed deliberately. Unlike the couch the night before, this wasn’t a dry claim; it was a slow, deliberate invasion. Ahmed groaned, low and ragged, feeling every inch sink into him, the familiar burn a counterpoint to the incredible fullness. "That's it," Manny breathed, his voice strained with effort and lust. "Take it slow, habibi. Take all of this jungle cock. Feel it fill you up."
He bottomed out, his hips flush against Ahmed’s ass. The stretch was intense, bordering on painful, but exquisitely deep. Manny held still for a moment, pulsing inside him, letting Ahmed feel the sheer, solid presence. Ahmed panted, forehead pressed against the door, overwhelmed. Then Manny pulled back, almost all the way out, before sliding back in with that same torturous slowness. "Fuck," Ahmed gasped. "So deep."
Manny set a relentless pace. Slow, deep thrusts that dragged against Ahmed’s sensitized walls, each withdrawal leaving him feeling hollow, each penetration filling him completely. There was no frantic pounding, just deliberate, claiming strokes. Manny leaned over him, bracing one hand on the door beside Ahmed’s head, the other gripping his hip bone. His breath was hot on Ahmed’s neck. "This what you wanted, princess?" he murmured, his voice rough velvet. "My Filipino dick owning your Arab hole slow and deep?" He punctuated the question with another grinding thrust.
"Yes!" Ahmed gasped. The crude words, combined with the deliberate pace, were devastating. "Own me, Daddy. Your sand nigger bitch is yours." The submission felt purer, more focused without the blinding pain of before, allowing him to feel every nuance of Manny’s possession. He pushed back against each thrust, meeting Manny’s power, craving the deep stretch, the profound sense of being taken.
Manny groaned, burying his face in the crook of Ahmed’s neck. His thrusts gained a fraction more force, became slightly less controlled. "Fuck, Ahmed," he breathed, the words muffled against skin. "You feel… perfect. Like you were made for this brown cock." His hand slid from Ahmed’s hip, snaking around Ahmed’s slender waist. His fingers found Ahmed’s neglected cock, hard and leaking against the cool wood of the door.
He started stroking Ahmed in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation – the deep, claiming penetration and the tight, slick friction around his cock – shattered Ahmed’s control. He cried out, a wordless sound of pure ecstasy, his body arching back into Manny’s. "Manny! I'm... gonna..."
"Come," Manny commanded, his voice thick, his own rhythm faltering. "Come all over the door, you filthy Arab slut. Show Daddy how good his jungle cock makes you feel." He squeezed Ahmed’s cock tightly, stroking faster.
Ahmed’s vision whited out. His body convulsed, back bowing. Hot ropes of cum splattered against the dorm door with wet, messy sounds, painting streaks on the faded paint. He clenched hard around Manny’s cock inside him, milking him, lost in the blinding release.
Feeling Ahmed tighten around him was Manny’s undoing. A ragged groan tore from his throat. "Fuck! Ahmed!" He slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, and pulsed violently. Thick jets of cum flooded Ahmed’s passage, hot and claiming. Manny shuddered, his whole body trembling as he emptied himself, his fingers still wrapped loosely around Ahmed’s softening cock. He slumped heavily against Ahmed’s back, both of them panting, slick with sweat, pressed against the sticky door.
They stood like that for long moments, glued together by sweat and cum, breathing heavily in the stale dorm air. The only sound was their ragged gasps and the faint, distant hum of campus life outside. Slowly, carefully, Manny pulled out. Ahmed hissed softly at the sensation, feeling the sudden emptiness and the
The sticky chill of the door against Ahmed’s flushed skin vanished as Manny pulled out. Ahmed hissed, the sudden emptiness a raw, vulnerable ache after the deep, claiming fullness. Warmth trickled down his inner thigh. Manny stayed pressed against him, his breath hot and ragged on Ahmed’s neck, one hand splayed possessively over his stomach. "Fuck, habibi," Manny murmured, the rough edge softened, almost tender. "Look at the mess you made." His thumb traced the sticky streaks on the door just above Ahmed’s head.
Ahmed slumped, boneless, leaning back into Manny’s solid warmth. His own cum cooled rapidly on the wood. He tilted his head back onto Manny’s shoulder. "Your mess too, jungle beast," he rasped, a shaky grin touching his lips despite the lingering burn. "You started it. Again."
Manny chuckled, the vibration humming through both of them. He pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss just below Ahmed’s ear. "Yeah. My mess. My sand princess." He carefully helped Ahmed step out of his tangled jeans and boxers pooled around his ankles. "C'mon. Shower. You stink like carnitas and… well, me." He steered Ahmed away from the door, leaving the evidence glistening under the overhead light.
The shower spray was blissfully hot, stinging Ahmed’s skin at first before dissolving the dried sweat, the traces of their encounter, and the lingering scent of the food truck altercation. Steam filled the cramped stall. Manny soaped Ahmed’s back with slow, methodical strokes, his touch practical yet intimate, washing away the echoes of aggression. Ahmed leaned into it, letting the water sluice over his face, washing away the phantom taste of frat-boy venom. He felt Manny’s strong fingers massage shampoo into his scalp, the scent of cheap coconut cutting through the steam. It was quiet, domestic, grounding. Just the drumming water and their breathing. Manny rinsed him off, his movements careful around the bruises blooming on Ahmed’s hips.
Wrapped in towels, damp hair plastered to their foreheads, they navigated the obstacle course of discarded clothes and textbooks back towards the futon. The room smelled of damp skin and steam now, overlaying the stale weed. Manny rummaged in a drawer, pulling out two clean pairs of boxer briefs. He tossed one to Ahmed. "Catch, princess."
Ahmed pulled them on, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed his tender entrance. He flopped onto the futon, the springs groaning. Manny joined him, close but not touching, both staring up at the water-stained ceiling tile above the Avengers poster. The silence stretched, comfortable but charged with the unresolved energy from the street, the intensity of the door, the lingering question of them.
"You know," Manny said quietly, breaking the quiet, his voice thoughtful, "that asshole at the truck… calling us Pakis…" He trailed off, picking at a loose thread on his towel.
Ahmed turned his head on the thin cushion. "Yeah?" He saw the tension in Manny’s jaw, a different kind than during sex. "Made me want to shove a controller down his throat. Or your fist."
Manny huffed a humourless laugh. "Right? But…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It pissed me off. The way he looked at you. Like you were…" He seemed to struggle, the laid-back facade cracking. "Lesser. Something to mock." His hand clenched on the towel. "Fucking hated it."
The raw protectiveness in Manny’s voice, the unspoken fury on Ahmed’s behalf, sent a different kind of warmth through Ahmed, deeper than the shower’s heat. It tangled strangely with the memory of Manny calling him his 'sand nigger bitch' just hours before, the possessiveness that felt like a dark mirror to this protective rage. He shifted, turning onto his side to face Manny fully. "I know, Manny."
Manny met his gaze, his dark eyes intense. "He doesn’t get to do that. Doesn’t get to see you like that." The possessiveness was back, fierce and territorial, but aimed outward now. "Only I do."
Ahmed’s breath hitched. The duality was dizzying, intoxicating. The protector and the possessor, both utterly real, both utterly Manny. The crude ownership that had thrilled him at the door felt different now, refracted through the lens of Manny’s genuine rage at the outside insult. "Only you," Ahmed echoed softly, the agreement slipping out, laced with a vulnerability he rarely showed.
Manny’s gaze locked onto his. That familiar, dangerous heat began to smoulder in his eyes, amplified by the protective fury simmering just beneath. He reached out, not roughly, but with deliberate intent, his fingers tracing the edge of the fading bruise on Ahmed’s neck. "Mine," he stated, the single word thick with layered meaning. Protection. Possession. An absolute claim.
Ahmed swallowed, the air suddenly crackling. He saw the shift happen, the tender caretaker dissolving into the hungry predator. Manny’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. He pushed himself up on one elbow, looming over Ahmed. His hand slid from the bruise down to the waistband of Ahmed’s briefs, hooking a finger in the elastic. "Only I get to make you feel like that," he growled, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register that sent shivers down Ahmed’s spine. "Only I get to mark you." He tugged the elastic down an inch, exposing the jut of Ahmed’s hip bone.
Ahmed felt the familiar coil of anticipation and submission tighten low in his belly. The shared anger, the protective declaration – it was fuel now, feeding the dark fire between them. "Show me," Ahmed whispered, the challenge back in his eyes, meeting Manny’s predatory stare. "Show me who owns me." He pushed his hips up slightly, inviting.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Manny’s face. He leaned down, his breath hot on Ahmed’s ear. "Time to remind you, habibi," he murmured, the endearment laced with dark promise. "Where you belong." His free hand reached behind Ahmed, rummaging near the futon’s edge. Ahmed knew what he was grabbing before he saw it. The faint, clean smell of new fabric briefly cut through the damp air.
Manny pulled back, holding the black bundle. The abaya. He unfolded it slowly, letting the lightweight black fabric pool onto Ahmed’s stomach. The embroidered edge of the hijab peeked out. Manny’s eyes, dark and intense, locked onto Ahmed’s. "Put it on," he commanded, his voice devoid of any warmth now, pure dominance. "Show Daddy his good little Muslimah."
Ahmed’s pulse hammered against his ribs. The air grew thick, charged with the electricity of the shift. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the towel falling away. He didn’t break eye contact with Manny as he reached for the abaya. The smooth fabric whispered as he pulled it over his head, settling around his bare skin. He picked up the hijab, his fingers trembling only slightly this time as he draped it over his head, securing it clumsily, tucking his damp hair away. He sat back, transformed again: the slender form swallowed by the modest black drape, only his flushed face and wide, expressive eyes visible above the veil. The contrast, here in their messy dorm, was stark, obscene, and utterly compelling.
Manny stared, his gaze ravenous, tracing the outline of Ahmed’s body beneath the loose fabric. He reached out, rough fingertips grazing the delicate embroidery near Ahmed’s collarbone. "Perfect," he breathed, a possessive reverence in his voice. He slid his hand down, grasping the front of the abaya, bunching the fabric. "My desert flower." He leaned closer, his eyes burning into Ahmed’s. "But flowers need watering, don't they?" His other hand pushed roughly between Ahmed’s thighs, seeking the heat beneath the abaya. "Time to get you dirty again, sand nigger."
The slur, spoken with such deliberate, claiming cruelty, slammed into Ahmed with the force of a physical blow. It wasn't playacting anymore. It was weaponized, distilled, echoing the frat boy’s sneer but amplified a thousandfold by the man who had just vowed to protect him. It ignited a brutal mix of shame, arousal, and a terrifying sense of exposure. He gasped, his body arching involuntarily as Manny’s fingers found his hardening cock beneath the fabric. "Manny…"
"Shhh," Manny hissed, his grip tightening painfully on the abaya fabric at Ahmed’s chest. His other hand stroked Ahmed roughly. "You wanted reminding. You belong on your knees. Serving." He shoved Ahmed backwards onto the futon. "Worship. Like the good little Muslim girl you are for Daddy." His hand withdrew from beneath the abaya. "On your knees. Now." He stood up, looming over the futon, his own arousal visibly tenting his briefs. "Show me how much you love the taste of your conqueror."
The command hung, heavy and suffocating. Ahmed scrambled, the abaya tangling around his legs as he slid off the futon onto the worn wool carpet. The scratchy fibers bit into his knees. He looked up at Manny, the hijab framing his face, his eyes wide, pupils blown with a complex cocktail of fear and desperate need. Manny hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and shoved them down, freeing his thick, already flushed cock. It stood rigid, demanding.
"Open," Manny commanded, tapping the swollen head against Ahmed’s lips, leaving a slick smear of precum. "Wider, sand nigger bitch. Take your Filipino Daddy deep." He gripped a handful of the hijab fabric near Ahmed’s temple, not gently, anchoring him. "Suck it like you mean it. Show me you know your place." The head pushed insistently past Ahmed's lips, stretching them wide. The familiar, musky taste flooded his mouth as Manny began to feed him the thick length, inch by degrading inch.