Chapter 7: Costume Conquest
The laughter still echoed in Ahmed’s chest, a fizzy counterpoint to the frantic thudding of his heart. Manny’s thumb was a brand on his lip, the playful spark in his eyes hardening into something molten. The joint hung forgotten between them, a thin wisp of smoke curling towards the lazy ceiling fan. Ahmed swallowed, the sound loud in the sudden silence, the warm buzz from the weed now a low hum beneath a rising tide of pure, electric need. Manny’s gaze didn’t waver. He traced the curve of Ahmed’s lower lip once more, slowly, deliberately, before pulling his hand back.
"Costumes," Manny stated, his voice rough. It wasn’t a question. He pushed himself up from the rug, his movements fluid, purposeful. He scooped up the cheap Black Panther suit from the bong-water-stained couch, tossing it towards Ahmed. The plastic packaging crinkled loudly as it landed in his lap. "Put it on." The command was soft, but it brooked no argument. He grabbed his own Killmonger ensemble – a vest, some faux tactical pants, a beaded necklace they’d found at a thrift shop, and the crowning piece: a menacing, angular black mask.
Ahmed stared at the bundle of shimmering black and silver spandex. The absurdity of it warred violently with the heat pooling low in his gut. The memory of Manny’s promise in the comic store – bend you over the couch – slammed back into him full force. His fingers felt thick and clumsy as he tore at the plastic. He could feel Manny’s eyes on him, watching, as he kicked off his shoes and jeans, standing there in just his t-shirt and boxers. The room suddenly felt too warm, too small.
He stepped into the suit, the material shockingly cool and slick against his skin. It clung instantly, vacuum-sealing itself to every contour. Ahmed sucked in a breath, wrestling the fabric up over his hips. It was tighter than he’d imagined, constricting across his chest and shoulders. He struggled with the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling behind him, his breath coming in shallow gasps. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
A low chuckle came from behind him. Manny. Ahmed froze. He hadn’t heard him move. Cool fingertips brushed his own, taking the zipper pull from his clumsy grasp. Manny tugged it up smoothly, the teeth rasping against each other, the zipper head scraping against Ahmed’s spine. The suit cinched tight, leaving Ahmed feeling trussed, exposed. Manny’s knuckles brushed the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. "Told you it'd look good," Manny murmured, his breath warm against Ahmed's ear. The approval, laced with possession, made Ahmed shiver.
Ahmed turned. Manny stood there, transformed. The makeshift Killmonger gear somehow worked. The vest hugged his torso, the tactical pants emphasized the lean lines of his legs. But it was the mask that changed everything. Dark, angular, covering his entire face except for his mouth and jaw, it erased Manny’s familiar, laughing features. What remained was a hard, predatory line, the glint of eyes unseen behind the slits making Ahmed’s breath catch. This wasn't his roommate anymore. This was something dangerous.
"Mask," the masked figure commanded, holding out Ahmed’s own Panther cowl. Ahmed’s hands trembled slightly as he took it. The molded plastic felt cold and alien. He pulled it over his head. The world narrowed instantly, vision tunnelling through the eyeholes. The cheap material muffled sound, amplified his own breathing – harsh and ragged inside the confined space. The scent of new plastic filled his nostrils, sharp and chemical. He felt disembodied, anonymous. Only Manny’s masked presence anchored him, a dark, imposing shape radiating heat and intent.
They stood facing each other, heroes and villains rendered in cheap polyester and plastic, the dorm room’s clutter – the half-eaten pizza box, the game controllers, the Star Wars rolling tray – absurdly mundane against the sudden, charged tableau. The playful tension from earlier, the shared laughter, evaporated like smoke. Something primal crackled in the air, thick and suffocating.
Manny moved first. Not a rush, but a deliberate, predatory stalk. One step. Then another. Closing the small space between them. Ahmed instinctively backed up, his shoulder blades hitting the cool plaster of the wall beside their door. Trapped. The Panther mask felt suddenly stifling, the plastic pressing against his lips.
Manny’s masked face tilted, studying him. He lifted a hand, gloved in black fingerless tactical gloves (another thrift store find), and ran a slow, appreciative knuckle down the center of Ahmed’s chest, over the vibranium pattern. The touch burned through the thin spandex. "Nice suit," the distorted voice growled from behind the mask, deeper, unfamiliar. It sent a jolt straight to Ahmed's core.
Then, with startling speed, Manny slammed his forearm across Ahmed’s chest, pinning him hard against the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of him. Ahmed gasped, the sound hollow and panicked inside his mask. Manny leaned in, his masked face inches from Ahmed’s. Ahmed could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of his sweat beneath the plasticky odor of the mask.
"This vibranium," Manny’s masked voice was a low, guttural rasp, dripping with possessive menace. His other hand shot down, fingers splaying possessively, brutally, over the spandex clinging to Ahmed’s groin. Ahmed cried out, a muffled sound, arching against the wall, pinned between the unyielding plaster and the iron bar of Manny’s arm. Manny squeezed, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to dominate, to claim. His masked face pressed closer, the hard plastic cold against Ahmed’s cheek guard. "This vibranium belongs to Wakanda..."
His hand tightened fractionally on Ahmed’s trapped cock, making him whimper. Manny’s distorted voice dropped to a dark, intimate whisper that vibrated through the plastic, through Ahmed’s bones.
"...but your ass belongs to me." The final word was a snarl, laced with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty.
The crude possessiveness, the sudden violence of the pin, the anonymity of the masks, the sheer force of Manny’s assertion – it detonated inside Ahmed. Shame, fear, and a raw, desperate hunger collided. He was frozen, pinned, utterly exposed in the ridiculous, constricting suit. The only sound he could make was a choked gasp trapped inside the Panther cowl. His body, however, betrayed him entirely. He hardened instantly, painfully, under Manny’s gloved hand, the spandex straining. A tremor raced through him, a surrender Manny could undoubtedly feel beneath his grip. The line between roleplay and reality dissolved in the heat and pressure against the wall. The promise from the comic store wasn't just spoken now; it was embodied, terrifying, and all-consuming. The only thought screaming in Ahmed’s mind was the word Manny had demanded before, the word that had slipped out in the throes of passion and dissolved into shared laughter. It clawed its way back up his throat, desperate to be voiced into the suffocating darkness behind his mask.
The word, thick and forbidden, stuck behind Ahmed's clenched teeth. It vibrated against the plastic of the Panther cowl, trapped by fear and a terrifying surge of want. Manny’s gloved hand remained firm on his groin, a claim staked through spandex, the pressure sending electric jolts up Ahmed’s spine. He couldn’t see Manny’s eyes behind the Killmonger mask, only the hard line of his jaw and the faint gleam reflecting in the eye slits, watching, waiting.
"Say it," Manny growled, the voice distorted, deeper than his own, brushing against the mask near Ahmed's earhole. His forearm pressed harder against Ahmed’s chest, pinning him like a butterfly. The scent of the cheap plastic mask mixed with the faint, familiar musk of Manny’s sweat beneath the Killmonger gear. Ahmed’s entire body trembled, caught between the unyielding wall and the solid heat of his roommate, transformed. That word – the one that slipped out last time, dissolving into giggles – burned on his tongue.
It escaped as a ragged whisper, muffled but unmistakable inside the helmet. "Master." The admission scraped his throat raw. Shame flushed hot beneath the suit, warring with the sharp spike of arousal that made him pulse against Manny’s grip. He felt exposed, ridiculous in the superhero costume, yet utterly consumed by the role.
Manny’s free hand shot up, fingers tangling roughly in the molded plastic ridges atop the Panther helmet. A jolt of panic mingled with excitement. "Louder," he demanded, his distorted voice dropping to a dangerous purr. His thumb brushed the vulnerable spot beneath Ahmed’s jaw, exposed by the costume’s neckline. The contrast of the textured glove on his skin sent shivers across Ahmed's shoulders. "Let the King hear who owns him."
"Master!" Ahmed gasped, the word tearing free, louder this time, echoing slightly in the confined space of his cowl. The surrender unlocked something primal in his chest, a dizzying mixture of relief and terrifying vulnerability. He went limp against the wall, yielding completely to the pressure pinning him. The scent of old pizza and stale bong water from the coffee table seemed absurdly distant.
Manny released his grip on Ahmed’s groin. Before Ahmed could register the loss of pressure, that hand clamped onto his hip, spinning him roughly to face the wall. Cold plaster pressed against the front of his mask. Manny’s body slammed against his back, solid and unyielding, trapping Ahmed completely. The Killmonger mask scraped against the side of the Panther helmet. "That’s my good little king," Manny rasped, the distorted approval sending another wave of heat through Ahmed’s core.
Manny’s gloved hand fisted in the back of Ahmed’s suit, right at the base of the zipper. The sound of the zipper teeth rasping open was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Cool air rushed against Ahmed’s sweat-slicked back as the suit parted. Manny’s bare fingers, startlingly warm, traced the newly exposed skin along Ahmed’s spine, a shocking intimacy beneath the violent posture. Ahmed shuddered, a low moan escaping him, muffled against the wall. The rigid plastic of his mask dug into his cheekbone.
"Remember the comic store?" Manny breathed, his lips close to Ahmed's exposed neck. His other hand snaked around Ahmed's waist, fingers splaying possessively low on his stomach, just above the waistband of his boxers still hidden by the partially opened suit. The memory of Manny’s whispered threat – bend you over the couch – slammed back, visceral and immediate. "Told you what I'd do." His hand pressed down, guiding Ahmed's hips backward, grinding his own hardness against Ahmed’s ass through the layers of fabric. The friction was maddening.
Ahmed’s breath hitched. He pushed back instinctively, seeking more of that pressure, the ridiculous costume hindering the contact he craved. A desperate sound, half-protest, half-plea, vibrated in his throat. The world narrowed to the press of Manny’s body, the scrape of the mask, the scent of latex and sweat, the dizzying blend of fear and desire. He felt Manny shift, his grip tightening.
Suddenly, the Panther helmet was wrenched off his head. Cool air hit Ahmed’s sweaty hair and face. He blinked, momentarily disoriented in the dim dorm light. Before he could turn, Manny spun him back around, his own Killmonger mask now discarded, tossed carelessly onto the pile of comics near the couch. Manny’s familiar face was flushed, his dark eyes blazing with an intensity Ahmed had never seen, stripped of the mask’s artifice yet radiating the same fierce possession. It was Manny, but charged, dangerous.
Manny didn’t speak. He cupped the back of Ahmed’s neck, fingers tangling in his dark hair, and pulled him into a crushing kiss. It was nothing like their previous hesitant explorations. This was claiming, demanding, his lips hard against Ahmed’s, his tongue pushing past resistance. Ahmed melted into it, his own hands coming up to clutch at the faux tactical vest, the cheap beads of the Killmonger necklace digging into his palms. The taste of Manny, familiar yet charged with this new energy, was intoxicating.
Manny broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against Ahmed’s. A shaky, almost disbelieving laugh escaped Ahmed, the absurdity of their setting – the discarded pizza box, the paused video game on the TV screen – crashing back in for a second. Manny’s lips quirked in a faint, predatory smile. He tugged Ahmed closer, his voice rough, stripped of the distortion, yet thick with intent. "Couch. Now." His gaze flickered down Ahmed’s body, to the open suit revealing his t-shirt. "Lose the rest."
The command hung in the stale dorm air, thick with the scent of old weed and cheap plastic from the discarded masks. Manny’s eyes, dark and demanding, didn’t waver from Ahmed’s face. That familiar spark was gone, replaced by a heat that felt like a physical touch. Ahmed’s fingers, clumsy with lingering adrenaline and the fading buzz from the joint, fumbled at the zipper of the Black Panther suit, already gaping open down his back. The cool air kissed his exposed spine.
He pushed the spandex off his shoulders, letting it slither down his arms. It caught at his elbows. A grunt escaped him as he wrestled it lower, past his hips, the tight material clinging stubbornly before pooling around his ankles on the worn carpet. He stood there, suddenly shivering in just his thin white t-shirt and grey boxer briefs, the ridiculousness of the superhero costume replaced by a stark vulnerability. Manny’s gaze raked over him, intense, appreciative, making Ahmed’s skin prickle.
"All of it," Manny said, his voice low and rough, stripped of the Killmonger growl but no less commanding. He leaned back against the edge of their cluttered desk, crossing his arms. The cheap beaded necklace clicked softly. The pause stretched, charged with tension. Ahmed swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs.
He pushed them down in one swift motion, stepping out of the fabric puddled around his sneakers. Now utterly bare except for the t-shirt hem brushing the tops of his thighs, he felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness war with the thrill humming under his skin. The dorm felt cavernous suddenly, the glow from the paused video game on the TV casting long, distorted shadows. Manny’s breath hitched, just slightly, the only sign he gave.
Ahmed took a deliberate step back, putting a sliver of space between them. He turned, presenting his back to Manny. The cool air ghosted over his exposed skin. He could feel Manny’s gaze like a brand between his shoulder blades, tracking down his spine. Ahmed braced one hand against the arm of the worn couch they’d found curbside last semester. He bent forward slightly at the waist.
Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he twerked.
It was a small, almost tentative motion at first, a subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth skin. A bounce. Then another, gaining a fraction more confidence, more sway. The curve of his ass flexed, presented, a blatant, challenging tease. He glanced back over his shoulder, catching the stunned hunger flaring in Manny’s eyes. "Like what you see, roomie?" Ahmed murmured, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips, his own daring surprising him. He pushed his ass back again, a sharper, more pronounced jiggle this time, the movement fluid and undeniably provocative in the dim light. The cheap beads on Manny's makeshift costume rattled, a sharp, sudden sound. Manny pushed himself off the desk, a low growl vibrating in his chest. "Fuck, Ahmed."
The crack was sharp, sudden, stinging heat blooming across Ahmed's left cheek. He gasped, the sound punched out of him, his hips jerking forward instinctively. Manny’s palm landed again, harder this time, on the right side, a mirror image of fire. "Fuck!" Ahmed yelped, the playful defiance evaporating instantly, replaced by a jolt of pure, electric sensation. The sting radiated outwards, warming his skin even as he pushed back against it, craving more.
"You asked for it, showing off like that," Manny growled, his voice thick, rough. He didn’t pause. His hand came down again, a solid, rhythmic smack that echoed slightly in the cluttered room. Smack. On the crest. Smack. Lower, where thigh met curve. Ahmed's breath hitched with each impact, a ragged rhythm counterpoint to the slaps. He braced harder against the worn couch arm, knuckles white, his ass presented, offered, the skin flushing a warm pink under Manny’s attention. The lingering scent of their discarded costumes mixed with sweat and the faint, ever-present aroma of stale pizza.
Manny’s breathing was harsh behind him. The rhythmic spanking stopped abruptly. Ahmed felt the shift, the air thickening. Then, the overwhelming pressure of Manny’s body pressing flush against his back. Rough fabric – the faux tactical pants – scraped against Ahmed’s bare thighs. Manny’s hands clamped onto Ahmed’s hips, fingers digging in, leveraging him back firmly. Ahmed felt it then, hard and urgent, the thick ridge of Manny's cock grinding deliberately against the cleft of his ass, even through the layers of clothing. "Told you," Manny breathed hotly against the shell of Ahmed’s ear, his hips rocking forward, creating a slow, maddening friction. "Your ass. Mine."
Ahmed moaned, low and desperate, the sound muffled by the couch fabric near his face. He pushed back instinctively, meeting the pressure, arching his spine to offer himself more fully. The heat from the spanking intensified under the insistent grind. Manny’s grip tightened, his movements becoming more possessive, more demanding. He rutted against Ahmed, the rough texture of his pants a stark contrast to the sensitive, warmed skin beneath. The PlayStation’s idle hum on the TV seemed impossibly distant, drowned out by the sound of their ragged breathing and the slick, rhythmic slide of fabric against skin. Manny’s groan vibrated against Ahmed’s back, deep and guttural, a possessive counterpoint to Ahmed’s own choked whimpers. The makeshift Killmonger beads clicked softly against Ahmed’s t-shirt as Manny moved.
The makeshift Killmonger beads clicked softly against Ahmed’s t-shirt as Manny moved. Then, without warning, Manny’s hands clamped down hard on Ahmed's hips. Fingers dug into the bony crests above his ass, possessive and unyielding. The sudden grip, so much more deliberate than the playful grind, stole Ahmed’s breath.
"Still think this is a game?" Manny growled, his voice thick against the damp skin of Ahmed’s neck. He used the leverage of his hold to pull Ahmed’s ass back tighter against the urgent ridge of his own clothed cock. The rough fabric scraped Ahmed’s sensitized skin. "Think you can just tease and bounce and not pay?"
Ahmed gasped, pushing back instinctively against the pressure. "Manny—" The name came out strangled. He couldn’t see Manny’s face, pressed forward as he was, cheek against the scratchy couch arm. His knuckles were white where they gripped the upholstery. The sharp scent of their sweat mingled with the lingering smell of weed and cheap plastic from the discarded masks.
Manny’s thumbs pressed inward, finding the divots at the base of Ahmed’s spine. He dragged him back another fraction of an inch, aligning their bodies perfectly. "Told you at the shop," he murmured, the words hot and damp on Ahmed's ear. "Told you what happens when we got home." His right hand slid from Ahmed’s hip, fingers tracing a deliberate path down the curve of his flushed ass, skimming the tender, pinked skin from the spanking. The touch was light, almost teasing, after the violence of the slaps. "This is mine now."
Ahmed shuddered, a full-body ripple that started where Manny touched and traveled deep. He felt pinned, claimed, utterly exposed in his thin t-shirt with nothing beneath. The reality of it slammed into him, past the haze of weed and adrenaline. His roommate’s hands were on him like this. Making demands. "Y-yours," Ahmed breathed, the word barely audible. It wasn’t playful like ‘master’ under the mask. This felt terrifyingly real.
Manny’s exploring fingers didn’t stop. They dipped lower, tracing the crease where thigh met ass, the touch sending jolts of anticipation straight to Ahmed’s cock, which strained achingly hard against the couch arm. "Say it like you mean it," Manny commanded, his own breathing ragged. His left hand remained fixed on Ahmed’s hip, holding him steady, grounding him in the submission. "Tell me who owns this ass." His fingertip pressed, insistent, against Ahmed’s entrance, a promise through the thin cotton of his boxers still tangled around his ankles. The bead necklace brushed Ahmed's skin again, cool metal against the heat.
Ahmed squeezed his eyes shut. The comic store promise echoed – bend you over the couch. The sharp sting of the spanking hummed beneath his skin. The pressure of Manny’s cock against him, the demanding grip on his hip. "It's yours, Manny," he gasped, the name itself feeling loaded. "My ass... it's yours." The admission hung in the air, thick and heavy.
A low groan rumbled from Manny’s chest, vibrating against Ahmed’s back. "Damn right it is." That insistent finger pressed harder, more deliberate. Manny’s hips rocked forward, grinding himself against Ahmed with renewed force, the friction maddening through layers of fabric. His hand on Ahmed’s hip tightened like a vise, pulling him impossibly closer. "Gonna make you feel it." The beads clicked one final time before his hand moved again.