NOVEL WEB Chapter 17: Chapter 17: "Stark’s Ally and Arctic Chill" (Revised)
The loft's smoldering ruin faded into a charred hush, Jean's fiery pulse a fading ember as he spun the Mask in his hand, its grin glinting under cracked glass. Her voice—"I'll burn with you again"—simmered like a live coal as he slid it on, green light exploding, the zoot suit snapping into place with a reckless swagger. "Time to ice the brainiacs," he murmured, kicking aside blackened debris toward the window.
A sharp whine sliced the night—mechanical, precise, cutting through the city's drone. Iron Man streaked down, thrusters scorching asphalt as Tony Stark landed, his suit a gleam of red and gold. "Round two, chaos gremlin," Tony's voice snapped through the helmet, edged with bite. "Reed's got a fetish for your reality-twisting mess—Sue's data's our map. You're toast." Reed Richards uncoiled from a sleek Fantasticar, limbs stretching as scanners hummed, Johnny's flames flickering, Ben a stony wall in their wake.
The Mask's rasp cut through his mind, wild and eager: "Tin man's back, kid. Freeze him solid." "Stark, redux?" he grinned, stretching an arm to twist a streetlight into a jagged coil, sparks spitting. "Masquerade—chaos doesn't punch out!" The charisma surged, a rogue jolt, but Tony's HUD chirped, unbothered, and Reed's voice slid in, cool and clipped: "Your energy's a wildfire—unstable, volatile. We've rigged a cryogenic net to douse it."
Tony unleashed repulsors—blue lances searing the air—and he bent fluidly, conjuring a vortex of green chaos that shredded the beams, scattering them in a hiss of sparks. Reed's Fantasticar wobbled, his elastic grip steadying it, while Johnny flared up—he countered with a pulse of shimmering tendrils, snuffing the flames in a crackling snap. Ben lunged, a rocky fist whistling—he twisted thin, chaos lashing out to send the Thing crashing into a storefront, glass shattering in a jagged roar. "Douse this!" he laughed, the street pulsing beneath their clash.
Frost shimmered through the heat—Iceman slid in, a streak of white trailing ice, Bobby Drake's grin sharp as he froze the pavement into a slick sheen. "X-Men sent me to chill this circus," he said, frost brushing his green haze in a crisp, electric snap. The Mask purred, low and ravenous: "Cold snap's here, kid. Reel him in."
"Bobby Drake?" he laughed, dodging Tony's next beam, asphalt buckling under the miss. "Iceman with the frost? I'm Masquerade—chaos runs hot!" Ice flared, syncing with his tendrils, caught in the pull—Bobby's grin widened. "You're unhinged," he said, sliding closer, "but damn if you ain't cool." Tony barked, "Bobby, don't bite the bait!" but Reed triggered a device—cryo-fields snapping tight, a cage of frost—he seized Bobby's wrist, stretching them through a wall into a freezer unit as the net sealed empty air.
The freezer was a cavern of frost, crates stacked like tombstones, the city's hum a muted thud beyond iced walls. Bobby slammed him against a slab, his grip a biting chill, tearing his suit with hands that gleamed with frost. "You're a nutcase," he growled, but his lips met his, a sharp rush of snow and defiance, ice prickling the air. His shirt shredded under Bobby's touch, and he tugged the white suit down—fabric peeled away, baring pale skin traced with fleeting frost, Bobby's breath a shiver as his hands roamed—over taut muscle, sinking into his chilled core, fingers clawing at the icy edge.
"Nutcases heat up," he growled, lifting Bobby with a surge. His legs locked around him, thighs rippling with X-Men grit, and they crashed onto a crate—ice splintered beneath them, frost dusting the air. Bobby shed his suit, frost melting into steam under their heat, and he stripped him bare—ice shimmered along his form, a fleeting veil. His mouth traced Bobby—neck, chest, the pulse where frost kissed flesh—drawing a moan, crisp and deep, laced with a frozen echo. When he entered—slow, then fierce—Bobby's cry was a gust of frost, icing the ceiling in jagged spikes.
The Mask blazed, amplifying every jolt—the frigid sear of his core, the tremor of his gasps, the grinding rhythm as Bobby met him, relentless and sharp. The freezer twisted—crates cracking, walls frosting over—as Bobby surged atop him, hair wild, eyes glowing blue with icy want. His climax struck like a blizzard, frost erupting, shattering a crate into shards, and he spilled into him, a flood that made the Mask howl, green sparks threading through his chill. A seed took root, chaos and ice fused, and they slumped, slick with sweat, Bobby's weight a frozen, heaving anchor.
Bobby's grin flickered as frost crept back, half-cloaking him. "You're a storm, Masquerade—too wild to ice over." "Storms need a freeze," he grinned, the chill still biting his skin. Bobby rose, suit reforming in a shimmer of frost, his glance a mix of mischief and want. "I'll cool you down again." He slid through a wall, leaving him with the Mask, its voice a smug hum: "Seventeen down, kid. The heat's cracking."