NOVEL WEB Chapter 20: Chapter 20: "Mutant King and Regal Storm" (Revised)
The safehouse's battered steel sank into a cold stillness, Natasha's venomous sting a fading echo as he spun the Mask in his hand, its grin glinting under a flickering bulb's last gasp. Her voice—"I'll bite you again"—sliced like a hidden shiv as he slid it on, green light erupting, the zoot suit snapping into place with a reckless swagger. "Time to bend the metal king," he murmured, stepping through warped wreckage to the open night.
A groan rumbled through the air—magnetic, heavy, shaking the city's bones. Steel tore skyward, and Magneto rose, crimson cape whipping like a bloodied flag, helmet a stark gleam under fractured streetlights. Beams twisted free—lampposts, cars, girders—swirling into a lethal tempest around him. "Your chaos profanes mutantkind," he thundered, voice a resonant quake, flinging a beam that shattered the pavement into dust where he'd stood.
The Mask's rasp sliced through his mind, wild and eager: "Metal man's back, kid. Drown him out." "Magneto, encore?" he grinned, stretching an arm to weave through the steel's arc, asphalt fracturing beneath. "Masquerade—chaos bends for no one!" The charisma surged, a rogue spark, but Magneto's glare stayed unyielding, his fist clenching—metal spears screamed through the air in a deadly dance. He bent fluidly, unleashing a vortex of green chaos that warped the barrage, bending it back—steel clashed against steel, sparks raining like molten ash.
Magneto swept a hand, cars rising in a crushing arc—he twisted high, a pulse of shimmering tendrils lashing them aside, smashing them into a wall with a bone-rattling crunch. The street quaked, the magnetic storm tightening—then water erupted, a tidal surge bursting from a sewer grate. Namor emerged, black cape dripping, trident agleam with cold purpose, his regal bearing cutting through the fray. "Your chaos roils the seas," he said, voice a deep swell, syncing with his green haze in a briny jolt.
The Mask purred, low and ravenous: "Sea king's here, kid. Pull him under." "Namor?" he laughed, dodging a girder's hum, the air singing with magnetic force. "Ocean lord with the crown? I'm Masquerade—chaos rules the deep!" The trident flared, brushing his tendrils, caught in the pull—a flicker of intrigue softened Namor's stern jaw. "You're… tidal," he murmured, his disdain bending under wild resonance. Magneto bellowed, "Silence this fool!" but he seized Namor's wrist, stretching them through a wall into a flooded basement as steel roared behind.
The basement was a sunken crypt—water lapped at rusted pipes, dim light seeping through a cracked ceiling, the city's pulse a faint thud beyond. Namor slammed him against a dripping wall, his strength a tidal hammer, tearing his suit with hands that streamed saltwater. "You're a maelstrom," he growled, but his lips met his, a fierce crash of salt and sovereignty, the sea's fury surging through. His shirt shredded under Namor's grip, and he tugged the black cape down—fabric peeled away, baring tanned skin kissed by ocean brine, Namor's breath a sharp hiss as his hands traced him—over corded muscle, sinking into his stormy heat, fingers clawing at his regal core.
"Maelstroms reign," he growled, lifting Namor with a surge. His legs locked around him, thighs rippling with Atlantean might, and they crashed onto a submerged crate—water splashed, metal buckling beneath them. The cape fell fully, skin gleaming in the wet gloom, and he stripped him bare—salt traced his form, a sheen of oceanic power. His mouth roamed—neck, chest, the pulse where sea met flesh—drawing a moan, deep and rolling, laced with the tide's roar. When he entered—slow, then fierce—Namor's cry was a wave's crest, water swirling in a violent dance around them.
The Mask blazed, amplifying every jolt—the briny sear of his core, the tremor of his gasps, the grinding rhythm as Namor met him, relentless and sovereign. The basement twisted—pipes warping, water surging—as Namor rode him, wings fluttering faintly, eyes glowing with regal want. His climax crashed like a tempest, waves slamming the walls, shaking the foundation, and he spilled into him, a torrent that made the Mask howl, green sparks threading through his saltwater sheen. A seed took root, chaos and ocean fused, and they slumped, slick with sweat and brine, Namor's weight atop him a stormy, heaving anchor.
Namor's smirk gleamed as his breath steadied, a faint ripple of warmth in his gaze. "You're a tide, Masquerade—too wild to chain." "Tides need a storm," he grinned, the salt STILL stinging his skin. Namor rose, cape reforming in a shimmer of seawater, his glance a blend of challenge and hunger. "I'll rise with you again." He swam through a grate, a shadow in the flood, leaving him with the Mask, its voice a smug hum: "Twenty down, kid. The currents are shifting."