Masquerade of Marvel: Chaos Reborn

The flooded basement's briny churn faded into a dripping hush, Namor's tidal roar a fading swell as he spun the Mask in his hand, its grin glinting off rusted pipes slick with seawater. The Sub-Mariner's growl—"I'll rise with you again"—rolled like an undertow as he slid it on, green light erupting, the zoot suit snapping into place with a reckless swagger. "Time to ride the mutant tempest," he murmured, wading through swirling water to a cracked stairwell.

Thunder shattered the night—sharp, electric, trembling the city's frame. Storm descended from a sky bruised with clouds, white hair a stark flag against the dark, eyes blazing with lightning's fury. "Your chaos sunders us," she thundered, wind slamming him back, water surging around his boots in a cold lash. Jean Grey flared beside her, Phoenix reborn, flames licking the air—her voice a cosmic hiss: "It sears through our bonds." Psylocke shimmered in, blade aglow with violet menace, and Rogue dropped down, gloves shed, white streak cutting through her hair—her drawl a charged snarl: "Sugah, you're rippin' us apart—again."

The Mask's rasp sliced through his mind, wild and gleeful: "Mutant crew's back, kid. Spark 'em up." "Round three, darlin's?" he grinned, stretching an arm to weave through a lightning bolt, the air hissing where it scorched. "Masquerade—chaos bows to no one!" The charisma surged, a rogue flare, but Storm's wind tightened, Jean's fire flared, and Rogue's fists balled. "You fracture our kin," Storm said, unleashing a gale that splintered a wall—he countered with a vortex of green chaos, a shimmering wave hurling it skyward. Jean's telekinesis gripped debris—he twisted high, tendrils lashing it back, crashing it into the street with a jagged thud.

Psylocke struck, psychic blade a violet streak—he bent like ink, a chaos shard sparking against hers in a jagged flare. Rogue lunged, bare hands outstretched—her touch grazed him, a faint pull syncing with his green haze, reigniting their old current in a shiver of static. The Mask purred, low and ravenous: "She's untouchable thunder, kid. Pull her close." "Rogue, back for more?" he laughed, dodging Jean's flame, water steaming beneath. "Southern lightning with the charge? I'm Masquerade—chaos runs hot!" Her power flared, weaving with his tendrils, caught in the pull—a flicker of want softened her glare. "You're… relentless," she murmured, her drawl bending under memory's weight.

Storm bellowed, "Finish him!" but Rogue seized his arm, stretching them through a wall into a damp cellar as thunder roared behind. The cellar was a shadowed sump—mold clung to walls, water pooled in shallow dips, the storm's growl a muted pulse beyond. Rogue slammed him onto a crate, her strength a live wire, tearing his suit with ungloved hands that crackled with untapped power. "You're a damn cyclone," she growled, but her lips met his, a sharp jolt of ozone and defiance, her charge surging through the kiss. His shirt shredded under her grip, and he tugged her suit down—green fabric peeled away, baring pale skin kissed by a white streak, her breath a hiss as his hands traced her—over taut curves, sinking into her electric heat, fingers clawing at her charged core.

"Cyclones spark," he growled, lifting her with a surge. Her legs locked around him, thighs pulsing with mutant grit, and they crashed onto the crate—wood splintered, water splashing beneath them. Her suit fell fully, skin gleaming in the damp gloom, and he stripped her bare—faint static danced along her form, untouchable yet alive. His mouth roamed—neck, chest, the seam where power met flesh—drawing a moan, low and ragged, laced with a current's hum. When he entered—slow, then fierce—her cry snapped like a thunderclap, sparks flaring harmlessly across the walls.

The Mask blazed, amplifying every jolt—the electric sear of her core, the tremor of her gasps, the grinding rhythm as she met him, raw and unyielding. The cellar twisted—walls cracking, water sizzling—as she rode him, hair a wild tangle, eyes glowing green with untamed want. Her climax struck like a lightning bolt, energy surging, shattering the crate into splinters, and he spilled into her, a torrent that made the Mask howl, green sparks threading through her electric sheen. A seed deepened, chaos and untouchable power fused anew, and they slumped, slick with sweat, her weight atop him a humming, charged anchor.

Rogue's smirk flickered as her breath steadied, a faint gleam in her eye. "You're a thunderbolt, Masquerade—too wild to tame." "Thunder needs a charge," he grinned, her static still prickling his skin. She rose, suit snapping back with a crackle, her glance a mix of defiance and yearning. "I'll shock you again." She slipped through a wall, a shadow in the damp, leaving him with the Mask, its voice a smug hum: "Twenty-one down, kid. The storm's breaking."

He rose, the cellar a ruin of cracked wood and steaming puddles, Storm's thunder a fading growl. Rogue's lightning, Namor's storm, Natasha's sting, Mantis' grace, Bobby's frost, Jean's fire, Venom's bite, Pepper's spark, Nebula's steel, Psylocke's edge, Kitty's phase, Emma's mind, Sue's shield, Gamora's blade, Carol's radiance, Mystique's fluidity, Storm's storm, Wanda's magic—the world buckled under his chaos. Thanos loomed, SHIELD hunted, and the X-Men tightened their net. He slid the Mask back on, grin sharp as a live wire. "Time to light the fray."