NOVEL WEB Chapter 7: Chapter 7: "Touch of Chaos"
Jake Carter—Masquerade—leaned against the scorched wall of the derelict penthouse, the city skyline glinting through shattered windows, Carol Danvers' cosmic glow still fading from his senses. Her parting words—"SHIELD won't stop. Neither will I"—echoed in his ears, her radiant touch burning on his skin from their supernova clash. The Mask pulsed in his hand, its grin slick with dust and smugness, its voice a gleeful rasp: "Six queens in your crown, kid—Natasha, Wanda, Jean, Ororo, Raven, Carol. Each one's carrying your chaos now. Ready to grab a wild card?"
Jake's mind reeled, a storm of thrill and weight. Six women—six nights of unchecked passion—and the Mask's talk of "carrying" wasn't subtle anymore. He was planting chaos across the 616, a lineage of power that could shatter this universe's fragile balance. He slapped the Mask on, green light flaring as his zoot suit spun into place, and grinned despite the growing storm in his gut. "Guess I'm the green reaper of Marvel," he muttered, stepping over broken glass into the night. The penthouse's silence broke with a faint rustle—too quiet, too deliberate—and then a voice, Southern and sharp, cut through: "Sugah, you're makin' a mess I can't ignore."
A figure emerged from the shadows, green-and-yellow uniform clinging to a curvy frame, white-streaked hair framing a face both fierce and wary. Rogue, Anna Marie, hovered just off the ground, gloves flexing as she eyed him. "X-Men sent me to track you," she said, accent thick with Mississippi grit. "Storm's rattled, Jean's burnin', Mystique's schemin'—and you're the green thread tyin' it all together. What's your game, chaos boy?"
Jake's jaw dropped, the Mask cackling: "Oh, she's a firecracker, kid. Power-stealing chaos—perfect twist. Touch her." "Rogue?" he blurted, voice a mix of awe and hunger. "Touch-me-not queen? Name's Masquerade, chaos incarnate. Just jazzing up this 616 circus—saved Black Widow, danced with Wanda, burned with Jean, stormed with Ororo, twisted with Mystique, sparked with Carol. You here to fight or flirt?" The Mask's charisma pulsed, and Rogue's eyes widened, a flush creeping up her neck despite her guarded stance.
"I felt your energy messin' with the team," she said, stepping closer, boots clicking on rubble. "It's wild—untouchable, like me, but alive. Who are you?" Her power brushed his chaos—absorption tingling against green tendrils—and Jake felt the Mask push back, amplifying his pull. "Just a guy with a crazy face," he grinned, stretching an arm cartoonishly long to snag a rafter, swinging up for flair. "Wanna feel it?" He conjured a cartoon glove, tossing it her way—it hovered, daring her to touch.
Rogue's lips twitched, caught by his bravado. "You're trouble," she said, gloved hands clenching, "but I ain't scared of trouble." She flew up, snatching the glove mid-air—her power flared, a faint pull, but the Mask's chaos deflected it, sparking green. Their energies clashed—green chaos warping reality, her absorption bending it—and the penthouse trembled, glass shards levitating.
Before they could tangle further, the air roared—X-Men descending through the broken roof. Cyclops landed, visor glowing red, barking, "Rogue, keep him contained!" Wolverine unsheathed claws with a snikt, snarling, "This clown's got our girls twisted up." Nightcrawler bamfed in, tail lashing, and Jake smirked, the Mask purring: "Party time, kid. Let's shake 'em." "Containment? Cute," he quipped, stretching his legs to dodge a ruby beam from Cyclops. "I'm uncontainable, visor boy." He conjured a giant slingshot, firing rubber chickens at Wolverine—claws slashed them mid-air, feathers exploding.
Rogue grabbed Jake's arm, her grip iron through the glove. "You're a damn tornado," she growled, but her eyes locked on his, chaos meeting her untouchable ache. "Tornadoes need a breeze," he said, voice low, the Mask's pull slamming into her. Her breath hitched, power sparking in sync with his madness. "Feel that? We're a storm together." Cyclops shouted, "Rogue, now!" but her resolve cracked, and she yanked him into a shadowed corner as Wolverine charged.
Minutes later, they were in a cramped attic nearby—wood creaking, city hum muffled through cracked walls. Rogue shoved Jake against a beam, her strength raw and desperate, gloved hands tearing his suit open. "You're dangerous," she growled, but her lips hovered near his, hesitant yet hungry, tasting of longing and leather. His shirt hit the floor, and he tugged at her gloves—careful, slow—peeling one off, her bare skin trembling as she braced for the pull that never came. The Mask's chaos shielded him, and her eyes widened, a gasp escaping.
"Danger's my charm, sugah," he rasped, mimicking her drawl, lifting her. Her legs locked around him, thighs flexing through her suit, and they crashed onto a dusty mattress, springs groaning. She yanked her uniform down, baring pale skin and curves marked by a life of restraint, and he peeled it fully, revealing her—white streak stark against dark hair. His mouth found her neck, her breasts, tracing the warmth until she moaned, a sound raw and unshackled. When he entered her—slow, then deep—her cry was fierce, power flaring, cracking the walls, but not draining him.
The Mask surged, sharpening every pulse—the heat of her core, the rhythm of her gasps, the slick friction as she moved with him, fierce and free. The attic warped—beams bending, dust swirling—as she rode him, hair wild, eyes blazing green. Her climax hit like a shockwave, absorption sparking harmlessly, shaking the roof, and he followed, spilling into her with a rush that made the Mask roar, green sparks melding with her glow. A seed took root, chaos and untouchable power entwined, and they collapsed, sweat-slick and panting, her weight atop him a trembling anchor.
Rogue traced a scar on his chest, her smirk faint but real, glove back on. "You're a miracle, Masquerade. Touchin' me… ain't nobody done that." "Miracles need a touch," he grinned, savoring her warmth. She rose, adjusting her uniform, tossing him a look—half-relief, half-yearning. "X-Men'll come for you. I might too." She leapt out a window, vanishing into the night, leaving him with the Mask, its voice smug: "Seven down, kid. The untouchable's yours."
Jake stood, the attic quiet, X-Men's pursuit muffled by distance. Rogue's freedom, Carol's radiance, Mystique's fluidity, Storm's storm, Jean's fire, Wanda's magic, Natasha's steel—the 616 was fracturing under his chaos. Loki lurked, SHIELD hunted, and the X-Men were on his tail. He slapped the Mask back on, grinning wide. "Let's keep the touch alive."