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Kitty Pryde, Pawn of Hellfire	By : superbang Category: X-men Comics > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 12372 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is for adults only! The story has strong sexual and violent content. If you are not old enough according to the law, read not further. This is a parody. The author makes no claim of ownership on any of these characters.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
Warning:

This story is for adults only! The story has strong sexual and violent content as well as offensive language. If this is something that you feel uncomfortable with or if not old enough according to the law, the author would suggest that you read no further.

Disclaimer:

I do not own the X-Men, Avengers, the Fantastic Four nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Feedback is always welcome at superbangjason@yahoo.com

Kitty Pryde, Pawn of Hellfire
Chapter 8
Kitty slept well into Sunday morning. Her life had become a series of ordeals, never the same problem and never enough time to rest. It didn’t help that her conversation with Xavier had kept her awake most the night. Jean Grey was terrifyingly powerful and Xavier’s answer was to appeal to her human nature, which is famous for being fallible. Honestly it scared her, enough to stay awake even after the excitement at the dance club. But what could she do? Her only option was to trust Professor Xavier’s judgment. Still it bothered her, and Kitty tossed and turned through the night. She waited for Ororo, perhaps a tussle between the sheets would put her at ease, but the African Goddess never came.
Bleary eyed she rose at noon to find a note under her door. It said:
Pawn,
                        Your presence is requested tonight at a full council of the Inner Circle.
                        Eight o’clock, council chambers, full regalia required.
                                                                                    Your loving Queen,
                                                                                                Jean Grey
Kitty’s heart skipped a beat, “Another council, and so soon? This can’t be about what happened at the nightclub, can it? That matter was resolved before sunrise.”
Then Kitty smiled as the realization came to her. Logan had said that was his test. Surely she had passed.
The only thing souring her mood was the fact that Rogue had her collar. Giving it to her was a necessity at the time, but before she could ask for it back Rogue was swept away by the Black Queen. If there was a council she would need that, so Kitty got dressed and went to the room next door. She knocked softly. There was no answer. She resolved to get it later. For now she paced the halls and wondered where the X-Men were.
Passing one of the many libraries, Kitty found the first mutant she’d seen all day. Destiny sat at a scribes’ table, complete with a sloped desktop, quill pen and inkwell. On the wooden desk was a leather-bound book, the pages of which she was illuminating by hand, an exacting process that had not been practiced since the middle ages. Unlike those monks long ago, she was not copying from and existing tome, Destiny was writing it as she went along.
“Good afternoon, Katherine,” Destiny said without turning her head. “To what do I deserve this honor?”
“Honor?” Kitty walked to the other side of the desk, “what honor, Miss?”
She put down the pen and faced Kitty. Tears rolled down the sides of her wizened features, “You, here, now.”
Kitty blinked. “I don’t know what you mean? Have I done something to upset you?”
“You will,” Destiny said as the silent tears continued to roll. “You know she is like a daughter to me. We took her in. We raised her. I knew she had some dark places in her future, but Rogue will get through it with the right support.”
“I’m sorry,” Kitty said, “I don’t mean Rogue any harm. She seems very sweet-“
“Enough,” Destiny interrupted as the tears continued. “You can’t apologize for something you haven’t done yet.” Destiny turned back to the desk, lowered her face into her hands and cried.
Kitty stood there for several minutes, not knowing what to do.
Finally the old woman choked down her sobs long enough to address Kitty directly. “If things keep going the way they are going… Please, be good to my daughter. She means well.”
An icy chill crept up Kitty’s spine. Destiny was so serious and so certain; it terrified her to the very core. Kitty heard the words but did not comprehend the meaning. Kitty was not in charge of Rogue, she had already been friendly with her, so how could she “be good”?
“I,” Kitty started. “I don’t mean Rogue any harm.”
Destiny sniffled, “I know that. But you will be in a position to help her when no one else will. Please,” the wrinkled old face begged, “spare her if you can pity an old fool.”
Kitty nodded as she politely backed up to the doorway. She did not understand exactly what had just happened. Frankly it rattled her a little. Glad to be removed from Destiny’s presence, Kitty pressed further into the Hellfire Mansion.
Shortly she found Pyro and Avalanche. They seemed much different now, dressed to the nines in their Colonial Era uniforms, complete with horn-buckle shoes and powdered wigs. Kitty had been introduced to them as “Saint-John” and “Dominic” respectively, since their “rehabilitation” they’d been serving the Club as honor guard to the Inner Circle.
“Gentlemen,” Kitty said, “have you seen the White King?”
“He is inside,” St. John replied, his British accent no longer seeming out of place. “But we have orders to keep the door closed.”
“It won't take a minute.”
Dominic was far more intimidating, “Inner Circle only.”
“Excellent,” Kitty smiled, “as I am a member of the Inner Circle and do not have to open the door so I may walk in.” With that she phased and passed completely through the wall and the objections of the honor guard.
Kitty solidified into an unexpected scene. Charles Xavier stood proudly, dressed in his White King finery. In one fist he held a golden crown, in the other a cat-o-nine tails. At his feet were the ladies. Clawing up his left leg was Ororo Munroe. She was stripped to the skin. Black leather bondage bracelets on wrists and ankles, a slave-collar, and the pleading expression on her face were her only coverings. Broken chains dangled from the rings on her bindings. She was posed in way that Kitty could only describe as desperate need, half-crawling and half-begging, whether for the whip or his attentions she couldn’t tell. On the other leg, lightly caressing his inner thigh was Jean Grey. She wore no bondage gear; instead she lounged at his feet in the tatters of a once immaculate bridal gown. It had hung off her shoulders before it had been ripped down the middle, her corset and panties torn away exposing her breasts and sex. Kitty had no opportunity to see an unobstructed view of Jean Grey before; the shapely curves of her legs and hips, the round fullness of her breasts, the pink tenderness barely concealed below the strawberry triangle of hair. Kitty could see why she was so desired. Jean’s face was beautiful, her stunning red hair swept back by the lifted bridal veil. Her peach colored skin glowed warmly against the stark white material of the wedding dress. In contrast to Ororo’s pose of desperate action Jean’s was relaxed, perfectly submitting to whatever the King desired. The look on her face was one of worshipful adoration.
After a long minute of taking in the people and the poses, Kitty began to process the rest of the scene. Behind Xavier were mock-ups of the wrought iron gates of the mansion, topped with little three-pronged pitchforks. Behind that was a matte, a large painted backdrop to set the scene for the action in front, like they would use in Hollywood movies or Broadway plays. The matte was of a forest fire, flames climbing high into the sky in the background, blackened trees in the mid-ground and in the foreground a burning chapel.
On the opposite side of the room was Peter Rasputin, hard at work behind his easel. A white sheet with splotches of paint was spread beneath him. There were long wooden tables behind him as well, covered in sketch paper and photographs. With research material behind him and posed subjects in front, Peter’s focus was total. He never acknowledged Kitty was even in the room.
Xavier however did. “Katherine? Is something so pressing that you must come into private chambers uninvited?”
Kitty blushed for the first time in a long while. “No my King, I spoke briefly with Destiny and she unnerved me.”
Xavier tried not to move his head as he spoke. “Destiny’s gift is probability, not prophecy. The futures she perceives are the most likely outcome, not an absolute conclusion. Take anything she says with a grain of salt.”
“Yes my King,” Kitty said as she bowed.
“Are you through getting an eyeful, Pawn?” Jean Grey’s voice was soft yet sharp.
“Jean…” Xavier cautioned.
She sighed. “She’s ruining the mood, Charles. I’m of no mind to deal with your trivialities, Katherine. Make yourself useful and get me some wine.”
“Yes my Queen.” Kitty said as she looked about the room for a bottle. Finding one on the table behind Peter, she pulled the cork.
“Let it breathe.” Jean instructed.
As Kitty fetched a glass she caught sight of the half-finished painting. It was the scene as set; Xavier standing on a hillock looking powerful, Ororo’s body language and face screamed desperation and Jean’s was absolute submission and adoration. Peter had painted in a few embellishments that were not present in reality. Jean’s image had raised welts on her breasts and hips; presumably from the White King’s cat-o-nine tails. Ororo had similar marks on her back, breasts and buttocks, but they were scarred over. In the background, around the burning chapel charred bodies lay in the grass.
Peter’s painting certainly told a story. To Kitty it seemed that Jean played the part of the Bride, the little black figures lying in the grass around the chapel were slain wedding guests. The White King presumably wanted this woman, and took her before her husband could have her. Jean’s Bride, whether she wanted this or not, was beaten into submission. Ororo’s Slave with broken chains was not running away, but running to the White King, desperate not to be replaced as his favored plaything by the adoring Bride.
The Slave, the Bride, the King, and the world burning in his wake.
The longer Kitty stared at the painting the more she felt the butterflies in her stomach migrate south. The painting was better than reality. It told a story of an incomplete fantasy, an emotional snapshot of an idealized reality, dripping with sexuality and power. The image left her wanting more, wanting to know the history of these people and their fates. If every moment of their lives were like this it was a bittersweet taste of heaven and hell. Kitty Pryde was enthralled. It gave her an odd sensation, the nervous energy in the pit of her stomach started to creep down her insides, making her tingle in unfamiliar places.
The lower third of the painting was completely unfinished. Penciled in on the canvas were three female figures, one on her knees bowing with her face to the ground, the one on the right reclining and cupping her breast in offering, while the woman on the left seemed overcome lying on the ground with her arm draped over her face. Something about those pencil sketches intrigued her.
“Pardon the interruption, my Rook,” Kitty said. “This is an amazing painting. It captures the power and grandeur of the White King well, but these figures here,” she pointed at the sketches of the naked women at the bottom. “Would you like me to fetch some serving girls for models?”
Peter gave her an uneasy smile. “No Katherine, that is all right.” Sweat beaded at his temples as Peter Rasputin looked away from the canvas for the first time in hours. “I uh… I can do those from memory.”
“Oh, okay.” Kitty unconsciously curled her hair behind her ear, poured the Black Queen her wine and walked it over to her.
Jean Grey misinterpreted the goofy grin on Kitty’s face. Her immediate reaction was annoyance. “Are you enjoying yourself, Pawn?”
Kitty didn’t realize she was staring at Jean. The Black Queen’s naked body was quite a sight, one she could not have appreciated if not for Ororo’s midnight lessons. The curve of her hips, the swells of her breasts, Jean Grey exuded sex. But she was the Queen. Taking anything of hers, even an uninvited glimpse, was a mortal sin.
“Apologies my Queen,” Kitty knelt and offered her the wine while averting her eyes, “You’re just so stunning. I am only human. How could anyone not stare at such beauty?”
Jean smirked. “Appealing to my ego are we?”
“Stating the obvious, my Queen,” Kitty dared a glance at those emerald eyes. She found more amusement there than insult.
“Away,” Jean waved her off, sipped her wine and hid it out of view on the floor behind her lounging form.
Kitty retreated to behind Peter’s easel. That was a close call and she knew it. The Black Queen still seemed to have a vendetta against her. Kitty didn’t want to give her any excuses. After her conversation with Xavier last night, she wanted to be her friend; or at least a favored plaything like her character in the painting.
Once Kitty was behind the artist she had a chance to view the painting again. Peter’s brush brought the characters to life, adding the minutest details for an overall sense of realism. But for some reason he did not fill in the bottom. Kitty wanted to see him bring those women to life, to define those lines with color, to add shading to those muscles in their legs, for him to breathe life into those breasts. Kitty stared at the unfinished figure reclining, cupping her breast in offering to the king. She wanted to know what color her eyes were, to how red her lips…
Kitty blinked, the face looked much like her own. The closer she looked the more she became certain. The face was twisted in an unfamiliar fashion. If she’d ever had that look of wanton ecstasy it was shown only to Ororo; but the nose, the cheekbones, the chin. Unmistakably they were her features.
Disbelieving she looked at the rest of the figures’ body. The breasts seemed to be hers; a little less than a handful with nipples that seemed too large, she desperately hoped they’d grow into a more pleasing proportion. The contours of the legs and hips, the drawing was even smooth between at the crotch, just like her.
Kitty felt her palms begin to sweat again. It suddenly felt rather hot in here.
Kitty looked away from the drawing of the woman offering her breast. Her eyes went back to the more buxom women being filled in by Peter’s brush. Such definition, from the way the Slave’s toes curled in mid crawl to the joy in the Bride’s eyes.
Kitty looked back at the woman who cupped her breast, confirming it was her own image. She looked to the others, first the one of the woman overcome. She lay on the grass, one arm over her face. Kitty recognized the point of her own chin. The breasts were the same. This one was also shaved between the legs. Finally she looked at the drawing of the kneeling woman, but the angle it was drawn from only revealed the bottom of her feet and the shape of her ass. Still, as the song said, the hips didn’t lie. Kitty couldn’t shake the feeling it was her.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Kitty ventured, “who are these?”
Peter Rasputin cleared his throat. “Bridesmaids,” he mumbled, “women seeking the favor of the King’s whip.
“No,” Kitty asked, “who are these modeled after.”
Peter Rasputin, White Rook of the Inner Circle of the Hellfire Club, blushed. “Uhh… you,” he stammered after a long pause.
Kitty bit her thumb. The butterflies in her belly spread out, tickled her under the skin, and fluttered back to rest. Kitty tingled all over. She was excited. For the first time in her life emotionally, physically and sexually excited.
Kitty blushed, a shade of red equal to his own. Her face beamed and her palms sweat.
Kitty liked Peter from the first moment she saw him. His handsome features, big square jaw, and clear blue eyes appealed to her physically. Everything from his haircut to his stance seemed so restrained. Kitty tried to figure out a way to tell him how much she liked him, but being a Pawn of the Hellfire Club made that difficult. In addition he seemed to ignore her whenever they were at council. Occasionally she caught his eyes on her, but the big Russian youth would look away the second he was caught.
But in those brief glances Peter had studied her, every inch of her naked body. He knew the way she smiled, the curvy muscles of her dancers’ body to the size of her breasts. He equally knew the point of her chin, the point of her nose and roundness of her bottom. He captured her from the wanting look in her eye to the shape of her cleft. As strange as it was, Peter Rasputin was the first man to appreciate Kitty Pryde in her entirety, not just attracted to her face, her body or her attitude. Peter admired the whole woman.
Peter had women as breathtakingly beautiful as Jean and Ororo pose for him, but he knew every line of scrawny little Kitty Pryde from memory. Could there ever be a greater compliment?
Peter’s face was turned away in embarrassment. Kitty put her hand on his arm.
“I’m honored, really.” She earnestly told him. “I can’t think of anything more flattering.”
He looked at her. They exchanged a smile.
Kitty blushed again. “Would you like me to model?”
Peter blinked. “Would you?”
Kitty unbuttoned her blouse and stripped off her pants and underwear. The only thing Kitty couldn’t take off was the goofy grin on her face. It was crazy, it was wild, but wasn’t that what young love was supposed to be?
She walked toward the rest of the Inner Circle. “Where do you want me, my Rook?”
“Bowing in front,” Peter directed her to position herself exactly like the drawing. “I need to finish the rise of the hill. It’s difficult.”
Kitty knelt, bowed her face to the floor and propped her ass up on her heels. She wanted to giggle, to laugh at how silly they both had been.
“Puppies,” Jean quipped as she sipped her wine, “Nothing but puppies in love, how droll.”
*****
As evening fell over the city of Chicago, Jane Doe was checked on for the last time.
The nurse entered her room quietly. There was no need as the mysterious blonde had been comatose for over three months. Coma patients were sort of like the prison system, the longer you were in the less likely you’d ever come out. At three months it was a fifty-fifty. She could still wake up any moment, like she had just decided to take a nap and simply overslept; or she could awaken slowly over a matter of weeks; or not at all.
There was a lot of speculation among the nursing staff. The unconscious blonde had to be rich. She had a private room but no next of kin. She was transferred in mysteriously. Her first sponge bath revealed breast implants. She couldn’t be a junkie who'd fried her brains. She had to be a mobsters’ mistress or maybe bastard daughter. Somebody was paying the bill, and with a total lack of paperwork it had to be paid in cash. This was Chicago, so the mob was probably involved. Jane Doe’s were never missed, that’s why they were Jane Doe’s.
Somebody wanted this one to get better.
As the nurse pondered these things she didn’t see the silent shadow slide in through the door behind her. As she checked Jane Doe’s vitals for the last time, the intruder lifted a needle from the medicine trolley. A hand clamped over her mouth and there was a sharp pain in her buttocks. A second later and the nurse crumpled to the floor.
The shadow reached out and turned the desk lamp on. Mystique studied the features of the nurse on the floor. It was almost too easy.
Unlike the unconscious nurse, she knew exactly what was going on. She quickly pulled the bedcovers and hospital gown off Emma Frost’s body. Carefully she affixed a thin metal ring around the crown of Emma Frost’s head and lined the attached electrodes over her temples. Mystique returned to the trolley and found the crash kit. Opening it she found the large syringe, tapped out the bubbles and slammed it into the blonde’s heart.
Emma Frost screamed. She convulsed uncontrollably as the adrenaline surged through her body. Mystique tried her best to hold her down as the blonde bucked wildly. She covered her mouth to stifle the sound.
“Calm down,” she said. “If I wanted to hurt you you’d be dead already.”
Ten seconds later it passed. Mystique dismounted, removed the needle and let Emma sit up.
“Where am I?” she asked breathlessly.
“A hospital,” Mystique answered as she began to strip the nurse of her uniform.
“Who are you?”
“Mystique,” she grunted as she relieved the unconscious woman of her pants.
“What’s on my head?”
“Psychic damper,” Mystique said. “You have made some powerful enemies, two of which are telepaths of the highest order.”
Emma panted frantically. Her heart and brain were working in overdrive, an aftereffect of the unorthodox method of returning her to the waking world. She looked at the obvious mutant with undisguised disgust. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you out of here, you’ve been in a coma for three months and that scream you let out will draw attention.” Mystique stood, plopping the nurse’s uniform on the bed next to Emma. “Put these on.”
With the blood rushing through her Emma Frost reacted by pure instinct. She thrust out and her shimmering hand caught Mystique by the throat and slammed her against the wall. She glimmered, the light refracting through her translucent body, like a living diamond. Mystique would have appreciated it if she wasn’t being strangled.
“That’s new…” Mystique choked.
“You listen to me, bitch! I am Emma Frost, White Queen of the Hellfire Club and no one to be trifled with!”
“Not anymore…” Mystique gasped. “Jean Grey…”
The living diamond’s eyes widened. Jean Grey. Her memories rushed back. The Phoenix completely overpowered her. She’d miscalculated her enemy. The Phoenix toyed with her for several minutes, testing her defenses, and then smashed though them effortlessly like a house of matchsticks. The Phoenix was draining out her very life-force. In one last desperate gamble she’d summoned all of her psychic power into one last strike. There was an all-burning light, like the birth of the universe…
…And then this, her diamond-hard hand around the throat of her savior.
Emma Frost let her go and marveled at her hand. She reasoned this previously unknown power was either a secondary mutation brought out by the conflict with the Phoenix or as a direct result of her interference. Either way with concentrated effort, cold diamond returned to warm flesh.
Mystique rubbed her throat. “Don’t do that again.”
Emma Frost brazenly strode to the window and looked out over the city. “Wyngarde’s plan worked? The Phoenix now serves the Hellfire Club.” She sighed, the adrenaline finally starting to wear off. “Shaw will be insufferable.”
“No he won’t,” Mystique said as she rose to her feet. “Shaw, Pierce, Wyngarde; they’re all dead. Xavier and his punks have taken over the Hellfire Club.”
Emma Frost turned to face the blue woman, her voice dripped with disbelief at the indignity. “The X-Men rule the Hellfire Club?”
“They’ve crossed the line,” Mystique said as her confidence returned to her swagger. “We’re not the only ones who want them brought down. But you need to get out of that gown and put on this nurse's uniform. We need to get out of here and meet up with the others.” Mystique shifted her form to that of the unconscious nurse on the ground. “I’ll fill you in on current events as we go, but we’re running low on time.”
Emma Frost silently nodded, got dressed, and both women walked out the front door. There was much work to be done. Revenge was sometimes a long road, and this revenge needed to be mapped carefully.
- 7
- 8
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Kitty Pryde, Pawn of Hellfire