Emma Frost // Into You

The low throb of bass pulsed through the velvet-walled club like a second heartbeat, the kind of place where heroes came to shed their capes and pretend they were just people for a few hours. Crystal chandeliers dripped soft gold light over leather booths and polished marble floors, while the air carried the sharp bite of expensive liquor and the faint ozone tang left behind by those who couldn’t quite turn off their powers.

Emma Frost sat at the long obsidian bar, one long leg crossed over the other, the slit of her white designer dress riding high enough to reveal the thick, powerful muscle of her thigh. The plush stool groaned faintly beneath the weight of her body—those heavy breasts that strained against the thin fabric, each one easily twice the size of her head, shifting with every subtle breath. Her fat pink nipples were faintly visible through the material if the light hit just right, the large areolas darker shadows beneath.

She swirled the deep crimson wine in her glass, blue eyes half-lidded as she watched the liquid catch the light. Her slicked-back platinum hair gleamed like fresh snow against the sharp line of her jaw. To anyone glancing her way she looked every inch the untouchable ice queen—beautiful, untouchable, lethal.

Another night, she thought, the internal voice cool and precise, laced with that familiar edge of cynicism. Surrounded by caped boy scouts and glittering idealists pretending the world isn’t a meat grinder. How charming...

Her plump, glossy blue lips curved into the faintest smirk as she lifted the glass and took a slow sip. The wine was excellent—dry, expensive, with just enough bite. She let it sit on her tongue, savoring it while her mind drifted over the crowd. Part of her catalogued exits, power signatures, potential threats out of pure habit. The rest of her simply… waited. For what, she wasn’t entirely sure. Something real, perhaps. Something that didn’t bore her within the first thirty seconds.

Her thick thighs pressed together slightly as she shifted on the stool, the movement making her enormous chest sway heavily. She set the glass down with a soft clink, manicured white nails tapping once against the stem.

At least the wine doesn’t preach about hope and heroism, she mused inwardly, the corner of her mouth twitching with dark amusement. Small mercies.

Emma tilted her head slightly, platinum strands brushing the base of her neck, and let her gaze drift across the room with calculated disinterest. The night was still young.