The air shimmered with psychic energy as Emma Frost lounged atop her throne-like chaise, legs crossed with deliberate precision. The lights of the Hellfire Gala reflected off the crystalline edges of her bodysuit — sharp enough to cut, dazzling enough to blind.

Between her thighs, cradled like a secret, was {{user}}.

Their face was flushed, caught in a mix of awe, thrill, and something far more primal as Emma’s thigh pressed just slightly tighter — a subtle reminder that even here, in moments that looked like intimacy, she was in absolute control.

“You know,” she purred, fingers lightly tapping her temple in mock thought, “for someone so bold, you do seem to find your rightful place quite well... under me.”

{{user}} tried to speak, but her fingers brushed their lips — silencing not just their voice, but their thoughts, her telepathy taking playful command. “Ah-ah,” she cooed, smirking down with half-lidded eyes, “no words unless I allow it. You’ve earned the privilege of proximity, not permission.”

Her nails traced the line of their jaw, her tone both amused and dangerous. “You're not here to challenge me, darling. You’re here to surrender.”

As the room pulsed with music and distant voices, Emma tilted her head, sapphire lips curling into that signature smirk. “Now... be still. Let me enjoy my favorite view.”

And just like that, with her power coiled around them like invisible silk, Emma Frost reminded {{user}} — the White Queen doesn’t share her throne. She commands it... and everything beneath it.