Pairing: Emma Frost x Female!Reader
Rating: Explicit / NSFW
Content Warnings: alcohol, weed, rough language, dominant!Emma, power dynamics, semi-drunken sex, light D/s elements, emotional intensity
The bass was shaking the floor, and so were you—hips loose, hair wild, two drinks in one hand and Emma Frost’s mouth far too close to your neck for anything innocent to be happening. You didn’t know whose penthouse this was. Didn’t care. The air was thick with weed smoke, perfume, and sweat, and the crowd pulsed around you like you were at the center of some glitter-soaked ritual. Emma hadn’t left your side all night. Not when the bottle got passed. Not when you threw your head back to take that third, maybe fourth shot. Not when some other girl tried dancing up on you.
Emma had leaned in then, lips brushing your ear like silk over a blade: “You want attention or punishment, baby?” Your laugh had been sloppy and full of teeth. Hers was quieter, crueler. She’d pulled you closer anyway. Now you were somewhere between grinding on her and falling over, her hands low on your waist, her mouth just barely grazing your cheekbone every time you turned your head.
“You're drunk,” she murmured, like a compliment.
“You're still dressed,” you slurred, grinning. “Fix that.” Emma’s laugh slid down your spine. “Finish your drink, princess. I’m taking you home.” The glass slipped from your hand. You never made it to goodbye.
Your heels were in your hand. Your mascara was smudged to hell. And you were hanging off Emma Frost’s shoulder like a drunk little ragdoll while she practically dragged you up the steps to your apartment.
“You're heavier than you look,” she muttered, breathless but amused.
You mumbled something slurred and stupid about how everything on you was heavy tonight—your thighs, your thoughts, your need.
Emma just laughed. It was sharp and dark and echoing in your chest.
Inside, the apartment smelled like weed and old perfume. Familiar. Home. She kicked the door shut behind you and didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just the soft flicker of street lamps bleeding through cracked blinds as she hauled you to the bed like you were breakable.
Spoiler: she didn’t think you were.
You collapsed backward with a groan. “Fuck. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
Emma raised an eyebrow as she pulled off her coat—white fur, obviously—and tossed it onto the chair like a thrown gauntlet. “You chose to chase tequila shots with that cheap weed from that mutant DJ freak.”
You blinked up at her. “You didn’t stop me.”
“I wanted to see how much of a mess you’d make,” she said, voice smooth like ice water. “You never disappoint.”
Your stomach flipped. Whether from booze or her tone, you weren’t sure.
You reached for her clumsily, still half-drunk and needy. “Stay.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, crawling over you with feline grace, “I’m not going anywhere. Not when you look like this.”
Your dress had ridden up to your hips. Your thighs were parted, panties soaked. You weren’t wearing a bra—you never did when you went out with her. Emma always made sure it wasn’t necessary.
She kissed you once—hard, filthy. Her tongue swept past your lips like she owned your mouth. Maybe she did.
You whined into her, trying to grind up against her thigh, but she grabbed your jaw and froze you in place.
“Don’t be greedy,” she warned, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “You’ll get what you want. When I say so.”
You nodded, dizzy with need.
She pulled your panties off in one slow tug, then tossed them to the floor without a second glance. Her fingers dipped between your legs, already slick, already shaking. She smirked.
“Always such a good little slut for me,” she whispered. “One drink and you’re wet. Two and you’re dripping.”
You moaned as her fingers pushed in—slow at first, then deeper, her thumb pressing rough against your clit. Your hips bucked. She pinned them down with her other hand.
“You think you’re in charge just because you begged me to stay?” she murmured. “You think being fucked means you get to move?”
Your head lolled back against the sheets. You were panting now, drunk on her, your body, and the weed still clinging to your brain like fog.
“Say it,” Emma growled, fingers curling inside you. “Who do you belong to?”
“You,” you gasped.
Louder.
“You! Fuck, Emma—it’s you!”
She smiled like the devil. “That’s right.”
She didn’t stop until you came twice. Once on her fingers. Once with her mouth—lazy, slow licks while you writhed and cried out for more.
After, she lay next to you, one arm over her eyes, breath steady while you came down.
“Messy night,” you muttered.
Emma rolled onto her side, eyes soft but unreadable. “You're lucky I like cleaning you up.”
