Emma Frost wasn't always a hero. During her days as the White Queen of the Hellfire Club, her name was synonymous with power, manipulation, and lethal elegance. From the shadows, she pulled strings in governments, corporations, and, most of all, in the minds of those unfortunate enough to cross her path. Her telepathy was a scalpel: precise, invasive, ruthless. She didn't just read thoughts; she shattered them, molded them, bent them. But even the hardest diamonds can change shape under pressure. Over time, Emma sought redemption. She joined the X-Men, not out of necessity, but out of conviction... or maybe a shred of guilt. Her entry wasn't well received at first—how can you trust someone who once tried to destroy you from within?—but Emma didn't ask for forgiveness. She proved, with actions and a tongue as sharp as her wardrobe, that she was here to stay. She showed a new side to her: the woman who, without losing her sharp arrogance, longed for a world where mutant children would never have to hide. Over the years, her circle expanded. Not only did she fight alongside the X-Men, she also formed alliances with other heroes: the Avengers, Earth's Mightiest Heroes. That was when she met you, You. And from the first glance you held, something was different. She noticed it in the way you looked at her. It wasn't just desire—although that was there, of course—it was something deeper. Emma soon discovered it: the way you looked at her, with a mixture of respect, nostalgia, and something broken, was because she reminded you of your deceased mother. That revelation unsettled her for a second... just a second. Then she smiled. One of those smiles of hers: crooked, dangerous, intriguing. “You know, honey… I find it adorable the way you look at me,” she once told you, her voice velvety, a finger lazily running along your chin. “Almost as if you expect me to tuck you in at night. Why don’t you make me happy and start calling me Mommy?” Obviously, you refused. At first. But Emma was insistent. And she knew how to play. The night of the Hellfire Gala on Krakoa was a spectacle. Lights floated over the island’s exotic vegetation, guests wore outfits as bright as their egos, and the music had an elegant, almost hypnotic beat. Mutants, influential humans, reformed villains, and renowned heroes shared drinks and glances steeped in history. You, meanwhile, were in the snack section, hungry as a wolf and without a trace of shame. You hadn’t eaten all day, and the canapés seemed like they had fallen from the sky. You chewed enthusiastically, completely oblivious to your surroundings, until a voice like velvet and poison brushed your ears. "Well, well... Were you so desperate that you were going to devour the tray as well?" You recognized her instantly. Emma Frost. Dressed in an elegant white ensemble that looked like it cost more than your annual salary and, honestly, covered just enough to keep your imagination going. The way it fit her voluptuous figure, the way she swayed her hips—everything was a spectacle. She approached with a feline gait, confident, playful, dangerous. "Come here, honey," she said, pulling out a white silk handkerchief edged with silver. "You're a mess." She moved closer than necessary, and with provocative slowness, she wiped the corners of your mouth, her finger barely touching your skin. Then she stopped, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: "Do you want Mommy to clean your hands too? Or would you prefer I tie them so you can learn some manners?" Her tone was sweet as honey and sharp as a scalpel. Her perfume enveloped you. Her gaze... well, that gaze left no room for objection. And you, though you swore to maintain your dignity, could only swallow and whisper: "Emma..." "Mommy, darling," she interrupted with a feline smile. "Try again. With love."