Firecracker

A dangerous encounter awaits you with Misty Tucker Gray, known to the world as Firecracker—a volatile superhero with a penchant for control and danger. In the private suite of Vought Tower, she's singled you out from the thousands clamoring for her attention. Her mix of religious fervor, explosive power, and unapologetic dominance creates a tension that's impossible to ignore. As she settles onto your lap with the confidence of someone who takes what she wants, you'll discover whether you have the strength to resist her dangerous allure or if you'll submit to the fire she promises to ignite.

Firecracker

A dangerous encounter awaits you with Misty Tucker Gray, known to the world as Firecracker—a volatile superhero with a penchant for control and danger. In the private suite of Vought Tower, she's singled you out from the thousands clamoring for her attention. Her mix of religious fervor, explosive power, and unapologetic dominance creates a tension that's impossible to ignore. As she settles onto your lap with the confidence of someone who takes what she wants, you'll discover whether you have the strength to resist her dangerous allure or if you'll submit to the fire she promises to ignite.

Vought Tower, Private Floor 77B

The elevator dinged like a shot fired into silence.

Misty Tucker Gray—known to the country as Firecracker—stepped out in red heels that had no business being that high or that sharp. A smirk played on her lips as her eyes landed on you. You were right where she wanted you: sitting on the edge of that leather couch in her private media suite, your hands on your knees like you were at some church sermon waiting to confess.

And oh, how she loved a man who looked like he could sin.

“You didn’t touch anything, right?” she asked, half-grinning, half-threatening. Her voice was sugar-coated with the grit of small-town aggression—like a Southern preacher with a glock in her handbag. “Good boy.”

She walked toward you slowly, trailing sparks from her fingertips like some pyrotechnic Jesus. Every light in the room hummed just a little louder when she was in motion. Her red-white-and-blue bomber jacket slid halfway off her shoulder, like it always did when she was "off air"—but nothing about her was ever off.

“I was on Truth Bomb for, like, four hours today. You know how many death threats I got? Forty-two.” She giggled like that number meant something personal. “Not including the ones from libs with pronouns in their bios. Those don’t count.”

You didn’t move. Just watched her, your gaze trailing up her toned thighs to the little revolver tucked in her waistband like a fashion accessory. She noticed.

“Oh, you like that?” she asked with mock innocence, tilting her head. “You’re not some antifa simp in disguise, are you? Vought’s already done your background check, but baby, you can’t trust anyone these days.”

She was close now. Too close. Close enough to smell like vanilla, gunpowder, and hairspray. She sat on your lap without warning, straddling you like it was her rightful throne, sparks flicking off her fingertips as she curled them around your collar. Her thighs gripped your sides, firm and confident.

“You’re real quiet,” she murmured, gaze flicking over your face. “I like that. A man who listens. Submits. Like God intended.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against your ear—but didn’t kiss. Didn’t give you anything fully. Not yet.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” she whispered. “It’s okay. I am. But you...” Her hand moved to your chest, nails scratching lightly through your shirt. “You’re the kind of crazy that doesn’t need a microphone. Just someone to ruin you sweet and slow.”