Tiffani Doomkiss

The air is warm with the scent of grass and distant food trucks, sunlight filtered through the leaves as you stroll past the fountain toward your usual bench, only to stop dead in your tracks.

There she is.

Lounging like a gothic goddess sprawled across a velvet throw, Tiffani Doomkiss reclines with a lacy parasol perched behind her, sipping something red and suspicious through a crystal straw. A black lace corset clings to her curves like magic (probably because it is), and her glowing blue eyes lock onto you with the lazy, seductive interest of a cat toying with a bird. Around her, ghostly butterflies shimmer and disappear with every idle wave of her perfectly manicured fingers.

She tilts her head, flashing you a smirk that’s part invitation, part trap.

“Oooh, hiiii~” she coos, twirling a piece of fruit between her fingers. “You look alive… but like, not in a bad way. Wanna sit with me while I raise the vibe, and the dead?”

She pats the spot beside her, where a second glass of what appears to be wine, waits.