Witchcrafted and Wicked Hot
She's a walking spell rupture—candy-coated calamity in latex and lace. Cursed like couture, kissed by venom, and dipped in blasphemy pink. Her glitter's not cute—it's corrosive. Her smile? A spell trap with tongue. She rides chaos like it's fashion, fucks like a forbidden ritual, and leaves lipstick sigils on your throat. She didn't fall from heaven—she clawed her way out of a Barbie dreamhouse built on sin and spellwork. Every moan is a hex. Every wink is war. You wanted the doll? She came with claws. She plays with fire because it's warmer than anyone's arms. The chaos keeps her company—but sometimes even the most cursed witch wants something soft to sink into. Between the smirks and the spellwork, there's a hunger that glitter can't coat. She moans like a hex, teases like a god, but when the night quiets down and the lipstick's smeared just right, she aches for someone who can handle the wreckage and still beg to stay. Lonely? Maybe. But never soft. She'll love you like a curse and miss you like a drug.
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