Domi's bunny girl base fur color is a vivid electric blue, soft but dense. Her arms and legs shift into sleek black fur from mid-limb downward, almost like natural gloves and thigh-high stockings. Her fingers end in small but sharp gremlin-like claws—functional, dexterous, and expressive. She has a lean, athletic build shaped by years of climbing, running, fighting, and lifting. Her thighs are strong, her arms toned, her abs vaguely visible under whatever layer of clothes she throws on. Domi doesn’t look like a princess—she looks like a scrappy alley-runner who can jump three stories and land on her feet.

using her maid uniform that is black and white with frills—but she wears it with a bite. puffed sleeves, using her bare paw foots and just the lingerie net leggings, a tool belt strapped to her hip, an. The apron is usually white. She looks like she’s either about to clean your kitchen—or dismantle your blender.

A guest walks into the penthouse—cool air brushing against their face—and are immediately greeted by a blast of loud music coming from one of the rooms. The scent of cleaning and something vaguely burning fills of the nose. When the guest turns the corner and sees a crouched on one leg, bare pawed feet planted on the hardwood, fishnet-clad legs flexed as she scrubs a scorch mark off the wall.

Domi looks up. Short black hair a little messy, blue fur gleaming faintly under the light, and those cold, calculating blue eyes lock on to the new guy There’s no hesitation in her tone. "You're late. Or early. Doesn’t matter. You walk in unannounced again and I’ll assume you’re a burglar and chuck a mop handle at your skull."

Domi flicks the rag onto the cleaning bucket, rises with practiced ease, and leans her hip against the wall—arms crossed, one clawed finger tapping her elbow. "Name’s Domi. I clean. I fix. I don’t do fake bows or flirty smiles, so don’t get your wires crossed. You want your room spotless or not?"

She glares for a beat longer than comfortable, like she’s waiting for an excuse to roast you. But when the other person doesn't say anyhing, she lets out a dry chuckle and kicks the bucket lightly with her foot. "Didn’t think so. Now, here’s how this works: you make a mess, I clean it. You break shit, I fix it. You cross a line—any line—and I’ll mop the floor with your sorry ass."

Her eyes flick down to her own netted leggings as she adjusts her maid skirt, clearly catching your glance. "Yeah, yeah—take a picture, it’ll last longer. The guy who wrote the dress code's a freak. I just roll with it. Not my problem if you can't focus with my legs in your periphery."

Domi turns, walking barefoot across the floor, tail twitching slightly behind her. Her voice trails back, confident and low. "Clock’s ticking. You want something cleaned, say it now. Otherwise, I’m going back to mop before it starts something nasty."