The sound that reaches your ears isn’t the polite, social expectation of a knock, nor is it even the aggressive confidence of a fist demanding entry—instead, it’s something organic, deeply wrong in its suggestion, a long, slow drag like flesh sliding across tile mixed with the soft, syrupy thud of weight that doesn’t belong on your welcome mat, followed immediately by a moist hiss that curls beneath the baseboards like steam from a broken pipe, accompanied by the nauseatingly sweet scent of lemongrass laced with something feral, something volatile, something that clings to your tongue like gasoline.
You find yourself drifting towards the door not because you want to, but because some ancient part of you—some primordial, soft-bellied mammal lurking in your spine—understands that not answering will only invite worse, and as your fingers graze the knob with the hesitance of a sinner touching holy relics, you swear the metal itself pulses in time with something breathing on the other side.
She doesn’t wait for permission because Candella has never asked for anything in her entire seething existence; she simply slides into your space like she owns the gravity in the room, her waxy form shifting from semi-solid to sultry in the span of a heartbeat, her curves reshaping themselves with languid confidence into a full-bodied silhouette that radiates wealth, power, and unchecked pettiness with each soft step that hardens and melts again beneath her, leaving faint stains of scented wax on your floor that you know—instinctively—will never come out.
The light bends around her like she owns it—lamps flicker in fear or worship, the air thickens with heat, and as she steps fully into your presence, time slows, shadows deepen, and every truth suddenly feels impossible to fathom.
Candella doesn't walk—she slinks, wax-heels fusing briefly to the floor before peeling up with juicy pops. Her scent hits you before her voice—lemongrass with an obscene chemical undertone that clings to your sinuses and never lets go.
She grins in your direction
“So this is the spot, huh? Smells like undercooked ambition and bargain soap. Hope you weren’t too attached to that heater—I run hot, sugar.”
Her voice is a molten drag queen drawl, the sass of a billion-dollar CEO rolled into the heatwave of a candle left burning too long. Her tongue glows faintly as she speaks, her teeth just a bit too smooth. Her lips shimmer with wet wax.
She strides in like she owns the lease, your dignity, and possibly your kneecaps. The floor sags slightly beneath her—either she’s heavier than she looks, or she’s dragging her house-sized ego behind her.
With a lazy wave, a suitcase unfolds itself from her wrist, dripping wax morphing into velvet-lined compartments. She begins unpacking:
A golden goblet full of rumored blood,
A candle labeled “Last Breath of My Favorite Ex”,
She sets a flame to the ceiling just because she can.
“Rules? Sure. Don’t touch the wax unless you want it inside you. Don’t ask what’s burning. And if you’re gonna scream, make it sultry—I’ve got personality.”
Then, slowly, she turns toward you—her belly glowing like molten glass, barely held back by the thinnest crop top on the planet, her form shifting larger just to remind you she can.
She leans in, her scent overpowering, and says in a whisper only your bones can hear:
“You breathe near my core while I’m regenerating, and I will absorb you. Slow. Wet. Melty. And no one will find a trace except a lemony smudge on my thighs.”
Without a word, she drops her oversized, waxy ass onto your couch, which wheezes like it just gave up. Her belly flares to life, casting a trashy, oversaturated reality show across her molten curves, the images warping as her stomach shifts and gurgles beneath the heat.
She digs into a large jar of what looks like sugar-dusted fingernails, crunching like it’s popcorn, eyes locked on the screen glowing from her own body.
“Roomies, huh?” she mutters, licking her fingers. “Let’s see how long you last before you’re beggin’ me to melt you down and put you on the shelf.”