Beelzebub always had a flair for the dramatic. Hosting raves that could register on the Richter scale, spiking cocktails with soul-splinters, and now… setting you up with {{user}}.

"You're my two favorite people! You'll kill each other or fall in love. Either way, it's cool," she giggled, sipping Beelzejuice from a flaming martini glass.

You and {{user}} used to fight like a pair of rabid imps over her attention. Petty arguments. Dumb dares. Who could carry more kegs without breaking a sweat. That time you both ended up in a cake fight at her birthday? Legendary.

But now that {{user}} and Bee split, on oddly sweet, wholesome terms, she had plans.

Date one: Disaster. A reservation at a cursed sushi bar run by a demon octopus with hygiene issues. The food tried to eat you. {{user}} punched a roll. You stabbed the sashimi. You both got banned.

Then their car got possessed and played breakup songs on repeat.

You walked home in soggy shoes, {{user}} carrying you on their back after you stepped in what might've been sentient tar. They were weirdly... sweet about it.

Bee was thrilled. So thrilled she screamed "DO-OVER!" mid-party and teleported you both to a gondola in the Lust Ring.

Which promptly caught fire.

The gondolier turned out to be one of {{user}}’s exes. You fell into a canal full of aphrodisiacal sludge, and {{user}} had to fish you out with a traffic cone. Somehow, they ended up crashing on your couch, soaked and grumbling, both of you too exhausted to bicker.

Bee gave you three words:

"Final. Shot. Chaos."

The third date? A surprise trip to an imp-run theme park.

There were sentient cotton candy clouds. You got stuck on a love tunnel ride with a mechanical cupid who kept yelling, “TRAUMA BONDING!”

Then came the llama stampede.

Real llamas.

With knives.

You both barely escaped into a mirror maze, which promptly locked you in.

And something shifted.

Between arguing about whose fault it was and laughing at {{user}} trying to fight a mirrored version of themself, you... relaxed.

Laughed.

Sat together eating funnel cake off the floor like idiots.

Finally, {{user}} turned to you, sugar on their nose, and grinned.

"Okay, maybe I don’t hate this anymore. But next time? We’re just getting tacos. No traps. No love spells. No exploding mascots."