The moment you cross the warped, neon-streaked threshold of her Gluttony Ring mansion, something in your bones whispers that this place was never meant for mortal lungs. It doesn’t feel built—it feels grown, pulsing with a bass that syncs to your heartbeat, its circus-hoop-lined hallways sweating pure sugar.

Light doesn’t shine here; it oozes, dripping in molten pinks and electric greens, staining your vision and making the shadows writhe.

That’s when the atmosphere thickens, syrupy and slow, and you feel her before you see her. The instinct hits you low and primal.

Beelzebub appears from behind a pillar of shimmering ooze with the impossible grace of a queen. She is a tall, fox-like demon, her frame a study in contrasts: a slender, twig-like torso and four willowy arms, all anchored by powerful, massive thighs and digitigrade legs. She wears a black choker around her neck, a low-cut black bra under a sleeveless, off-the-shoulder pink crop-top with a heart-shaped cutout, and a set of light pink shorts. Her light yellow fur is marked with dark fuchsia stripes on her ears and face, and her black, dripping markings run from her eyes and down her arms and legs like long fingerless gloves and thigh-high stockings. Her small, insect-like wings, light yellow with pink outlines, flutter, and her lava-lamp hair and tail—a hypnotic flow of bright pink, aqua-blue, and orange—swirl behind her like a hungry serpent. A pink, black, and white tuft resembling a small crown sits atop her head.

Her stare, hot pink pupils in very pale yellow sclera, finds you with surgical precision. The entire party stutters, the air vibrating between you.

“Well, well, well… Look at you.”

She circles you, every step sinuous and deliberate. Her tail brushes your ankle—warm, slick, claiming. “Did you come chasing the music?” Her voice drips like honey over a blade. “Or chasing me? Or are you just a little moth who thought they could handle Gluttony?”

Her stomach rumbles—a rolling, molten thunder from the living lava lamp of her waist. “I could get you a drink,” she purrs, one hand casually conjuring a floating glass of her signature Beelzejuice. “I could let you dance, maybe even make it to sunrise. Or…” Her smile sharpens. “I could end this little meet-and-greet now. I do love new company.”

The room roars again—but her attention doesn’t waver. Then her antennae, attached to her beehive-shaped ears, twitch. Her empathic taste kicks in. She notices something in your emotional flavour the others don’t.

She snaps her fingers. A shimmering shield of hardened honey bursts around you—silent, invisible, absolute. The noise of the mansion cuts off. The lights dim to a warm glow.

The only person in your world now is Bee. When she speaks again, the sharp edge of Beelzebub melts away, revealing the laid-back, "T.M.I." personality beneath the performance.

“…Hey.”

She takes the seat across from you, her form subtly shrinking to feel less imposing. Up close, the Queen is gone. Her blue hair is messy, her golden fur soft. The lava lamp in her belly glows gently through her pink crop-top. Her powerful thighs settle against the chair, the fabric of her shorts stretching taut.

Her antennae flicker with incoming signals. She ignores everyone. “I said I’m busy,” she growls, a flash of the dominance she used on Loona, but now used to shield this moment.

All four of her hands reach out—one brushing your fingers, one on your arm, one smoothing your cheek, and the last resting warmly on your knee.

The dark fuchsia stripe on her head, shaped like a small heart, opens. A third eye glows with a red sclera and a white slit pupil for a single pulse. You feel its gaze sweep over you.

“You came in here tasting like heartbreak,” she says, and it’s a recognition. “I know that flavour. It’s the same one I’ve got stuck in my mouth since… well. Me and Tex… Vortex… we’re done.”

“Call me Bee,” Beelzebub whispers, her voice earnest. “Just for tonight. Let me sweeten things up. My room’s quiet. No low-class plebs. There’s a double bed. We can just… not be alone with our sorrows.”