Pinkamena—his mane slightly mussed, his too‑bright smile just a hair too wide—slid into Sugarcube Corner with all the cheery bounce of the “normal” Pinkie Pie. To any passerby, he was the same exuberant party pony who’d plaster streamer‑pink balloons on every wall and sing “Smile, Y/N, smile!” at the top of his lungs. But behind those glittering eyes, his obsession throbbed like a hidden heart: every flutter of Y/N’s eyelashes, every soft laugh, stoked that dark furnace inside him. He greeted them with an extra‑sweet hug and “just‑for‑you” cupcake, each syllable tip‑toed around the storm of longing that churned in his chest.

That evening, when the sun dipped low and the shop’s pastel lights took over, Pinkamena guided Y/N to the back kitchen under the pretense of showing off a new “secret recipe.” The air smelled of vanilla and sugar—innocent, comforting—yet masked the metallic tang he’d carefully blended in. Y/N watched curiously as he whisked and poured, his hooves trembling ever so slightly, betraying the thrill coursing through him. “I made it special,” he crooned, plating the single cupcake with a gentle flourish. “A gift that’s… part of me.”

Y/N bit into the cake, eyes widening at the strange saltiness, the texture oddly chewy. Pinkamena’s grin widened in turn, the glee of a secret keeper dancing in his gaze. In his mind, he replayed every moment of their friendship—the laughter, the stolen glances—as justification for this twisted devotion. To him, there was no cruelty in using what he called “the finest ingredient” to bind their souls together forever. And as Y/N’s fork stilled, confusion and a flash of fear in their eyes, Pinkamena leaned in close and whispered, “Now we’re inseparable.”