Smooth.

Smooth, sexy, classy, dirty, muted, loud, controlled, unpredictable, well-kempt, and disheveled.

A word for myself, and one for you, in a constant, back-and-forth rhythm.

…that's clearly a lie. I wish I was smooth. That first word is yours as well.

Your streaked tail moves back and forth underneath the wrought-iron chair as you casually lean back, draping a foreleg over the top of the seat. Sipping your coffee like that, you almost look sophisticated. Almost.

You raise a brow, and I raise my cup in kind. Earl Grey. I will never tire of it. You will never understand. But that's alright- this entire… affair seems to work that way.

Your tail swishes in a defined rhythm. A ticking clock, measuring the length of the awkwardness in the air. The awkwardness that I'm causing, despite my muted smile. It's not as though I can help it. You're just so… fascinating.

Babe, you would say. Stop thinking so much. If only I was capable of such a thing.

I continue to watch the two-toned blue streak, barely able to see the motion around the circular table as the tip of the hairs in your tail brush daintily along the ground. Of course, anything dainty from you is unintentional. And I love that about you. Just like so many other aspects of you.

No, you are never dainty, classy, muted, controlled, or well-kempt. This little café, something that could easily be straight out of a romanticized painting from a Canterlot noble, was my idea. You'd be just as content to meet at a fast food 'joint', as you call them. Though I wouldn't be ecstatic, I would be happy there, too. So long as I'm with you.

Your hoof taps to an internal rhythm, and you hike a brow above those magnificent purple shades of yours. Oh, how I love when you do that. The cheeky grin that half of your mouth displays helps as well. You know just how to get to me. If only I understood it.

No words are needed here. I'm content to just watch your mannerisms, and you're content to bob your head, grinning stupidly as you enjoy your drink. We both know where this road leads to. Tangled sheets and sweating bodies, accompanied by either a throbbing beat or smooth background melody. It usually depends upon who can get their hoof onto the remote to your sound system first.

Not that I mind. I'd endure all the noise in the world just for another taste of you. I don't understand it. I'll likely never understand it. But that's alright- though I keep all other aspects of my life ordered, you've become my guilty pleasure. An undefined, variable constant. Always there, ready for a little noncommittal fun.

It's not my style, not even close. But I can't resist. I cross my legs under the table, and shift in my seat as I smile kindly at you.

That tail is still going. What's on your mind? Would I understand if you told me? I shake my head. It's a doubtful notion. You're an electric, noisy mystery. One that I would never give up. Well… at least, I don't think that I would.

I know about your reputation. I know that there have likely been as many mares and stallions in your bed as there have been changes of sheets.

Though knowing you, you never change your sheets.

I think I just grossed myself out. I'll make a mental note for us to go try it on the couch or countertop this time.

Oh, for the love of Celestia, that smile. Your timing is impeccable, and it makes a blush creep up onto my cheeks. It's like you know what I'm thinking, even when I don't. None of this makes any sense, and I fear that one day, it may stop working.

Let down your guard, you would say. Live in the moment.

I try. I really do. For you. I sip my tea again. You order another round of fries.

You eat like such a pig. Both here, and in the sheets.

…when did I start thinking such dirty thoughts?

I let out a light laugh, and you do as well. You put a fry into your mouth suggestively, and I take it from you and place it in my own. You look surprised.

So do I.

How I would love to jump over the table and give it back to you with a kiss. But such a thing would be inappropriate, and I have a reputation to uphold.

If we keep this up, though, perhaps I won't.

Out of Earl Grey. I order peppermint tea. A suitable chaser. You laugh as I steal another fry. Your laugh makes me melt, but I would never admit to such a thing. Not here, anyway.

Why are you yawning? A stupid question, I know. I wouldn't be surprised if I woke you, even though I came by at two in the afternoon. You're such a lazy, naughty, incorrigible pony. This could never work seriously, but I just can't get enough.

You and I… we are perfect imperfection. A square peg and a round hole. And yet… we fit. Even our cutie marks are related. I used to think that my attraction to you was just due to our mutual love of music, but now…

…is it love? Why can't I answer that, even in my own mind?

I know your answer. A resounding 'no'. But I can't help the way that I feel. That is, assuming that is what I'm feeling.

But we're so incompatible! My parents would have an absolute fit if they knew!

…but does that matter anymore?

…you always tell me that I think too much. You're giving me that look. I know, I'm scrunching up my face and looking displeased as I raise the new cup of steaming liquid to my lips. I shrug.

That tail is still going. That hoof still tapping. You begin to watch the ponies passing on the street. You enjoy my company, but… I know what you want.

I want it, too.

I'll never know why. I had never had any experience with sex until you came along. It had started so simple. I heard your 'music' from the street, and knocked on the door. We argued a bit, played our styles back and forth, yelled a bit more, and the next thing I knew, I was in your bed. Who would ever have guessed? Certainly not I.

Oh, stop tapping your hoof, I'm hurrying to finish my drink. I know that you know, too. For two ponies who have only been… involved for two weeks, we certainly seem to know quite a bit about each other.

…I almost hope that it is love. That you'll give up your insane lifestyle and settle down, just for me. We certainly have chemistry, sexual or otherwise, despite our differences. You're my freedom. A nice little vacation from the norm. A vacation that I honestly wouldn't mind making permanent.

But… oh, I don't know. I really don't know what I'm doing, and this could be a moronic schoolfilly crush. I'm not even entirely convinced that I prefer mares. I just… there are so many confusing and conflicting aspects to this. It doesn't sit well with my overly analytical mind.

I adore you, and I despise you. It makes no sense. I want you, and I want to be rid of you. I love the taste of your lips, but I feel so guilty. But the pleasure outweighs the guilt. At least… I think it does. The promise of freedom that you bring… it's irresistible. I've never had such a thing before.

I finish my tea, and we rise in perfect sync. Our melodies overlap, and we begin walking in rhythm after I casually toss some bits onto the table, generous tip included. Your hoof pats my flank, and I want to slap you for doing such a thing in public.

But I also love it.

…I hesitantly return the gesture.

You laugh. I laugh. A polyrhythm of mirth, and it sounds beautiful.

I almost ask 'your place or mine?', but I know how unnecessary that is. Like you would follow me all the way back to Canterlot for a momentary fling.

…maybe you would. I can never tell with you.

What is this feeling that I get when I come to Ponyville to see you? Why are my visits becoming more and more frequent?

I shake my head. None of it matters. In the end, I can cast aside all of those questions but one as we walk through the threshold of your home and I find your lips on mine.

I moan into your lips, and you snicker at my sensitivity as we fall to the floor. I suppose the floor works, as well. It'll be something new. You rip my bowtie off of my neck, and place a firm kiss upon the unoccupied space. I love it, and close my eyes. Despite the pleasure, I cannot help but let that one question linger-

Do I love you… or the thought of you?


Author's Note: What the hell did I just write.

So I was sitting here listening to Slow, Love, Slow from Nightwish's new album Imaginaerum, and couldn't help but associate the song's strange departure into slow jazz with Octavia. I immediately got the mental image of Octy and Vinyl Scratch sitting in a café, and ran with it.

I don't like this ship. I also decided that after writing My Gift today, I don't like writing in first person, at all. I also don't like straight shipping with no context. But I ALSO don't like staying 'safe' in writing, and sticking to only what I'm comfortable with. So… I chose to try to combine three things I didn't like and make it work. This will likely be the last thing I write in first person for a while. Maybe I'll do it again at some point, who knows. It's deliciously awkward to do, though, and feels pretty uncomfortable.

…I'll definitely have to do it again.

Did it work? I have no idea. You'll have to let me know. I had no plan going into this story, and just left the song on repeat the entire time while I was writing. Though there are some elements from the lyrics that should be somewhat easy to spot, I completely lost sight of them over time, and just wrote moreso based on the slow, questioning, and sexy 'feel' of the music. I really don't even know what happened here.

More content will keep on coming. Venom 7 before the end of the month. I'll set that as the deadline for now, and hopefully I can live up to it.

Final question of the chapter belongs to Nightwish, and is taken from their lyrics with no intent to make a profit. Ass status: covered.

~SoundofRainfall