"Exhalation"
She smelled to him like the spring, though it wasn't exactly a smell, and it wasn't exactly the spring, so. It was hard thing to define. But in the late winter, the early spring, the air gained a certain quality, a certain restlessness – a freshness, a beckoning, like white curtains fluttering over a window to an airy room, the linen whispering Come hither, come hither. It was like paper tumbling from a table, fluttering to the ground; it was like the feel of distant salt from the imagined ocean he'd only ever known through her descriptions. It was like the sigh of trees for hours, for eternity, leaves rubbing together to moan, Come hither.
And she smelled of it, felt of it, tasted of it, this sensation that was nor scent nor feeling nor taste. It was as though she exhaled it from every pore, this restlessness, this late-winter-early-spring desire, a supine goddess of unconscious sensuality.
It was like the air before a lightning strike. It was like she tore the very molecules apart, leaving the burn-sweet scent of ozone. Beneath her skin stretched and slack lay a sea of ions, roiling with potential. If he delved inside her, perhaps, he would find nothing but promise, but he'd be forever charged and forever marked by what he drew from her and she from him.
It hurt to be away from her, sometimes, just as it hurt when that scent, borne by wind, faded as spring progressed. And spring always progressed, and never lived up to those few first days. Roy would take the scent of potential before the scent of flowers.
(A/N: Number twenty. I'm excited. This one ended up a bit, you know, less innocent than I had first intended, but, meh. I have to justify that PG rating somewhere, right?)