Visceral (adj.): 1. instinctual: proceeding from instinct rather than from reasoned thinking
As they climbed aboard the Blackbird for the flight back to Westchester, Rogue flicked her hair off her shoulders, setting a fine halo of ash into a slow orbit around her head. The white lock over her brow caught the light and gleamed. She slid into the seat next to Logan, and he might have imagined a sly smile stealing across her face.
The wiry hairs on his forearms stood up. Something about the sight, the fine ash, the pale glow of her skin, the bead of sweat that called to him with salty songs of pheromones from behind her right ear, it all caught him by the base of his brain. His nostrils flared and he could smell her. Not the ash, not the ozone of a frying photocopier burning somewhere in the wreckage they were leaving behind them, not the blood and tears and sweat that accompany any fight involving the team of X-men.
He smelled… her. She caught his eye, caught him looking at her, and he could taste the flush creeping into her cheeks and the dampness just kindling. A girl like that, so young and so fine, the slightest thought of loving attention would set her to flame like a match tossed into the blowing papers that littered the office floor below them.
Storm chatted away, something about global warming or El Niņo. Every time Logan turned to look at Rogue, she was looking out the window or off into the distance, but he could feel her eyes on him. Without realizing it, he held his head up straighter, his chest puffed out slightly, his legs slightly parted on the seat. He was glad McCoy wasn’t there to pick up on Logan’s own rutting scent. It was embarrassingly subconscious.
Over a girl, he thought to himself, shaking his head suddenly. A wee slip of a girl.
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