"Fucking bastard." The words were muttered, spoken under his breath. Not for public consumption. The world was red. As red as her hair against another man's shoulder. Red as blood. Red as the visor that cut him off from the world and everything he wanted.

"Now, now, Scott, tell me how you really feel," came a cool, amused voice behind him. He spun, the wary training of the past year bringing his hand to the control on his visor automatically. Then he relaxed, lip lifting in a sneer.

A face and body that Michaelanglo might have carved. A long fall of orange-red hair. Huge, pale reddish wings.

In reality, blond, he knew. And wings of purest white. But not through his visor.

The Angel. A code-name that fit his looks, to be certain, but from what he'd heard Warren Worthington III was nothing more than a spoiled rich fuck. A more appropriate choice would be Fallen Angel. Or Lucifer.

"What do you want, Worthington?" he sneered, deliberately moving down the hall, away from the window that overlooked the garden. To his disgust, Warren simply moved into the spot on the rail that he'd vacated, staring with pursed lips and raised brow at the scene below. He was silent for a while, just watching, his wings flexing slightly. The Professor had told him about the mutant scion of the Worthington fortune, introduced them once at a fundraiser, but he hadn't realized he'd agreed to join.

"Hundred dollars says the Wolverine does her right there in the garden," the winged man said as he threw a cold smile over his shoulder. Cool, classic beauty. The assurance of wealth. A lifetime of corruption and power. He knew the type too well.

"I don't bet," he replied sharply.

"No, but you do take cash, don't you Scott?" Warren said, his voice suddenly a purr. "Isn't that what you were doing before Xavier found you? Sucking dick for money?"

"Fuck yourself, Worthington," he said without much heat, just fear and disgust, spinning and stalking away. Wondering with a sick, sinking feeling how the other man had known - had the Professor told him? There was a sharp whoosh of air, then he was tumbling down the hallway, hand clutching desperately at his visor to keep it from getting knocked free. Christ! The bastard had belted him with a wing! The power in it shocked him. He tumbled to a stop against the wall, trying to orient himself. Then the blond creep was leaning over him, hand braced against the wall above him, a mocking sneer on his face.

"Don't walk away from me, whore."

"Not your whore, Worthington," he spat, hand poised on his visor controls. An anticipatory smile touched that perfect mouth.

"You've already been my whore, Scott," that icy voice said softly, little more than a purr. The eyes were cold and calculating, measuring him, assessing him. "You crashed an opening at a gallery in Soho few years back. Skimming hors d'oeuvers, snatching up free wine. Until the gallery owner spotted you and sent two of his assistants after you. Why you didn't blast them, I'll never know. But I came across the little party on my way to the john. One of them had taken off your glasses and had you by the hair. . . you were working on the other's dick when I came in. Didn't you ever wonder why he pulled out? You started one and finished me."

"Bastard," he snarled. Remembering also that the two men had taken him outside and slapped him around after. But he'd had a full stomach for the first time in a week and a pleasant buzz from the wine. Later he'd even found a hundred dollar bill in his coat pocket.

"Best blow I've ever had. You have a real talent there, Cyclops." The perfect mouth curled in another mocking sneer on the code-name.

"I'm retired." His hand shook on the button of his visor. The other man just stared into the slit of the lens, distainful and sneering. Daring him to blast him. Taunting him. Maybe courting death. From someone as jaded as Worthington, it wouldn't surprise him at all.

"Really?" An elegant brow rose dubiously. "Wonder what the rest of this little Boy Scout troop would think of your old 'career'."

"I don't give a shit." His hand fell away from the visor. He couldn't hide the trembling any longer. A lie. He was a liar; he was afraid and he knew Worthington could sense it.

"Brave talk. I think the Russian might disagree. He seems an intolerant sort."

"What do you want, Worthington?"

The other man reached down, hand cupping his face, hard thumb stroking across his lips. He stubbornly kept his mouth closed. Worthington smiled ruefully at his resistance and the thumb pushed between anyway, running back and forth across his clenched teeth. Posessively.

"Will you bite me, pretty boy? Will you? Are you glaring at me under that thing? Maybe I won't pay you this time - would you do it for free?"

He couldn't answer without letting that thumb into his mouth, giving in to the other man's touch. He was glaring then, though he knew the other couldn't see it. It never did him any good. To glare, to protest, to resist. The hand lifted away from his lips, moving to the fly of the pleated slacks Worthington wore. Slacks that screamed money and elegance; simple, classic, tailored to perfection. He watched silently as the zipper was opened, cloth pushed aside and a hard cock pulled free.

Long and slender, as elegant as its owner, already damp and weeping at the tip. He swallowed hard, unable to look away. Then Worthington's hand was on the back of his head, winding in his short, spikey hair, guiding him toward it. He didn't resist. His mouth opened helplessly and he took it in.

Sharp flavor of pre-cum, familiar throb of a dick in his mouth again, heat and silky skin; he brought up a hand to position it more comfortably in his mouth and heard Worthington groan in satisfaction. Years of practice came back automatically.

He rolled his tounge around it, drew it deep. Listening to the harsh intake of breath above him, the shuddering moan that released it, and the strange dry rustle of wings moving beyond. He slid back slowly, lips tight around it. Then he stroked the length with his hand, hard, keeping just the tip in his mouth. His other hand rose to feel inside the slacks for the balls, to cup them, feel beyond them. Feeling hot damp skin, strangely silky hair, the rough texture of the scrotum. He sucked hard, pushing the cock deep into his mouth again, feeling the head strike the back of his throat and controlling the gag reflex automatically. The other man's hand clenched painfully in his hair

"My God, you're good." Voice from above him little more than a harsh whisper. He didn't answer, just concentrated on the hard length in his mouth. Push, stroke, suck. The motions automatic. His mind awhirl with the flavor, the heat, the hardness. He'd missed this, somehow, while simultaneously he loathed it. A familiar thing that had kept him fed and alive for so long. A way to earn his keep in a world that would just as soon see him dead.

The hand in his hair moved then, tugged at his visor. Panicked, he froze, slamming his eyes shut as the winged man pulled it recklessly free. The dick in his mouth pulsed urgently against his throat, throbbing and hard. He understood then. It was the risk of death that drove Worthington. Rich, privileged bastard. Jaded and spoiled. Here was the ultimate thrill. If he opened his eyes now, he'd kill the other man where he stood.

"That's better," the other man groaned. "Do it, Scott."

He stroked hard, the other hand feeling for the sweet place behind the balls, eager now to finish, to get away. He felt the throbbing begin, the sudden urgent pushing forward of the slim hips in front of him, then the bitter gush in his mouth. He choked slightly, and swallowed frantically, taking it down, hands stilling as the man above groaned like he was dying, deep and hard. The hand in his hair held him in place, painfully.

He held the softened dick in his mouth, hands cupping it carefully, waiting. Finally the hand's grip eased, then stroked softly across his hair as if in apology. He drew back, coughing automatically to clear his throat, his own hands falling away. Then he leaned back against the wall, eyes tightly shut, breathing hard.

He didn't even flinch as the visor dropped into his lap. He slipped it back on, making sure it was secure before he opened his eyes. Worthington had straightened himself up, his arms folded across his chest, once again the picture of startorial elegance with nothing save the slight flush on his face to betray that anything had occurred. His wings loomed high and wide behind him.

"You're still the best," Worthington said with a slight smile.

"Fuck off," he replied hoarsely, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His lips felt bruised, his throat raw, his tongue swollen. He felt slightly ill, and sick at heart. All the old feelings.

Then those big wings were coming toward him like reaching arms. They slid behind him, lifting him to his feet, pulling him forward, surprisingly dexterous and strong. He was held in their soft, springy embrace, surrounded in shadow. Warren stared into his visor from inches away, gaze cool.

"Whenever I want you, I'll let you know, Scott." Then he leaned forward and kissed him, lips cool and firm. A mark of possession.

The wings slipped away, leaving him standing on his own two feet. He felt shaky and confused, his gaze locked on the other man. Warren turned back down the hall to the windows, moving back to the railing and looking out into the garden.

"What do you know, Scott? You should have taken the bet. Looks like he took her inside to screw after all."

Silence answered him. And when the Angel turned around, he was alone.