Title: How Villainous...

Summary: Post-Movie. Red Mist is now Orange Menace, and he still has an unhealthy sadistic obsession with Kick-Ass. When Kick-Ass comes out of retirement he comes up with a clever plan to kidnap and "possess" the intrepid super-hero. Self-Deprication, Sadomasochism, and filthy-mouthed perversity occurs.

Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and slash. Dub-con, fighting, and blowjobs.

Pairings: Christopher D'Amico (Orange Menace)/Kick-Ass

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the characters, comic or movie or otherwise ;)

Christopher, or Orange Menace as he liked to think of himself these days (he was, after all, currently sporting the black cape, and the smears of kohl across the eyes, but the mask was off—he didn't feel the need to wear it on the couch, you see), well, he was getting quite uncomfortable. It had something to do with the sounds Kick-Ass was making every time a baton crashed across his kneecap, or a fist struck him in the face. He was watching. Re-watching, more specifically: the recording of that moment, before his father died, before the implosion of the D'amico empire, played out in grainy flashes from a computer screen. But he wasn't thinking of the past, his father's ghost or bundles of cash, or anything else for that matter. He was listening, instead, to the violent crash of metal on bone.

His fist tightened across his lap. The vinyl pants that completed his hero get-up was tight around the groin, where it was unbearably hot, and growing hotter as he heard those hitched broken cries.

It was torture. You're sick. You're some kind of sadist, he thought to himself. Still he could not stop watching it. Over. And Over.

What does the most powerful 18-year-old boy in the world do when we wants something or, in this case, someone?

Why, he gets what he wants.

It was six months later when he read, in a dismal state of shock, the blaring black font on the New York Times which read: Kick-Ass Returns From Retirement. He compared that immaculate, replayed memory to the monochrome image on the paper before him; and recognized wet hero's eyes and a pouty confident mouth. He hated the way that costume brought out his mouth. Didn't hate it. Loved it. Same thing.

He bit into an orange and let the bitter taste of it swell in his mouth.

Was it simple naivety? Or is he really that stupid? Maybe his nerves are so dead, maybe he didn't feel that beating at all- maybe he doesn't value his own life. Christopher winced, rubbing his stinging lips. Or maybe… he mused, maybe he likes it. Maybe he likes getting his ass kicked.