Chizome Akaguro shuffled through the dimly lit halls of this shithole motel, laundry basket in hand. Sure, it was dark, and damp, and smelled slightly of mildew and bleach, but Stain didn't mind. He wasn't like those sissies "employing" him, the League of Villians. All he needed was anonymity. He could handle the rougher side of life, and that's how he liked it. This? This was nothing.
There was, however, one thing that bothered him, something very irrational, so much so that it irked him: he didn't like getting his uniform dirty. He knew it was silly and frou-frou to not want such a ragged, abused set of clothes to bare his namesake, but for some reason, he couldn't stand the thought. It wasn't exactly PC to call certain behaviors OCD when you didn't actually have that condition, but that's the only way he could describe it.
So he continued down the hall until he reached the laundry room, entering and flipping the lights on in the dingy den. It smelled. He grunted. He had brought his costume, which he had repaired since that disastrous battle with those blasted kids. Dumb brainwashed sheep. He almost felt bad for them. His face and neck throbbed where he had gotten hit. Almost. In addition, he brought some civilian clothes, in fact all the civilian clothes he owned, save the ones he was wearing; sweatpants, pullover hoodie, and sunglasses to help obscure his face. Might as well clean those up too.
He, being a dick, took up two washers, one for said civilian clothes, and one for his "costume." Chizome scoffed. He always hated it when people, especially Handjob, called it that. So-called heroes wore costumes. Revolutionaries wore uniforms. He scooped everything out of the basket, save for one item, his favorite. His breath hitched as he touched the smooth surface of it. Oxiclean, stain-fighting detergent. This Stain, however, could never dream of fighting it.
He ran his unusually long tongue over his lips. Were they that dry a second ago? He popped the lid, and admired the smell and sight before him. Pure and pristine, just as Billy Mays had promised it would be. Ah, Billy Mays. He had always looked up to that man, what with his deep dark eyes, spongy beard, and booming voice. The thought of that rich baritone raping his ears sent shivers down his spine. He looked around quickly, making sure that no one else had entered the room, silently and/or magically. Nope.
He pulled the front of his waistband out, and looked down. Yep, that was a half-chub. He lightly bitch-slapped it, which apparently was enough to send him over that edge, causing it to erect fully and point at the heavens, where he imagined Billy Mays was, smiling down at him. With a shaking, slender, calloused hand, he reached out, and wrapped around it. His eyes closed involuntarily. Slowly, softly, he began to stroke.
He continued at this pace, gently rocking back and forth on his feet. He breathed heavily, yet almost silently, like an owl's wings. He had a childhood friend who had an owl Quirk. But that was not who (or perhaps hoo) he was thinking about. Oh no. He was thinking about large, manly hands touching him, of a thick cock filling him completely. He was thinking of a man leaning into his ear from behind, saying "I'll double this offer, but you gotta call now!"
Stain was slapped out of his fantasy by the sound of the door opening. His eyes snapped open and he quickly pulled his hoodie over his member. If they had seen him, it would have looked as though he were simply adjusting his clothes. He tried to slow his breathing and look normal, deciding to stare awkwardly through the holes in his plastic basket. If he looked at the Oxiclean, he feared he would cum.
A middle-aged woman and what he presumed to be her young son walked in, and settled down at one of the many other washers. She glanced over at him, and flashed a smile. "Sunglasses indoors, huh?" Chizome twitched his lips. "Had a surgery recently." Nosy bitch. He sighed. He supposed he shouldn't be mad at the woman for interrupting him, it's not like she had planned to. The side of his face not facing her twitched into a smile. In fact, he should probably thank her. He had been getting close, and perhaps this intrusion was just what he needed to prolong this heavenly experience.
After what felt like ages of trying (and failing) to think non-erotic thoughts and not imperceptibly thrust his hips the lady and boy left. The instant the door closed behind them he had his sweater pulled up. He stuck his hand in between his abs and member and resumed pumping. In his mind's eye he was with Billy again, being filled by him, and yet filling him. Being surrounded by him, and yet surrounding him. He looked out through the pile of Billys and Stains that engulfed him and saw another Billy, this one fully clothed, standing with his hand on his crotch and a smirk on his lips. "This can all be yours for just $19.95."
Stain bucking his hips wildly, knowing he was close. If anyone else walked in, well, screw 'em. There was no way in hell he was stopping now. At the last second, he reared up on his tippy-toes, aligning his pelvis with the top of the washer and letting him spurt his load into the Oxiclean tub's open maw.
He exhaled, and opened his eyes, laughing, and carefully tucked himself back into the sweatpants. He stared into container, and grinned lewdly. With his right index finger, he reached into it and started mixing the fluid with the powder. It clumped at first, but with gentle persuasion the assassin was able to crush those down, until the contents, though obviously disturbed, seemed no worse for the wear. He shoveled some of this cock-born cocktail into each washer, slammed the doors shut, inserted the coins, and turned them on. He picked up his basket and started heading towards his room, eyes still narrow and glazed over from lust. One of the motel's other residents had their TV on fairly loud, loud enough that he could hear a Billy Mays commercial was on. He was hard again before he even reached his room.
