Chapter Text
Tuesday nights are for laundry. It’s arguably the slowest night, the basement smelling of mildew and cherry blossoms, an unfortunate brand of laundry detergent, and a putrid combination to Katsuki’s sensitive nose.
Katsuki has laundry night down to a science. Months of scoping out, finding the least trafficked times— he gets to do his laundry in peace without interruptions or idle chat. Which is important when there’s only one working washer in the whole complex and maintenance stickers plastered on the other two sad, hopeless washing machines.
Katsuki goes a year without many hitches in his schedule. That is, until two months ago.
Someone else is hell bent on doing laundry on Tuesday evenings as well, and at first it only irks Katsuki. Whoever it is seems to only do laundry every other week, so it’s manageable, and as easy as it would be for Katsuki to just shift his time... there was no fucking way in hell he was doing it. He did the work to find this time slot, he deserves to use it without complication.
This past month has brought the worst out of Katsuki. The stranger is doing a huge load every week and leaves their shit in the washer way past the cycle’s end time. Katsuki isn’t against moving someone’s clothes to open up the washer. He finds himself doing it more often than not, and suddenly what was mild irritation blooms into making the laundry guy “public enemy number one.”
So it’s Tuesday night and Katsuki is prepared to fight a man. He has his basket slotted against his hip, notepad and pen shoved in his hoodie’s pocket. Apparently his passive aggressive toss of the stranger‘s clothes into the dryer (not started of course, that shit costs money) isn’t enough of a sign.
Katsuki drops the basket to his feet and surveys the washer. Full, cycle done, the fucker back at it again. Typical.
He rolls his eyes and gets started transferring the sopping wet clothes. “If I ever see this fucker in the flesh, I swear to god—“
He freezes, fist clenched around a wet ball of... women’s lingerie? Katsuki peeks into the remaining clothes sitting in the washer. It’s only lingerie. And by how thoroughly soaked through it is, Katsuki knows this person is washing it on a normal setting.
Katsuki unfolds the lingerie in his hands, a red lacy number that’s semi-transparent. He has seen lingerie before, on a partner or a mannequin at the store, but holding it for himself sends a flush of red straight to his face. It’s a one piece, with cutouts for a flash of skin on either side. It almost looks like his size, built for someone bigger or with more muscle density. Katsuki gulps, instinctively balls up the piece again, and shoves it into his pocket before finishing the task at hand.
It’s a fee for his services, karma or whatever. The fucker has tons, and she obviously doesn’t know how to take care of them.
He tosses his own clothes in the washer and starts a new cycle, then pulls out his notepad to scribble a message:
Hey, quit leaving stuff in the washer. Wash it on delicate. Air dry. Fuck you.
Katsuki smirks, satisfied with the note, and places it on the dryer in a place easily seen. The instructions aren’t necessary, but they do give him a sense of superiority over the stranger. He tosses his basket onto the washer and heads back upstairs, timer set.
Katsuki is thirty minutes into a show when he goes to place his hands in his pockets. He’s greeted by damp lace and suddenly he remembers. He pulls the lingerie out and carefully undoes the knot it has become. It’s wrinkled in his hands and he decides it’s best to hang it up. He does so by draping it over his shower railing.
Katsuki isn’t sure why he’s treating the piece with such care, something he stole to prove a point to someone he highly doubts will even notice it’s gone. It’s pretty, hanging there against the white of his shower walls. He wonders what it’d look like on someone.
He wonders what it’d look like on himself.
That was a thought for another time. The timer is going off on his phone in the living room and he has to go switch over his laundry. When Katsuki arrives in the basement, he’s alone. It’s eerily quiet, all machines stopped as they awaited direction. He makes quick work of switching over his laundry and his eye catches a note on the dryer. Except, it’s not his note. It’s a note for him.
Thanks for the help! And sorry about the washer, I get distracted easily. I’ll work on being better about it! xx
What a disgustingly, nice note. That’s not what throws Katsuki off though. The handwriting is barely legible, chicken scratch, and harsh lines. Not to assume someone’s gender off a fucking post it note, but that was a guy’s handwriting if he ever saw it. The owner of several pairs of poorly washed lingerie?
Nah, something wasn’t adding up.
Katsuki crumbles up the note and starts the dryer. Maybe next week he’ll come a bit earlier. Not to give the extra his time of day or anything, merely to satiate his curiosity. And boy was Katsuki curious about a lot of things after that night.
The following morning rolls on by. Katsuki makes it to his day job and through his gym session with Eijirou like any other day— he’s covered in sweat and desperate for a shower. He makes it to his bathroom to be greeted by the disorientating sight of red. Katsuki swallows, takes the (mostly dry) lingerie and hangs it on the back of the door. A typically calming part of his day is filled with thoughts of lace. He washes up yet his mind is distracted.
Why did he really take it?
What was he hoping to gain?
How would it feel against his skin?
Katsuki curses the stranger from the laundry room. This is all her-his-their(?) fault. Katsuki grabs a towel and dries off. He makes it halfway to his room, picking a pair of boxers and sweats on his mind, when he stops. He’s already naked, the lingerie is for the most part dry... what harm would it do to just... try it on?
Just once. To get the nagging thoughts out of his brain and nothing more. That’s what Katsuki tells himself anyway. He turns himself back to the bathroom to claim the lingerie set. Even though he lives alone in his apartment, he brings the piece to his bedroom and locks the door. His heart thumps in his throat and he convinces himself he’s not completely shaking in anticipation from slipping the garment on.
The towel drops to his ankles and he steadies his balance to dip a foot into it. He struggles at first to get the fabric past his thighs but manages, finding it even more snug as he shimmies it over his chest. He slides the straps over broad shoulders, feeling the pull of too tight fabric against his skin. His cock twitches— partly from the way it’s squished between his thighs and the underbelly of the lingerie, partly from the excitement that buzzes through every limb of his body.
Katsuki lets his fingers graze his semi-hardened cock, a friction of lace between skin. He feels so good. He needs to see himself.
The reflection isn’t what Katsuki is expecting. Despite the obvious stretch of fabric and ill-fitting bralette, it accentuates parts of his body he wasn’t entirely aware of— the tapering of his waist under his strong chest, the way the middle flatters and cinches to pull focus there.
It feels entirely wrong but not for the reasons Katsuki was expecting. A mild wedgie up the ass crack and major emphasis on his Dorito-like stature (y’know like that one guy who plays Captain America), he... likes what he sees. The subtle tear of lace from the width of pecs left little to the imagination, fabric splitting at the armpits. There is no way the laundry fuckwad is getting it back, not in its current state.
Call it dues for all the lost time he accrued waiting and switching over someone else’s laundry. Katsuki traces his fingers down the contours of the lingerie, feels every angle of his body with curious hands. Despite the amount of clothing he has on (or lack thereof), his skin is on fire. He doesn’t take it off for the remainder of the night. He wears the lingerie a few more times. It jabs into him when he sits and his cock feels like it’s in a chokehold half of the time, but it doesn’t compare to the high wearing it brings him.
Katsuki feels a sort of softness that has never been used to describe him. He is loud and all rough edges. And fuck, if the outfit didn’t make him feel goddamn hot. Ethereal, even. He’s never felt so unlike himself, yet, entirely more like Katsuki Bakugou.
So he wears it lounging on his couch while scrolling through his phone, or sometimes when he cooks an easy dinner. One day, he wears it under the black button-up and slacks he dons for work. His office job is not made for ill-fitting garments that make sitting a chore— the feeling it brought though? It was worth the uncomfortable, multiple adjustments he had to make underprotection of a bathroom stall.
Katsuki wears it more than a handful of times before the next laundry day. He doesn’t show up early, no instead, he shows up a few minutes later than usual. Part of him hopes to find a washer full and ready to be switched over. What he would do with that situation, he’s not sure.
Low and behold, the dryer is already humming. Katsuki prepares his clothes, all the while his attention remains focused on the tumbling of wet clothes in the machine a few feet away from him. What if it was... lingerie? It’d be a crime to let the clueless shit DRY something meant to be hung damp. He’d be doing someone a favor— absolutely fucking generous of him, really.
He opens the dryer, lets the clothes fumble, and settle to the bottom. Normal. It’s all normal clothes.
Why is he disappointed?
Katsuki spots the fringe of violet lace tucked away amongst jeans and t-shirts. He reaches in, takes it in his hands. It’s obviously part of a set, the top more like a harness than a bra, no cups to support nonexistent breasts. It looks as if it’d fit him better, at least across the chest. He digs through the rest, trying to find the matching bottoms— when he hears the prominent clang of footsteps on the metal stairs leading down to the basement.
Fuck. He’s going to get caught red-handed digging through someone’s laundry AND holding their underwear. He doesn’t have much time to react, shoves the top into the dryer in haste and slams it on. He’s quick, yet sloppy. He’s sure he’s turned the settings on wrong, no time to fix the mistake.
Katsuki makes a mad dash for the door, trying to calm his breathing as he opens it. Act fucking normal. You weren’t doing anything weird, he thinks to himself. Which is an obvious and shitty lie— whatever gets him through the door as inconspicuous as possible. Katsuki is met face-to-face with a man roughly his height, olive skin and big, green eyes which widen with shock.
“Uh! Excuse me,” the stranger nervously laughs, stepping off to the side for Katsuki to walk past. It takes a moment for Katsuki to move his feet, stuck staring at the head of green, messy curls that stick up in odd places.
An absolute nerd with the cheeks of a baby and the build of a wrestler. He’s not holding a basket. The Tuesday night fuck who doesn’t know how to wash his girlfriend’s laundry. Katsuki pushes past the man without a word and stomps up the stairs. He glances over his shoulder... and for a brief moment, they lock eyes again. The guy is watching him leave.
A couple weeks go by and things have returned to normalcy. It’s comfortable, but Katsuki has an itch he cannot scratch. Too proud to admit he’s felt some sort of... emptiness since wearing the stolen lingerie down to its scraps. He always eyes the dryer, curious. He does not disturb it, lest he admit to his cravings.
Katsuki thinks about the laundry guy once or twice too. Wonders about the girl who wears the lingerie, if she misses the piece he nabbed or if she got the exhilaration he felt when he looked in the mirror? Was she fucked in it? Did the laundry guy admire every curve of her body when she wore it? What would it be like to get fucked in lingerie himself? That’s usually where he cuts off his line of thinking.
Another uneventful Tuesday evening rears its head. He’s making his way downstairs and it’s eerily quiet. Lately, he’s been greeted by familiar sounds of the dryer. Since the incident where he ran into laundry fuck extraordinaire, the guy had been especially careful about switching over his own laundry. Katsuki wonders if it has something to do with him knowing what he had done. It doesn’t matter though because they don’t run into each other again.
Except now, there’s a load sitting in a stopped washer. Katsuki swallows, sets down his basket and ponders what to do. He should definitely come back later, he can wait right?
Katsuki finds himself opening up the washer door without another blink of his eye. A familiar sight— a load of lingerie, silks and laces and tangled straps. He scoops up the load in his arms, and feels how less saturated they are. Someone was paying attention when he said to wash on delicates. He smirks, satisfied with himself. He lays out the lingerie on the edge of an empty laundry basket, hangs them to dry. Surely he’s learned to not dry them normally by now?
Katsuki shouldn’t care about another man’s laundry. He does though, and his attention is drawn to each article of clothing. His eyes linger on a forest green set, silk and wireless, with extra give for broad shoulders and a broader chest.
“Shit,” he mutters to himself. He’s fucking crazy. He wants to take it. Just long enough to try on, really. Not a permanent fix this time, he assures himself. He’ll run up stairs, slip it on, take a few mental pictures, and return it before anyone notices it’s gone.
He pockets the lingerie and finishes setting up his load in the washer, then heads upstairs to his apartment. This was becoming a bad habit of his. Since when did he become so obsessed with emasculating himself? Pathetic. He was supposed to be the embodiment of raw strength and power— hell, he was under six foot but had the guns and upper body strength to rival professionals. He worked for this, took comfort in his best friend calling him “manly as hell.”
So why was he stripping his clothes off and admiring himself in his newly acquired (stolen) women’s lingerie? Fuck. If anything it emphasized his biceps, strong chest, and the dip of his defined abdomen to his narrowed waist. It makes him look softer, but not weak. Pretty, but still tough.
Katsuki basks in the euphoria of his reflection. Dark green against pale flesh, the same color as the stranger’s untamed curls or the eyes that looked up the stairs a few weeks prior. An intense green that brings out the flush of his neck and cheeks. How is he even remembering such stupid shit? Katsuki is convinced he is finally going crazy.
He admires himself in the mirror for a minute longer, pausing when he goes to strip it off. What harm would it do if he waited to sneak it back next week? No, too risky. Reluctantly he changes back to his own clothes, folds the lingerie neatly to fit in his pocket. He needs to bring it back, he knows he has stretched his time too thin. Katsuki heads down to the basement, hand clutching onto the lingerie on his person. Quick in and out operation then—
When he opens the door, the green haired, lingerie-washing, laundry room stranger is sitting on top of one of the broken washers. He’s scribbling in a notebook, eyebrows furrowed in thought. His eyes dart up to watch Katsuki enter the room, a look of intrigue crossing his face. “Oh, hello,” he says kindly.
“Uh, hey,” Katsuki swallows hard, his grip tightening on the secret burning up in his pocket. He fakes checking his washer, a few feet away from the stranger. He can practically feel him breathing down his neck, his gaze locked onto him. He knows he’s fucked, it’s obvious his laundry has only been going for thirty minutes of its hour long cycle. There’s no logical reason for him to be there.
“Missing something?” The man asks from beside him.That excuse could work, he thinks, so he decides to roll with it. “Yeah.”
Katsuki watches him jump from his perch to stand up. “Maybe I can help. Izuku,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Katsuki.” He shakes it with his free hand, afraid if he lets go of the lingerie it’ll fallout or peek out of his pocket. The handshake lingers longer than a normal one should. Izuku, the laundry guy, is staring directly into his fucking soul.
“The fuck you starin’ at?” He scowls, suddenly on the defense. It’s come to his attention that the dryer isn’t running and the basket of unmentionables is missing. Like he is waiting down here for something else entirely.
“Sorry,” he smiles, looking over at Katsuki’s washer, “we just have a lot in common.”
“Huh?”
“I’m missing a few things from down here as well,” Izuku explains further. Katsuki’s body goes tense when he says that. “Say, you wouldn’t know a thing or two about some missing underwear... would you?”
Katsuki is backed into a tight corner and he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to get out. “You accusin’ me of something?” Katsuki scowls, toeing the line to see how far Izuku will go with this.
Izuku shakes his head, setting the notebook aside nonchalantly. “Of course not, I didn’t accuse you of anything. I just asked a simple question.”
Katsuki bites his tongue. He knows he should move on. Fuck, Izuku is hitting the head on the nail. Despite that fact, his pride has a mouth of his own. “Oi. What a way to talk to a guy you just met. Bet you do fucking great at parties.”
“You’re quite the charmer yourself,” Izuku chuckles.
“Whatever.” There’s a pregnant pause in the air and suddenly, tension builds up high. Katsuki turns to leave, knowing the longer he entertains the guy, the more likely it is that he out himself.
“You probably look great in green,” Izuku finally says. Katsuki’s hand stops on the doorknob and he swallows hard.
“The fuck you just say?” Katsuki looks over his shoulder to find something has shifted in Izuku’s eyes, something more dark or carnal.
“You can keep it, you know,” Izuku licks his bottom lip as he chooses his next words.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He’s on the offense now, wants to punch a shiner directly into the guy’s face.
Obviously he knows , but a man doesn’t just let stuff like this slide. When Izuku takes a few steps forward and stops directly in front of Katsuki, the blond immediately tenses up. “Okay, Katsuki.”
Izuku squats down to grab something off the floor and Katsuki’s heart jumps to his throat. It’s small, green. It’s immediately recognizable. Slowly he rises up to eye level with Katsuki, and tucks lace panties into the pocket from which they fell. Their hands brush and a grin spreads across Izuku’s face.
Before Izuku can speak, Katsuki throws the door open and high tails it back to the safety of his apartment.