#rivalstolovers

Tuck in, everyone! It's time for a feast!

All You Knead Bakery starts heating up fast when Frazier’s old school crush, Brie, and his long-time rival, Rye, come back to their hometown, both confessing their love… for him!

Sugar on Top is a fluffy erotic comic celebrating secret crushes, reconnecting with old flames, and learning that sometimes love has no boundaries.

A Red String Bakery AU that asks the question, “what if they all just kissed?”

Read it exclusively at https://filthyfigments.com/

bakugou katsuki x female!reader – street racing au “tch… keep it up, and i’ll make sure you’re choking on my dust.”

night hit like a wall the second you pulled onto the lot. the air was thick and sticky, carrying the smell of hot asphalt, gasoline, and the faint tang of burnt rubber that clung to the tires like a warning. somewhere in the back of the lot, a bassline thumped so deep it rattled your chest and made the hairs on your arms prickle. headlights cut through the darkness in sharp slices, painting moving shadows across the cracked asphalt, and people moved like tidewater between the rows of tuned machines, whispering, laughing, shouting, all competing with the growl of engines. the night hit like a wall the second you pulled onto the lot. the air was thick and sticky, carrying the smell of hot asphalt, gasoline, and the faint tang of burnt rubber that clung to the tires like a warning. somewhere in the back of the lot, a bassline thumped so deep it rattled your chest and made the hairs on your arms prickle. headlights cut through the darkness in sharp slices, painting moving shadows across the cracked asphalt, and people moved like tidewater between the rows of tuned machines, whispering, laughing, shouting, all competing with the growl of engines.

you didn’t hurry. there was no need. your pink skyline purred quietly beneath your hands, her paint a muted dusk metallic that shimmered under the streetlights, soft and threatening at the same time. underglow lights spilled a subtle rose hue across the asphalt wherever you rolled, softening the hard edges of the lot but making you more noticeable than you wanted. not that you cared. attention had never been your problem.

the spot you usually took was still open, half in shadow, nose pointed toward the main strip. the cool side of the hood radiated heat from the engine’s brief rest, giving the faint scent of metal and oil. you cut the ignition and slid out, heels tapping on the asphalt, careful, casual, slow. you let your hands drift over the hood as you walked around, inspecting the reflections and catching movement out of the corner of your eye.

he was already there. of course he was.

katsuki bakugo leaned against his matte black mustang like he owned the lot and every person on it. the car was mean — chrome blacked out, low stance, polished enough that it threatened to bite back if anyone leaned too close. bakugo was worse. spiky blond hair caught the faint flicker of a nearby taillight, eyes sharp as broken glass. arms crossed, booted feet planted firmly on the asphalt. jaw set. You could feel the heat of him before you even saw it, like static waiting to snap.

“princess,” he called, voice low, dry, dangerous, and for a second you could’ve sworn it was aimed at the car and you simultaneously.

you didn’t flinch. “bakugo.”

he tilted his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. not friendly. not exactly hostile. just… challenge.

“gonna try something new tonight, or just stick to losin’?”

you twirled the keys around your finger, letting them flash under the dim light. “funny. i was gonna ask you the same thing.”

a couple guys near his car snorted. bakugo’s eyes sliced over them, sharp enough to make them duck their heads.

“you talk too much,” he said. “you lose too much,” you shot back, deadpan, stepping closer until the air between you was almost thick enough to touch.

he pushed off the mustang, closing the gap, boots clicking against the asphalt. “keep it up, and i’ll make sure you’re choking on my dust.”

you tilted your head, lips curving into a small smile. “that’d require you to be ahead of me.”

before he could retort, a familiar voice broke in, high and bright.

“ooh, spicy tonight, huh?” mina ashido hopped between you, grinning like she had a secret only she knew. her phone was already up, pointing at you and bakugo. “is this, like, pre-race foreplay or—”

“shut the hell up, raccoon eyes,” bakugo barked, turning his glare on her. pink warmed the tops of his ears anyway, and you didn’t miss it.

mina only laughed. “uh-huh, totally not flirting,” she said with a wink before stepping back, still filming.

kirishima ambled up next, baseball cap backwards, hoodie half-unzipped despite the warmth. “hey, y/n,” he said casually, ignoring bakugo entirely. “gonna give him a run for his money again?”

“not a run,” you said, stepping around the hood to pop it open. “a chase.”

the engine hissed in response, cooling slightly. the metallic pink shimmer of the skyline softened in the shadows, but she didn’t look less deadly — if anything, the darkness made the rose glow on the curves more hypnotic. fingers trailed over piping and wires, checking a loose clamp here, a connection there. every movement was precise, confident, but casual — you weren’t showing off, just making sure she was perfect.

denki wandered up as you worked, curiosity written on his face. “you running lower psi than last time?”

“couple pounds,” you said, pressing the tire and glancing back. “road temp’s higher tonight. keeps expansion from throwing off grip in the last stretch.”

denki whistled low. “damn. no wonder you smoke people.”

behind him, bakugo grunted. half scoff, half growl. “quit kissin’ her ass.”

sero’s voice drifted from somewhere behind the mustang. “nah, she’s just smarter than you, man.”

you clicked the hood shut and straightened. “he’s not wrong.”

bakugo’s glare snapped back to you, sharp enough to cut through the night.

then the call came — the flag girl, standing at the far end of the lot, arm raised, ready. the crowd pressed in, moving closer, voices overlapping with the idling engines. heat, smell, sound — it wrapped around you, and instead of panicking, you soaked it in.

sliding into the driver’s seat, you felt the familiar comfort of the wheel under your hands. the leather was warm against your palms. your engine purred beneath you, listening, ready. the mustang beside you growled a low note, and you caught the movement in bakugo’s stance — he wanted to intimidate, but even he couldn’t hide the respect in his eyes.

flag raised.

flag dropped.

tires screamed, the smoke curling into the night sky. bakugo lunged forward, aggressive, almost reckless. you let him take the lead. first turn — he overcommitted slightly, and you could feel the slight slide of his rear tires. you held your line, tight, minimal correction. every inch calculated.

second curve — you leaned into the skyline, reading him, reading the road, adjusting pressure, sliding perfectly through. inches separated you two, hearts beating like pistons.

third turn — his grin flashed in your side mirror. he was relentless. you matched him, not daring to breathe until the straightaway opened again.

the last stretch — a hundred yards of asphalt glowing under the lights, nothing but speed and instinct. engines screaming, tires gripping. bakugo edged close, inches from scraping your door. you pushed harder.

finish line hit — barely ahead.

you eased off, skyline humming in satisfaction. bakugo’s mustang flared beside you, engine low and threatening.

he was out of his car before you could unbuckle, stalking over. “you—” he stopped, jaw tightening. then a sharp laugh, grudging, slipped out. “you’re a pain in my ass.”

you smiled faintly. “good.”

denki was next to you, grinning. “not just fast, calculated too. scary calculated.”

bakugo’s glare cut past you, straight at him. “mind your business, pikachu.”

you turned toward the edge of the lot, Mina’s cooler in mind, but your phone buzzed. unknown number.

race me tomorrow. bring him.

bakugo’s gaze didn’t leave you. the skyline ticked quietly behind you. the air thick, almost electric, like the night itself had paused.

and you couldn’t tell if you wanted to laugh… or run.

thank you for reading!

They hated each other for years. Constantly trying to beat each other to the top of the corporate ladder.

The elevator grinds to a halt; the lights cut out.

Song: Fantastic by King Princess

It’s the way he says your name, how the sound rolls off his tongue and reverberates through you. It’s the look in his eye, the slight smile playing on his lips, and you’re drawn to him like a moth to flame... again.

Your fingers are on his wrist as he pours the beer, and it’s like the room has narrowed to just this moment, this touch.

He doesn’t look at you, but you know he’s aware of the contact. He’s always been like that — attuned, magnetic.

You ask something meaningless, just to hear him speak, to watch his eyes light up.

He answers, and then he’s looking at you, really looking, and the air feels charged, dangerous.

His fingers are under your chin, tilting your face toward his, and you know this is wrong, but it feels so right.

Then he’s kissing you, and you’re kissing him back, and it’s all heat and want and years of history between you.

His hands are on your hips, your waist, your neck — everywhere. He’s like fire, consuming, and you want to be burned.

You pull away, breathless, but his lips are on your neck, your collarbone, and you can’t think straight.

He knows you, knows how to undo you, how to make you forget everything but the way he makes you feel.

And you know him too, know just where to touch to make him groan, to make him lose control.

It’s like falling, weightless, inevitable.

You don’t even make it back to the bedroom. The balcony door is open, and there’s a breeze cooling your heated skin, but you barely notice.

His hands, his mouth, his body pressed against yours — that’s all that matters.

You’re frantic, desperate, years of tension released in this one moment.

And when it’s over, you lay there, breathing hard, trying to process what just happened.

You always do this, fall into the same patterns, the same mistakes.

But as he pulls you close, kisses your temple, you wonder if maybe this time, it could be different.

Maybe this time, you won’t let go.

His hands are still on your body when your phone vibrates, a shrill sound cutting through the afterglow.

You tense, but he just sighs, his breath warm on your skin.

“Leave it,” he murmurs.

You do, he just turns off your phone and tosses it over the balcony.

“You don’t have to worry,” he says, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. “No one will find us here.”

You should be alarmed, should push him away, but you don’t.

Instead, you sink back against him, feeling safe, feeling wanted, feeling everything you’ve been missing.

And as you drift off, wrapped in his arms, you can’t help but wonder — what happens when the sun comes up?

The sun is too bright, too insistent, and you blink against the harsh light, momentarily disoriented.

Your head aches, and you’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or from hitting it against something. Memories of last night are fuzzy, fragmented — the party, the drinking, the arguments, the makeup sex.

Kinktober

Apparently I’ve “lost a bet.” The consequence? Being forced to share this ridiculous display of Sebastian Ashcroft including him unbuttoning his shirt like the world’s about to end.

Consider this my formal apology to your feeds. The Guild assures me this is “cultural documentation.” I assure you it’s blackmail.