The aftermath of the AC failure left a lingering humidity in the office that even the restored air conditioning couldn't fully banish. Mitsuki sat at her desk, her skin still tingling from the close call with Sato earlier that morning. She had reapplied her matte powder in the restroom, but she could feel the glycerin humming just beneath the surface, eager to break through the chalky barrier once more.
"Bakugo-san," a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the sound of typing.
Mitsuki looked up to see Tanaka, the Senior Logistics Manager. He was a man in his late forties, known for his impeccable three-piece suits and a cold, professional demeanor that bordered on arrogance. He prided himself on discipline—a man who believed that everything, including people, had a specific place in his hierarchy.
"The Q3 shipping projections are behind schedule," Tanaka said, leaning over her desk. He didn't look at her face; he looked at the stacks of paper, his hand resting on the edge of her cubicle. "I need a private briefing in my office. Now."
Mitsuki suppressed a smirk. She saw the way his nose twitched—just a fraction of an inch—as he entered her personal space. Even with her Quirk "Off," the faint, residual sweetness of her pheromones was still clinging to the air around her desk like a ghost.
"Fine. Let's get it over with, Tanaka-san," she replied, her voice purposely low and raspy.
As she stood up, she noticed Sato watching them from his desk. The boy looked haunted, his eyes fixated on the trail of glycerin she had left on her desk earlier, which was now just a faint, shimmering stain. Mitsuki didn't acknowledge him. She grabbed her tablet and followed Tanaka toward the executive wing.
Tanaka's office was a sanctuary of glass and mahogany. Usually, the temperature was kept at a crisp, biting cold, but today, the lingering effects of the building-wide malfunction had left the room strangely temperate—and dry.
"Close the door," Tanaka commanded, sitting behind his massive desk.
Mitsuki complied, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. She sat in the leather chair opposite him, crossing her legs. The movement caused her skirt to ride up slightly, revealing the tops of her thighs. Because of her Quirk, she didn't wear stockings; the glycerin would simply dissolve the nylon within minutes. Instead, her bare skin was exposed to the dry air of the office.
As Tanaka began to drone on about spreadsheets and delivery windows, Mitsuki felt the familiar itch. The dryness of the room was triggering her body's natural defense. Her skin felt like it was shrinking, desperate for moisture.
I shouldn't, she thought. Not with him.
But as she watched Tanaka's smug, disciplined face, she felt a surge of that trademark Bakugo temper. He was talking down to her as if she were a child, oblivious to the fact that she could bring him to his knees with a single breath.
She leaned back and slowly raised her arms, reaching behind her neck.
"God, it's still so stuffy in here, don't you think?" she interrupted him.
Tanaka stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing. "I find the temperature quite—"
He choked on his words.
Mitsuki had pulled her blonde hair up, holding it in a temporary bun with one hand while she used the other to fanning her neck. The motion revealed the pale, elegant line of her throat—and the fact that her matte powder was failing.
The glycerin was seeping out. In the harsh light of the office, her neck began to glisten as if it were coated in liquid diamonds. The clear fluid was thick and viscous, shimmering with every breath she took. As she fanned herself, she was effectively acting as a human diffuser, pushing her pheromones directly into Tanaka's personal air supply.
The change in Tanaka was instantaneous. His eyes, once sharp and focused on the tablet, began to glaze over. His grip on his fountain pen tightened until his knuckles turned white. The scent hit him like a physical blow—a wave of concentrated, primal lust that tasted like honey and heat.
"Bakugo-san... your... your skin," Tanaka stammered, his professional mask cracking.
"What about it?" Mitsuki asked, her voice a sultry purr. She let her hair drop, the blonde spikes framing her face, which was now beginning to show a soft, dewy glow. "Is there something wrong with my appearance?"
She stood up slowly and leaned over his desk, her hands planted firmly on the mahogany surface. As she did, the glycerin on her palms left two perfectly clear, wet handprints on the expensive wood.
The proximity was lethal. Tanaka could see the individual beads of glycerin forming at the base of her throat. He could see the way her white kemeja was becoming translucent where it touched her damp skin, the fabric clinging to her curves with a wet, heavy weight.
"You're... you're sweating," Tanaka whispered, his eyes locked on the shimmering valley of her cleavage.
"It's not sweat, Tanaka-san," she whispered back, leaning closer until he could feel the radiant heat coming off her body. "It's much... slicker than that."
She deliberately moved her hand across the desk, her fingers sliding through the glycerin handprint she had just made. The sound was a soft, wet schlick—a sound that shouldn't have been erotic, but in the silence of the office, it sounded like a promise.
Tanaka was shaking now. His disciplined world was dissolving. He looked at her fingers, which were now dripping with the clear, glistening substance. His tongue darted out to lick his dry lips, his mind screaming at him to maintain order while his body demanded he surrender.
"I think... I think we should reschedule," he managed to say, though he made no move to get up. His eyes were glued to the way the glycerin was slowly rolling down her arm, a single, crystalline drop hanging from her elbow.
Mitsuki didn't leave. Instead, she walked around the desk. Each step was deliberate, her hips swaying, the wet friction of her inner thighs creating a soft, rhythmic sound that filled Tanaka's ears.
She stopped right beside his executive chair. The scent was so thick here it was almost visible—a heavy, intoxicating fog that trapped him in his seat.
"You look stressed, Manager," Mitsuki said, her hand hovering just above his shoulder. She didn't touch him, but a stray drop of glycerin fell from her fingertip, landing squarely on the lapel of his suit. It soaked in instantly, leaving a dark, wet mark that smelled intensely of her.
Tanaka let out a low, broken groan. He reached up, his hand trembling as it hovered near her waist. He was a man possessed, his dignity stripped away by a Quirk he didn't even understand.
"What... what is this smell?" he gasped, his head lolling back against the chair as he looked up at her.
Mitsuki smiled—the same sharp, confident smile from the photo. She reached down and slowly began to unbutton her cuffs, her skin underneath glowing with a fierce, wet radiance.
"It's the smell of a hard worker, Tanaka-san," she teased, her eyes flashing with a wicked delight. "Don't you want to see just how hard I've been working?"
She leaned down, her hair brushing against his cheek, her scent colonizing his lungs. She positioned her mouth right next to his ear, her breath warm and damp.
"Your hands shaking, Tanaka-san," she whispered in a low, mocking Japanese tone before switching back to English. "Is the manager of logistics lost for words?"
Tanaka's hand finally made contact. He didn't grab her; his fingers simply brushed against the side of her thigh. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt. Her skin wasn't just wet; it was impossibly smooth, the glycerin acting as a frictionless barrier that made his touch feel like it was gliding on silk.
His breath hitched, his fingers curling, trying to get a grip on the slippery skin.
"Bakugo... please..." he whimpered, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of her neck.
Suddenly, the intercom on his desk buzzed with a sharp, piercing electronic tone.
"Tanaka-san? The CEO is on line one for the emergency briefing."
The sound was like a bucket of ice water. Tanaka bolted upright, his hand snapping away from Mitsuki's leg as if he had been burned. He looked at his hand—it was covered in a shimmering, clear film that smelled like heaven and sin.
Mitsuki straightened up, her expression shifting back to one of bored professionalism in a heartbeat. She wiped her hands on a tissue from his desk, leaving the used, wet paper right in front of him.
"We'll finish this later, Manager," she said, her voice crisp and loud enough for the intercom to catch. "I'll have those projections on your desk by five."
As she walked toward the door, she paused, looking over her shoulder. Tanaka was sitting there, his hand still frozen in mid-air, his expensive suit stained, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and longing.
"And Tanaka-san?" she added, her eyes narrowing playfully. "Clean up your desk. You've left a mess."
She stepped out and closed the door, leaving the Senior Manager alone in the silence, staring at the wet handprints on his mahogany desk—and the undeniable, pulsing evidence of his own lack of control beneath his trousers.
Mitsuki walked back to the Bullpen, her skin still glistening, her heart racing. She had broken the strongest man in the office in less than ten minutes.
But as she sat back down, she saw a new email notification. It was from the Internal Audit department.
Subject: Unusual pheromone readings in Sector 4.
The game was getting dangerous.