The office of Musutafu Logistics was no longer the sterile environment it had been a week ago. To the untrained eye, everything looked the same: the grey cubicles, the humming servers, and the frantic clicking of keyboards. But beneath the surface, the air had changed. It was heavier, laced with a subtle, cloying sweetness that seemed to emanate from the corner desk where Mitsuki Bakugo sat.
Mitsuki was currently engaged in the most difficult part of her day: pretending she didn't notice the dozen pairs of eyes tracking her every movement.
Her Quirk was being particularly rebellious today. Perhaps it was the stress of the audit from the day before, or perhaps it was the way her body was finally adjusting to the corporate grind, but the glycerin was flowing with a persistent, low-level intensity. She had given up on the heavy powder—it only turned into a messy paste now. Instead, she had switched to a light, silk-blend blouse that she hoped would breathe better.
It was a mistake.
The silk didn't breathe; it absorbed. By 2:00 PM, the fabric was already beginning to cling to the small of her back and the undersides of her breasts, becoming translucent as it drank in the clear, viscous fluid her skin produced.
"Bakugo-san, I have the logistics report you asked for," Sato said, appearing at her elbow.
He looked worse than he had in before. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his tie was loosened to the point of being useless. He set the papers down, but his hand lingered on the edge of her desk, his fingers twitching.
"Thanks, Sato. Just put it on the stack," Mitsuki said without looking up, her voice a low, distracted hum.
"I... I also brought you some cold tea. I thought you might be... thirsty," he added, his voice cracking.
Before Mitsuki could respond, a second shadow fell over her desk. It was Tanaka, the Senior Manager. He wasn't wearing his jacket today, his dress shirt strained over his shoulders, and he was holding a much thicker folder.
"Sato, don't you have shipments to track?" Tanaka asked, his voice cold and territorial. "Bakugo-san and I have to review the quarterly projections. Privately."
The tension between the two men was palpable. It wasn't about work; it was about the air they were breathing. They were both caught in the radius of Mitsuki's pheromones, and their animal instincts were screaming at them to drive the other away.
Mitsuki finally looked up, a sharp, amused glint in her crimson eyes. She saw them—two men, different ranks, both reduced to shivering messes by the mere proximity of her skin.
"Gentlemen, there's no need to fight," she said, leaning back in her chair.
She reached up, slowly, and began the "ritual" she knew would break them. She gathered her blonde, spiky hair at the nape of her neck, pulling it upward to expose her throat. The move was deliberate. As her arms went up, the silk of her blouse stretched tight over her chest, the wet patches of glycerin making the fabric almost invisible against her skin.
But the real weapon was her neck.
Without the powder, her skin was a shimmering, radiant map of moisture. The glycerin was so thick it looked like a layer of liquid glass, reflecting the office lights in a way that made her look ethereal. As she shook her hair out, a concentrated wave of her scent hit the two men like a physical wave.
It was a smell of wild honey, heated skin, and something darker—something that promised a total loss of self-control.
Sato actually swayed on his feet, his hand gripping the edge of the cubicle to keep from falling. Tanaka's breath hitched, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat.
"I'm just so... hot," Mitsuki sighed, her voice dropping into that dangerous, honeyed rasp. "The AC just doesn't seem to reach this corner of the office."
She took the cold tea from Sato's trembling hand. As her fingers brushed his, the glycerin on her skin acted as a lubricant, making the contact feel impossibly slick and electric. Sato let out a choked whimper.
She took a slow sip, a single drop of the cold liquid escaping the corner of her mouth. It rolled down her chin and landed on the glistening expanse of her collarbone, joining the river of glycerin that was already flowing there.
"Tanaka-san, you were saying something about projections?" she asked, looking directly into the manager's glazed eyes.
Tanaka didn't answer. He couldn't. He was staring at the way the drop of tea was slowly sliding down her wet skin, leaving a clear trail through the shimmer. He reached out, his hand moving of its own accord, his index finger hovering just an inch away from the base of her throat.
"You're... you're dripping," Tanaka whispered, his professional dignity completely eroded.
"Am I?" Mitsuki teased.
She leaned forward, closing the distance. She took his hand—the one hovering near her neck—and slowly guided it down. She didn't let him touch her neck. Instead, she pressed his palm against the desktop, right into a puddle of clear glycerin she had "accidentally" left there.
"It's such a mess, isn't it?" she whispered, her face inches from his. "Everything I touch just gets so... slippery."
Tanaka's fingers curled into the liquid on the desk. It was warm, viscous, and smelled so strongly of her that it felt like he was drowning in it. Beside him, Sato was breathing in ragged, desperate gasps, his eyes darting between Mitsuki's glistening neck and the way Tanaka was touching her desk.
"I can help," Sato blurted out, his voice desperate. "I can... I can clean it up."
Mitsuki turned her gaze to the junior, a predatory smile spreading across her lips. "Can you, Sato-kun? It's a very big mess. It's all over me."
She stood up, her wet skirt making a soft, squelching sound as it moved against her thighs. She walked around the desk, standing between the two men. The scent here was intoxicating, a literal drug that had turned the Bullpen into a den of desire.
She looked at Tanaka, then at Sato. She saw their pupils, dilated until their eyes were almost entirely black. She saw the way their hands were shaking, their bodies leaning toward her like flowers to the sun.
"I have a lot of filing to do in the archives," Mitsuki said, her voice a low, vibrating caress. "It's dark back there. Quiet. And I think... I'm going to need both of you to help me carry the load."
She turned and began to walk toward the back of the office. Every step was a masterpiece of micro-teasing; the way her wet skirt clung to the backs of her thighs, the way the silk of her shirt shifted to reveal the shimmering skin beneath, and the rhythmic, wet sound of her movement.
Sato and Tanaka followed her like two starving dogs. They didn't look at each other. They only looked at her.
As they reached the heavy door to the archives, Mitsuki paused. She looked over her shoulder, a single lock of blonde hair falling over her eye. She reached down and slowly, agonizingly, began to unbutton the third button of her blouse, revealing the deep, shimmering valley of her chest, drenched in her Quirk's output.
"It's going to get very... cramped in here," she whispered, her eyes flashing with a wicked, red light.
She stepped into the darkness of the archives and waited. The two men pushed through the door at the same time, their shoulders colliding, their eyes fixed on the radiant, wet woman waiting for them in the shadows.
Mitsuki reached behind her and clicked the lock.
"Now," she whispered, her hand sliding down her own glistening hip as she leaned against a stack of boxes. "Who wants to help me with the first... discrepancy?"
Tanaka moved first, his hand reaching for her waist, his fingers finally making contact with the slick, glycerin-soaked fabric of her shirt. But Sato was right behind him, his hand trembling as it moved toward the exposed, shimmering skin of her thigh.
Suddenly, the overhead lights in the archives flickered and died.
"Power surge!" someone yelled from the main office. "The servers are down!"
In the pitch black of the archive room, the only thing visible was the faint, bioluminescent-like glow of the glycerin on Mitsuki's skin. The scent became even more concentrated in the small space, thick enough to taste.
Tanaka's hand tightened on her waist, his thumb sliding over the wet silk. Sato's hand finally reached its target, his fingers gliding over the impossibly smooth, lubricated skin of her leg.
"Bakugo-san..." they both groaned at the same time, their voices lost in the dark.
Mitsuki felt two sets of hands on her—one dry and desperate, the other rough and commanding. She felt the wet friction of her own skin as she moved between them, the glycerin acting as a bridge for their shared lust.
"Careful, boys," she whispered into the darkness, her voice a cruel, beautiful promise. "It's so slippery in here... you wouldn't want to lose your grip."
Tanaka's hands trembled as he groped downward, while Sato's fingers began to creep up toward Mitsuki's gleaming thighs under the archive table...