The fluorescent hum of the bathroom at Musutafu Logistics & Trade was the only sound accompanying Mitsuki Bakugo's morning ritual. It was 7:45 AM. In fifteen minutes, the office would be a hive of activity, but for now, it was her sanctuary—and her cage.
Mitsuki stared into the mirror, her crimson eyes sharp and calculating. She looked younger than her years, a biological side effect of her Quirk that she often found more annoying than a blessing. Her skin was naturally too perfect, too supple. To the world, she was a woman in her late thirties; to a casual observer, she could pass for twenty-five. But in the corporate world, looking like a porcelain doll was a liability. It invited unwanted gazes, and more importantly, it hinted at the secret she worked so hard to smother.
With a practiced, almost aggressive motion, she opened a compact of heavy-duty matte setting powder. She began to dab it onto her face, her neck, and down into the collar of her stiff white button-down. She hated the feeling. The powder felt like dry earth on a riverbed, a chalky mask designed to kill the natural radiance of her Quirk.
Glycerin.
Her body was a factory for it. Under normal circumstances, it kept her skin healthy and youthful. But when her Quirk was "On," she didn't just stay moisturized; she became a fountain of the clear, viscous liquid. It would coat her skin in a slick, shimmering layer that turned her into something ethereal—and dangerous. Because with the glycerin came the scent. A pheromone so thick and intoxicating it didn't just attract men; it dismantled them.
"Keep it together, Mitsuki," she hissed at her reflection. "Katsuki's tuition isn't going to pay itself."
She adjusted the skirt of her charcoal-grey suit, ensuring it was modest and professional. She buttoned her shirt all the way to the penultimate button, hiding the swell of her chest. She wanted to be invisible. She wanted to be just another administrative cog in the machine.
As she stepped out of the restroom and into the main office floor, the "Bullpen," the air was already thick with the scent of stale coffee and industrial carpet cleaner. She walked to her desk, her heels clicking with a rhythmic authority that made a few early-arrival salarymen look up.
Among them was Sato, a junior logistics coordinator in his mid-twenties. He was the type of man who lived for spreadsheets—straight-edged, polite, and hopelessly average.
"Morning, Mrs. Bakugo," Sato said, his voice hitching slightly as she passed. He didn't know why, but just being near her made his skin feel tight. There was an energy radiating from her, even through the layers of powder and wool.
"It's Bakugo-san at work, kid. Get back to your manifests," Mitsuki barked, her voice carrying that trademark rasp. She didn't look at him, but she felt his eyes linger on the curve of her hips as she sat down.
The morning proceeded with a grueling, mundane pace. Mitsuki hammered away at her keyboard, processing shipping orders and yelling at suppliers over the phone. She was efficient, ruthless, and entirely dry. By 10:30 AM, however, the environment began to shift.
The building's aging HVAC system groaned and finally gave up. A memo flashed across everyone's screens: AC Unit 4 failure. Maintenance is on the way. We apologize for the discomfort.
Discomfort was an understatement. Within thirty minutes, the office became an oven. The large windows acted like a greenhouse, trapping the summer sun. Men began to peel off their suit jackets, their shirts blooming with sweat stains.
For Mitsuki, it was a battle. The heat was the primary trigger for her Quirk's involuntary activation. Her body sensed the rising temperature and the dryness of the air, and it reacted. Beneath her clothes, the "matte" facade was beginning to fail. She could feel it—a sudden, cool moisture blooming at the base of her spine, behind her knees, and between her breasts.
Her skin began to itch as the glycerin met the layer of powder she had applied. It turned into a gritty, muddy paste for a few agonizing minutes before the sheer volume of the liquid washed the powder away.
She gasped quietly, her hand flying to her throat. She could feel the slickness now. Her skin was starting to breathe, starting to glow.
"Dammit... not here," she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She looked down at her arms. The dull, chalky appearance of her skin was being replaced by a lustrous sheen. It looked like she had just stepped out of a bath of expensive oils. The glycerin was thick, clear, and perfectly smooth, coating her forearms in a layer that caught the harsh overhead lights, making her look like she was carved from wet marble.
And then, the scent hit.
It wasn't a smell you could identify with a name. It wasn't rose or jasmine. It was the smell of need. It was sweet, heavy, and musk-laden, a biological signal that bypassed the brain and went straight to the loins. It began to drift from her desk, carried by the stagnant, hot air of the office.
Sato, sitting at the desk six feet away, stopped typing. His pen dropped from his hand. He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. The air suddenly felt heavy, like he was breathing in syrup. His head swam. A sudden, violent heat surged in his lower abdomen.
He turned his head slowly toward Mitsuki.
She was leaning back in her chair, trying to fan herself with a folder. The movement was a mistake. As she moved, the friction of her thighs rubbing together—now lubricated by a thick layer of glycerin—made a faint, wet sliding sound. Her white button-down was starting to cling to her. The glycerin was soaking into the fabric, turning the white cotton translucent.
Through the thinning fabric, the lace of her bra and the deep tan of her skin began to peek through, highlighted by the shimmering moisture underneath.
"Bakugo... san?" Sato stammered. His voice was ragged.
Mitsuki looked at him. She saw the way his pupils were blown wide. She saw the way his hand was trembling on the desk. She knew that look. The feromones were doing their work. Normally, she would have felt disgust. But today, the heat made her lightheaded, and the glycerin made her body feel sensitized and alive.
"What is it, Sato?" she asked. Her voice was low, vibrating with a hidden silkiness.
She reached up, her fingers slick and wet, and began to unpin her hair. She shook it out, the blonde spikes falling around her face. As she did, she exposed her neck—completely drenched in glycerin. The liquid was so thick it was beginning to bead, a single, crystalline drop rolling slowly down her throat.
Sato couldn't breathe. He could smell her—really smell her now. It was like a drug. His cock was straining painfully against his slacks, a hard, undeniable tent.
"You look... you look hot," he managed to choke out, his eyes locked on the glistening curve of her neck.
Mitsuki smirked. She leaned forward, her chest pressing against the edge of the desk, letting the wet fabric of her shirt stretch tight over her breasts. She could see the exact moment his sanity began to crumble.
"I am hot, Sato," she purred. "It's suffocating in here. My skin is so... damp."
She deliberately ran a hand down her opposite arm, her palm sliding over the glycerin with a loud, squelching sound. She held her hand up, showing him her fingers, which were dripping with the clear, glistening fluid.
"Look at this. I'm a mess," she said, her voice dripping with a mock-innocence. "I can't even hold my pen. Everything is so... slippery."
Sato's eyes followed the drip of glycerin as it fell from her fingertip and splashed onto a shipping manifest. The paper turned transparent instantly. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his own temple, his heart thudding so hard it felt like it would crack a rib.
He wanted to reach out. He wanted to know if that liquid felt as silken as it looked. He wanted to know if her skin tasted as sweet as it smelled.
"Let me... let me help you with those files," Sato said, his voice a mere ghost of itself. He stood up, his legs feeling like lead. He walked toward her desk, his eyes never leaving the shimmering expanse of her collarbone.
As he reached her desk, he leaned over, ostensibly to grab the folder. But as he did, he entered the epicenter of her scent. It was overwhelming. His vision blurred for a second. His hand, shaking uncontrollably, hovered just inches away from her shoulder.
Mitsuki didn't move away. Instead, she tilted her head back, looking up at him through her lashes. The glycerin on her neck caught the light, making her look radiant, like a goddess carved from sweat and desire.
"You're shaking, Sato-kun," she whispered, the suffix a deliberate, teasing jab. "Is the heat getting to you?"
She slowly raised her hand, her fingers still coated in the thick, lubricating glycerin, and positioned them just below the edge of the desk—right where his thigh was pressed against the wood.
Sato let out a choked sound, a mix of a sob and a groan. He felt the heat radiating from her, felt the dampness of the air between them.
"I... I can't..." he whispered, his eyes dropping to her lips.
Mitsuki felt a surge of triumph. She wasn't going to give it to him. Not yet. She wanted to see him break first.
Slowly, she extended her wet index finger. She didn't touch him—not quite. She let a single drop of the heavy glycerin hang from her nail, suspended in the air, trembling just a millimeter above the fabric of his trousers, right over the straining head of his erection.
Sato froze. He watched the drop. It was clear, heavy, and carried the concentrated essence of her power.
"If this drop falls, Sato..." Mitsuki whispered, her voice a cruel, beautiful caress. "What do you think will happen to your self-control?"
Sato's breath hitched. He was on the precipice. The entire office seemed to disappear, leaving only the heat, the scent, and that single, shimmering drop of glycerin.
His hand moved, a reflexive twitch, his fingers finally brushing against the wet, slippery skin of her shoulder. The contact was electric. The glycerin acted as a conductor, sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through his system.
Mitsuki's eyes widened. She hadn't expected him to actually touch her. The feeling of his rough, dry palm against her lubricated skin was a sensation she hadn't felt in a long time. It was... addictive.
She let the drop fall.
It landed on his slacks, the heavy liquid immediately soaking through the fabric, cold and slick against his heat.
Sato gasped, his knees buckling slightly.
"Bakugo-san..." he groaned, his hand sliding down her arm, leaving a trail in the glycerin.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the office swung open.
"AC IS BACK ON, EVERYONE! BACK TO WORK!" the floor manager shouted, his voice booming like thunder, shattering the trance.
Mitsuki pulled away instantly, her face flushing—not from heat, but from the sudden rush of adrenaline. She quickly grabbed a tissue and began to wipe her arm, her movements frantic.
Sato stood there, breathing hard, looking like a man who had just seen a ghost—or a miracle. He looked down at the dark, wet spot on his trousers, then back at Mitsuki, who was already turning back to her computer, her spine stiff and professional once more.
"The files, Sato. Now," she snapped, her voice back to its usual abrasive tone.
But as Sato retreated to his desk, his mind was a chaotic mess of shimmering skin and intoxicating scents. He knew one thing for certain: the heat would come back. And next time, he wouldn't just watch.
Mitsuki, meanwhile, stared at her screen, her fingers trembling over the keys. She could still feel the phantom touch of his hand on her slick skin. She looked at the remaining glycerin on her desk—a clear, glistening reminder of what she was capable of.