The email from Internal Audit sat on Mitsuki's monitor like a coiled viper. Subject: Unusual pheromone readings in Sector 4. Mitsuki tightened her grip on her mouse, her knuckles white. In a world where Quirks were regulated as strictly as firearms, "unauthorized pheromone emission" in a public workspace was a serious offense—a one-way ticket to a forced medical leave or, worse, a lawsuit.
"Damn those Quirk-detectors in the vents," she muttered, her voice a low, dangerous rasp.
She looked at her reflection in the darkened screen. The powder was holding for now, but she was agitated. And agitation, for Mitsuki, was as good as a heatwave. Her body was already starting to pump out the glycerin as a stress response. She could feel the familiar, cool slickness gathering in her armpits and at the small of her back.
Twenty minutes later, the "threat" arrived.
Holloway was a man who looked like he was made of starch and cold coffee. He was an auditor from the central office—skinny, wearing spectacles that reflected the overhead lights, and carrying a handheld Quirk-emission scanner. He didn't look like a man who was easily swayed by beauty. He looked like a man who lived to find discrepancies in a ledger.
"Bakugo-san?" Holloway asked, his voice thin and nasally. He didn't wait for an answer. He began waving the scanner around her cubicle. "We've had some... spikes in biological signatures from this workstation. Are you currently suppressing a Quirk?"
Mitsuki felt a bead of glycerin roll down her spine. It was cold, thick, and heavy. "It's just the heat, Auditor. My Quirk is Glycerin. It's harmless. I'm just moisturizing," she replied, her eyes narrowing.
"Glycerin Quirks don't typically cause the male heart rates in a twenty-meter radius to spike by 40%," Holloway said, his eyes scanning the data on his device. He stepped closer, right into the invisible cloud of her scent. "Stand up. I need to take a direct reading from your neck."
Mitsuki stood up, her skirt making that faint, wet shrrp sound as it detached from her lubricated thighs. She could feel the air hitting the damp patches on her shirt. Holloway stepped into her space, his device chirping with an increasing frequency.
"Raise your chin," he commanded, his professional detachment absolute.
Mitsuki complied. She tilted her head back, exposing the long, elegant curve of her throat. This was the moment. She didn't turn her Quirk "On" fully—that would be a confession. Instead, she just stopped fighting it. She let the frustration of the day, the stress of the audit, and her own pent-up energy flow into her pores.
The effect was instantaneous.
Under the harsh light of the scanner, the chalky powder on her neck didn't just fade; it was washed away by a sudden, heavy surge of glycerin. It didn't look like sweat. It looked like her skin was liquefying into a clear, shimmering syrup. The liquid was so dense it caught the office lights, turning her neck into a pillar of wet, radiant crystal.
Holloway's hand, holding the scanner, froze.
The device began to beep wildly—a red light flashing WARNING: BIO-ACTIVE EMISSION—but Holloway's ears suddenly became deaf. The aroma struck his senses like a sledgehammer wrapped in silk. A thick sweet scent, the smell of wet and hot leather, penetrated his lungs and instantly ignited his nervous system.
"The... the readings are..." Holloway started, but his voice broke. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against his tight tie.
"The readings are what, Holloway-kun?" Mitsuki whispered.
She reached up, slowly, and began to unbutton the cuffs of her blouse. The fabric was already damp, clinging to her forearms like a second skin. As she rolled up her sleeves, Holloway watched, mesmerized, as the glycerin began to bead on her arms, the clear liquid rolling down her smooth skin and dripping onto the carpet.
Plip. Plip.
The sound of the drops hitting the floor was the only thing Holloway could hear over the roaring of his own blood. He felt a sudden, agonizing pressure in his slacks. His spectacles began to fog up from his own rising body heat.
"I need... I need a closer sample," Holloway whispered, his professional mask melting away like wax in a fire.
He reached out, his skinny fingers trembling. He didn't use the scanner. He used his bare hand. He pressed two fingers against the side of her neck, right where the glycerin was thickest.
Mitsuki didn't flinch. She smirked. The moment his skin touched hers, the glycerin acted as a bridge. The texture was intoxicating—it was slicker than oil, warmer than blood, and it felt like it was alive. Holloway's fingers slid effortlessly over her skin, unable to get a grip, merely gliding over the silken, wet surface.
"It's so... thick," Holloway groaned, his legs shaking. He was no longer an auditor; he was a man starving, and she was the feast. "The scanner... it says you're dangerous."
"Am I?" Mitsuki asked, leaning her head toward his hand, pressing her wet skin into his palm. "Or is it just that you've never felt anything this real in your little office, Holloway?"
She looked around. The office was quiet, the other employees too distracted or too far away to see the drama unfolding in her cubicle. She reached down, her own hand coated in a shimmering layer of glycerin, and gripped the edge of her desk.
"You're here to find a violation, right?" she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.
She took his hand—the one covered in her glycerin—and slowly moved it down. She didn't lead it to her face or her shoulder. She moved it toward the side of her hip, where her skirt was stretched tight over her wet skin.
Holloway let out a whimpering sound, a pathetic, broken noise. He was completely under her spell. The pheromones had bypassed his logic and turned his brain into a primal mess of desire. His eyes were wide, staring at her lips, then her neck, then the way her wet shirt was turning transparent over her chest.
"Audit me, Holloway," she teased, her voice a cruel, low vibration. "Check every... single... discrepancy."
She guided his hand until his palm was pressed against the side of her thigh, just at the hem of her skirt. The glycerin on his hand met the glycerin on her skin, creating a frictionless, wet contact that made Holloway's head loll back.
His other hand, the one holding the expensive scanner, let go. The device hit the floor with a dull thud, the red light still flashing WARNING, but he didn't care. He was leaning into her, his face inches from her glistening neck, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
"You're going to... get me fired," Holloway whispered, his fingers finally curling, trying to bunch up the fabric of her skirt so he could feel more of that slippery, radiant skin.
Mitsuki felt the heat of his body, the desperation in his touch. She felt a surge of pure, unadulterated power. She wasn't just an employee; she was the Quirk that ran this building.
"I'm not going to get you fired, Holloway-kun," she whispered, her hand moving to the back of his head, her wet fingers tangling in his thin hair. "I'm going to make sure you never want to leave your desk again."
She moved her hand from his head and slid it down his chest, leaving a wet, shimmering trail on his starched white shirt. Her fingers reached his belt, her touch light, teasing, and drenched in glycerin.
Holloway's eyes went wide. He felt her wet hand move lower, the slickness of her Quirk seeping through his clothes.
"Your hands are shaking again, Auditor," she mocked, her eyes flashing with a predatory light. "Are you going to report this... or are you going to help me stay moisturized?"
Holloway couldn't speak. He could only watch, his heart hammer-beating against his ribs, as Mitsuki's hand—glistening and heavy with glycerin—slowly began to undo the buckle of his belt.
Suddenly, the elevator at the end of the hall chimed.
"Mitsuki! Manager Tanaka wants the report on his desk in five minutes!" shouted a voice from across the room.
Holloway jolted, his eyes snapping back into focus, though his face was still flushed a deep, unhealthy crimson. He looked down at his belt, then at Mitsuki's wet hand, then at his own hand still pressed against her thigh.
Mitsuki didn't move. She just smiled—that sharp, white-toothed grin.
"Looks like your time is up, Auditor," she whispered. "But you still have my... biological samples... all over your hands."
Holloway scrambled back, nearly tripping over his own scanner. He looked at his palms, which were coated in a clear, shimmering film that smelled like the best mistake of his life. He looked at Mitsuki, who was calmly sitting back down and pulling her tablet toward her, as if nothing had happened.
"I... I'll... I'll write the report," Holloway stammered, his voice high and unstable. He grabbed his scanner and practically ran toward the elevators, his gait awkward as he tried to hide the massive bulge in his trousers.
Mitsuki watched him go, her smirk widening. She looked down at the handprint Holloway had left on her skirt—a dry spot in a sea of glycerin. She reached down and wiped it away with a single, wet stroke of her palm.
She could feel the eyes of the other men in the office on her. They couldn't see what had happened, but they could smell it. The air in Sector 4 was no longer professional. It was heavy. It was ripe.
And she was just getting started.