The archive room was a tomb of paper and silence, now swallowed by a thick, velvety darkness. The power surge had not only killed the lights but also the ventilation, causing the temperature in the cramped space to skyrocket within seconds. For Mitsuki, this was the perfect storm. Her Quirk was no longer just "leaking"; it was surging.
"I can't... I can't see anything," Sato's voice came from the dark, high-pitched and bordering on a sob.
"Shut up, Sato," Tanaka hissed, his voice closer to Mitsuki's left ear. "Don't move."
But they could both feel. In the absence of sight, their other senses had been dialed to a screaming intensity. The scent of Mitsuki's pheromones, trapped in the unventilated room, was now so concentrated it felt like a physical weight against their chests. It was the smell of overripe fruit and musk, a biological siren song that demanded total surrender.
And then there was the sound. Every time Mitsuki shifted, the glycerin-soaked fabric of her blouse and skirt made a wet, sliding noise—shhhlick, squelch—that echoed off the metal filing cabinets.
"It's so tight in here, isn't it?" Mitsuki whispered. Her voice didn't sound like the abrasive mother the world knew; it was a low, vibrating purr that seemed to travel directly into the men's marrow.
She felt Tanaka's hand first. His palm was rough, calloused from years of corporate stress, but as it slid across the small of her back, it hit a patch of pure, undiluted glycerin. His hand didn't just move; it launched forward, the friction disappearing instantly as he skated across her lubricated skin. He let out a sharp, choked gasp as his fingers finally found purchase on the curve of her hip, the silk of her skirt now almost indistinguishable from the slick skin beneath it.
On her other side, Sato had finally gathered enough courage to follow her scent. His youthful, trembling fingers brushed against her forearm.
"Bakugo-san... you're... you're so wet," Sato whimpered. He ran his hand down to her wrist, feeling the heavy, viscous fluid dripping from her fingertips. He brought his hand to his face in the dark, and Mitsuki could hear the wet, desperate sound of him inhaling the scent directly from his own glycerin-coated palm.
"I told you, Sato-kun," Mitsuki said, her eyes flashing a faint, predatory red in the gloom. "I'm a mess."
(The 40%: The Core Encounter)
Mitsuki decided it was time to reward their desperation. She leaned back against a cold metal shelf, the glycerin on her back acting as a lubricant that allowed her to slide down slowly until she was at eye level with the seated Tanaka and the kneeling Sato.
"Since we're stuck here... and the cameras are down..." she began, her breath hitching as she felt Tanaka's hand move from her hip to the inner sanctum of her thigh. "Why don't you two show me how 'helpful' you can really be?"
Tanaka didn't need another word. He surged forward, his mouth finding the crook of her neck. The moment his tongue touched her skin, he groaned—a deep, animalistic sound. He wasn't just tasting sweat; he was tasting the concentrated essence of her Quirk. The glycerin was sweet, heavy, and slick, coating his tongue and making his head swim with a chemical high.
Meanwhile, Sato's hands had found the hem of her skirt. In the dark, the sound of the fabric being pushed up was a series of wet, rhythmic slaps. As his fingers made contact with the bare, shimmering skin of her thighs, he let out a broken cry. It was too smooth. It felt like he was touching liquid silk.
"Please... please let me..." Sato pleaded, his voice cracking.
Mitsuki reached out, her own hands drenched in the shimmering fluid, and grabbed both of their heads, pulling them closer to her body. "Don't just stare into the dark, boys. Work."
Tanaka's hands were frantic now. He fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, his fingers sliding off the wet plastic until he simply ripped the middle button away. The fabric parted, revealing her chest, which was glowing with a radiant, wet sheen. As his hands cupped her, the glycerin acted as a natural lubricant, making every squeeze and stroke a frictionless, hypersensitive experience.
Mitsuki threw her head back, her spiky blonde hair brushing against the metal shelf. The sensation of four hands—two experienced and demanding, two young and desperate—all sliding over her lubricated form was overwhelming. The glycerin intensified every touch, turning a simple caress into a sliding, electric jolt of pleasure.
"You're both... so pathetic," she gasped, her insult only fueling their fervor. "Reduced to this... in a room full of paper..."
Sato had buried his face against her thigh, his tongue tracing the rivers of glycerin that were rolling down her legs. He was breathing like a marathon runner, his entire body shaking as he consumed the scent and taste of her. Tanaka, meanwhile, had moved his hand lower, his fingers disappearing into the damp, heat-heavy space between her legs.
The sound in the room was now a cacophony of wetness—the sliding of skin on skin, the heavy thud of hearts, and the desperate, muffled moans of two men losing their souls to a Goddess of moisture.
"Is that all you've got, Manager?" Mitsuki teased, her hand tightening in Tanaka's hair as his fingers struggled to find a grip in the overwhelming slickness. "You're slipping... you're losing control..."
Suddenly, the red emergency lights on the ceiling flickered once, twice, and then stayed on, casting the archive room in a dim, bloody crimson glow.
The sudden light revealed a scene of absolute carnal chaos. Tanaka was disheveled, his expensive tie soaked in Mitsuki's glycerin, his face buried in her chest. Sato was on his knees, his face smeared with the clear, shimmering fluid, looking up at her with the eyes of a devoted cultist.
And Mitsuki... she looked like a vision of sin. Her blouse was torn open, her skin was glowing a fierce, wet red under the emergency lights, and she was covered from head to toe in a layer of glistening, heavy glycerin that made her look like she had been dipped in liquid glass.
"Bakugo-san..." Tanaka whispered, looking at his hands, which were dripping with her.
Mitsuki didn't move. She looked at them both, a triumphant, wicked smile on her face. She knew she had them. They were no longer her superiors or her colleagues; they were her subjects.
But then, the sound of heavy footsteps approached the archive door from the outside.
"Audit team! We're doing a manual sweep of the building during the blackout! Is anyone in the archives?"
Sato's face went white. Tanaka scrambled to stand up, his shoes slipping on the glycerin-slicked floor, causing him to crash back down onto his knees. Mitsuki remained calm, slowly reaching for her torn blouse, her eyes never leaving the door.
"Both of your hands are still shaking," she whispered, her voice a chillingly beautiful cliffhanger. "If they open this door, they won't just find a violation... they'll find two men who've been completely... ruined."
The handle of the door began to turn.