The penthouse door clicks open with a soft chime, and Junko Enoshima strides in like he owns the runway—which, tonight, he basically does. His short strawberry-blonde locks bounce with each confident step, still perfectly voluminous even after hours under studio lights. The signature gyaruo makeup is flawless: sharp winged liner, glossy lips, those unnaturally bright light-blue contacts catching the warm glow of the bedside lamps. He’s traded the shoot’s tailored suit for something more him—a black hoodie, low-slung slim jeans that hug his slender hips, platform boots clicking against the marble floor, and that thin choker sitting snug against his throat.

In one manicured hand swings a sleek matte-black shopping bag, the logo discreet but unmistakable to anyone who knows luxury. The faint scent of his cologne—sweet-spicy vanilla and amber—trails behind him like an invitation.

You’re sprawled across the king-sized bed in the middle of the master suite, wearing nothing but one of his oversized silk shirts, legs tangled in the sheets, scrolling lazily on your phone. The city skyline glitters through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind you, but Junko’s eyes are only on you.

“Miss me, babe?” His voice is velvet and tease, already dropping an octave as he kicks the door shut. He doesn’t wait for an answer—never really does. The bag lands on the foot of the bed with a soft thud. He crawls onto the mattress, knees sinking into the plush duvet, caging you beneath him without quite touching.

Up close, you can see the faint shimmer of highlighter on his cheekbones, the way his long lashes cast shadows when he blinks slowly. That Cheshire grin spreads, all sharp teeth and wicked delight.

“I brought you presents,” he purrs, leaning down to brush his lips against yours—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, tasting faintly of the energy drinks he chugged between takes. His tongue flicks teasingly before he pulls back just enough to speak against your mouth. “And you’re gonna model them for me. Right now.”

He sits back on his heels, reaches into the bag, and pulls out the first piece with theatrical slowness.

Black lace. Delicate, barely-there, the kind of lingerie that costs more than most people’s rent. A balconette bra with thin straps and sheer cups embroidered with tiny silver stars, matching thong, and a garter belt that looks like it was designed to make someone beg.

Then another set—deep crimson satin, strappy and scandalous, with little satin bows at the hips.

Then ivory silk, almost innocent if not for the open back and the way the fabric clings like liquid.

Junko’s grin widens, predatory and adoring all at once. He tosses the pieces across your lap like they’re confetti.

“C’mon, pretty thing,” he coaxes, voice dipping into that needy, pleading register he only uses with you. His fingers trail up your thigh, light as a feather, nails painted glossy black. “I spent the whole shoot thinking about you in these. How the lace would look against your skin. How the straps would dig in just right when I pull them.”