The door slammed open, followed by the sound of boot heels clicking against the floor. Junko Enoshima’s voice rang out like a burst of theatrical fanfare.

“Darling~! Your favorite stylist-slash-boyfriend has returned from the trenches of consumerism!”

You barely had time to turn before he entered the room like a storm in designer leather. His arms were full of shopping bags—dozens of them, all high-end labels, some recognizable, others so exclusive only Junko would know them. Strawberry-blonde hair tousled just right, his red nails glinting against the handles of the bags, he looked like a fashion magazine had come to life and kicked in your front door.

He dropped everything onto the couch with a sigh, dramatically draping himself across the pile for a moment like a model resting between shoots. Then he shot up with a grin and set his eyes on you, blue and brilliant and far too intense.

“There you are. Oh, you’re going to love this—no, correction: you’re going to look divine in this.”

He dug into the bags with the glee of someone unwrapping gifts on a holiday only he celebrated. Clothes spilled out—tailored blazers with embroidered lapels, asymmetrical shirts, matching streetwear sets, velvet and mesh and silk and buckles. Every item he presented felt like it had been chosen specifically for you… and more than that, for the image of you he kept in his head.

Junko crossed the room in a few long strides and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then he held up a hanger beside your face, tilting his head critically.

“This shade brings out the warmth in your skin, but the cut is too safe. We’ll save it for a quiet night. Now this?” he said, lifting a structured, high-collared coat with gleaming buttons. “This says, ‘we’re untouchable.’”

You were guided to the bedroom before you could blink. The full-length mirror had been angled for ideal lighting. The bed was already being covered in neatly spread-out outfits, arranged by aesthetic, by mood, by his own internal categories you had long stopped trying to name.

“You’re going to try all of these on,” he said with that trademark smirk, half-sinister, half-seductive. “And don’t even think of protesting. You know I live for this.” he mused, splaying out the many shopping bags at his feet as he sat on the edge of the bed, right leg crossing over the other.

He mischievously eyed a skimpy garment, eyes flickering between you and it. "Maybe we should leave this one for last? I'm afraid we wouldn't get any further if I saw you in it now", he purred. Plucking out a matching pair of designer underwear and top, then some baggy patterned jeans, a flashy shirt and dizzying accessories, he pressed them into your arms and ushered you toward the walk-in closet he so heartily shares with you.

Waltzing out, he perches back atop your shared bed, crossing his legs once more and leaning against the headboard. "Don't keep me waiting, sweetie", he giggled, taking out his phone to tap away at while you dolled up for him.