Sanzu Haruchiyo x F! Reader
cw: crack, fluff, Mucho thinks Sanzu is a pervert xdxd
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It was the middle of summer, the kind of stifling, golden July where the heat clings to the skin like a second layer of clothing. The air was thick with the scent of sun-baked asphalt and the distant, salt-sweet promise of the ocean, a time perfect for a trip to the beach.
To anyone else, this would have been a seasonal outing involving a towel and some sunscreen, but for Sanzu, it was a military operation that required clinical precision.
For weeks, he had scouted the coastline, dismissing beach after beach for being too crowded, too open, or too seen. Finally, he found it: a private cove hidden behind a wall of ancient rock. It was a sanctuary where the sand was untouched and, most importantly, where there would be no prying eyes but his own to behold his angel. Every variable, from the angle of the sun to the wind speed, was calculated to ensure you wouldn't experience a moment of discomfort.
His pride as the architect of your reality was second only to his obsession with your innocence. Every variable, from the angle of the sun to the wind speed, was calculated to ensure you wouldn't experience a moment of discomfort. He also took immense joy in selecting things that reflected your cuteness--soft fabrics, modest cuts, and items that screamed Haru-kun’s precious girl.
He had spent hours scouring boutiques for a swimsuit that would be comfortable enough for the sweltering heat of a mid-summer day, but cute enough to match your natural cuteness—though, in his mind, nothing in this world could truly match how adorable you were.
After an eternity, he finally found the masterpiece: a red 1940s-style halter one-piece. It was a vision of vintage elegance, adorned with classic white polka dots and featuring a skirted bottom that swished with a youthful charm. The sweetheart neckline was secure, the fabric was breathable yet high-quality, and the vibrant red was exactly the shade he wanted to see against your skin. It was the perfect garment for his angel: cute, comfortable, and utterly safe.
By the time the sun began to set on the eve of their trip, Sanzu was practically vibrating. The weight of the bag in his hand felt like a trophy, a physical manifestation of his successful curation. He was essentially skipping through the Toman hangout, swinging the bag with a terrifying kind of pride that looked borderline eerie.
"You look disturbingly cheerful, Haruchiyo," Mucho grunted, leaning against a cold concrete wall, his arms crossed over his massive chest. "Did you finally find a medication that works?"
Sanzu stopped dead in his tracks, a wide, prideful grin spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying sort of warmth.
"Even better. I'm taking Y/N to the beach this weekend. No crowds, no eyes-just me and my angel. Everything has to be perfect, Mucho-san. I’ve spent weeks ensuring it."
Mucho raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the domesticity. "Did you now?"
"Of course! I know exactly what’s best for her," Sanzu bragged, puffing out his chest, "I even picked the suit. It’s a designer piece. Cute and classy.… It’s going to look like a dream on her."
With a flourish, Sanzu reached into the bag and pulled out the sleek, black box, and popped the lid open.
"Just look at the fabric quali-"
The words died in his throat.
Instead of the soft, vintage polka dots, the box contained three tiny scraps of neon-red spandex held together by thin, clear plastic strings that looked like they would snap if someone breathed too hard. It was a micro-bikini that looked like a collection of dental floss, a piece that belonged in a back-alley adult shop, not on Sanzu’s "angel."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Mucho stared down at the box, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to soul-deep disdain. He looked at the neon strings, then up at Sanzu's face, his eyes narrowing with genuine disgust.
"Haruchiyo," Mucho said, his voice dropping an octave into a judging, disappointed rumble. "You're a sick man."
"I—no! Mucho-san, this isn't—" Sanzu’s hands began to tremble, the box rattling in his grip.
"You want her to wear that?" Mucho gestured to the neon strings with a look of revulsion. "Is this what you think of her? That’s not clothing; that’s a legal liability. You say she's someone 'precious' to you, and then you go off and buy her that!?"
"NO! It's a mistake! There were polka-dots! A ruffled skirt! The bags!" Sanzu shrieked, his face turning a panicked shade of purple. His mind raced back to the boutique, remembering the shady-looking man in the grease-stained trench coat standing next to him at the counter.
Flashback: The boutique
Sanzu had been looming over the counter like a bird of prey, his eyes fixed on the shop assistant’s trembling hands with an intensity that made her feel as though she were defusing a bomb rather than folding a swimsuit. He had already made her refold the red polka-dot one-piece three times, leaning so far over the glass that his scarred face was inches from hers, whispering critiques about the "structural integrity of the skirted hem."
To the employee, he was a living nightmare; his terrifyingly polite smile promised a slow death if a single polka dot was misaligned. She was so blinded by survival-instinct-driven panic that her hands were sweating through the expensive tissue paper, her only thought being to get the scarred psycho out of her store before he decided her folding technique warranted a public execution.
The delicate atmosphere of high-fashion intimidation was shattered when Sanzu’s phone shrieked in his pocket. He snapped it open with a violent flick, his demeanor shifting instantly from "lovesick boyfriend" to "blood-crazed vice-captain" as he began barking orders to a subordinate about a dispute in Shibuya.
And in the few seconds while Sanzu was distracted, the employee saw her chance. The man in a grease-stained trench coat was picking up a "special order" at the same time, his identical boutique bag sitting inches away from Sanzu's. In a blur of desperate haste, the girl shoved the nearest box—the one containing the scandalous neon—into a bag and thrust it at Sanzu.
Too busy threatening to pull teeth to notice the weight difference, Sanzu snatched the bag and stormed out, still screaming about territorial boundaries, leaving his carefully curated, modest masterpiece in the hands of a very confused pervert who had just inadvertently traded up for a polka-dotted one-piece.
"I didn't buy this! I would never! Mucho-san, you have to believe me! This is a sacrilege! Blashphemy! A crime against her skin! I would never-I'm a man of taste!" Sanzu’s voice was reaching a frequency only dogs could hear.
"You're a man who needs a restraining order," Mucho grunted, turning his back on him. "Don't come near me for the rest of the day. I feel like I need a shower just looking at that thing."
"MUCHO-SAN, WAIT! IT WAS A SWITCH! I SWEAR ON MY LIFE!" Sanzu screamed after him, his voice cracking.
Mucho didn't look back. He just raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Sure, Sanzu. Tell it to the judge."
Sanzu stood alone, clutching the scandalous bikini, his world crumbling. He looked back down at the box, his hands trembling with a rage so potent it felt like his blood was boiling. He then slammed it onto the ground and began stomping on it with his heavy boots, his face twisted in a manic scowl.
"Filthy! Disgusting!" he hissed, "I'm going to burn that shop to the ground, and then I'm going to find the man who has my vintage suit, and I'm going to--"
Suddenly, his phone chimed—not the harsh, metallic ring of the Toman, but the soft, melodic chime he had specifically assigned to you.
The transformation was instant. He shifted from "mass murderer" to "lovesick puppy," answering with a shaky hand.
"Angel," Sanzu breathed into the receiver, his voice dropping into that honeyed, gentle purr. The rage was still there, but he had shoved it deep into his marrow, where it couldn't scare you.
"Haru-kun!" Your voice was small but bright, a stark contrast to the hangout's grim surroundings. "I was just checking in. Did you have lunch yet? You always forget to eat when you’re busy with work."
Eat? I want to set the city on fire. My skin is crawling because a stranger's filth is near your clothes.
"Not yet, princess," he said, his tone impossibly sweet. "But I’ll grab something soon, I promise."
"Okay!" You sounded relieved, your voice dropping into a soft, bashful murmur. "And... um... Haru-kun...I just wanted to say that.... I’m really excited for tomorrow's trip."
Sanzu’s grip on the phone tightened until the plastic groaned. The thought of that grease-stained stranger holding the fabric meant for your skin felt like a violation of his sanctuary.
"Me too, angel," he whispered, his voice trembling with suppressed violence. "I'll make sure everything is perfect. No one is going to ruin it. No one."
"I'll let you get back to work then," you murmured softly. "See you at dinner? Okaasan made your favorite."
"I have to take care of something first, my life," he said, already calculating the fastest route back to the shopping district. "A last-minute adjustment for tomorrow. But don't worry, I'll be on time."
"Okay, Haru-kun. Be safe. Bye."
"Bye, angel."
The moment the call ended, the "Haru-kun" mask shattered. He didn't say a word to Mucho. He didn't even look back at the ruined neon fabric in the dirt. He simply turned and began a dead sprint toward his bike, his movements blurred and predatory.
He kicked his bike into gear, the engine roaring like a wounded beast. As he tore out of the lot, his hand instinctively went to the hilt of the pocketknife at his waist. Mucho's disdain was the least of his problems—someone was currently in possession of a piece of his "angel's" wardrobe, and in Sanzu's mind, that was a transgression that could only be washed away in red.
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