Monkey D. Garp and his controversially young girlfriend
Synopsis: Garp gets a new secretary — what he doesn’t know is that he’s about to catch feelings for her.
Pairing: Garp x Fem!Reader
Content warning: Age gap (reader it’s between 25—35), power imbalance, questionable relationship, vaginal sex, canon violence, unprotected sex, nicknames (mainly love, good girl), fingering, face-sitting, a bit of dry humping, size kink, manhandling, fluff, protective Garp, rough sex, creampie, overstimulation (the man punches ships as training, of course he’s a relentless beast), doggy style, missionary, cowgirl, mating press, blowjob (plus moaning and whining), Garp tries his best to be a gentleman, mentions of reader’s evil situationship.
Author’s note: English is not my first language.
I’m aware of how incredibly questionable this is, but you know, sometimes a girl just needs to write about Monkey D. Garp in a very Lana Del Rey way.
She was his new secretary, a young woman who threw herself into her work with relentless diligence.
Their first meeting was intimidating as hell for her. Everyone in the Marine base warned her that Vice Admiral Garp was a walking hurricane— too intense, too disorganized, and a nightmare to manage. His paperwork was a legend of chaos, having driven off a string of secretaries before her. Therefore, she walked into his office that first day, knees practically knocking, clutching her files like a lifeline.
Garp was a mountain of a man, tall, broad, and radiating a presence that could make even seasoned Marines sweat. Old as he was, he still moved like he could punch through a battleship and not even break a sweat, his grin equal parts charming and terrifying.
Her first week was a disaster of epic proportions. Every night, she dragged herself home feeling like she’d been trampled by a Sea King. After her first day, she actually cried on the way back, tears streaking down as she wondered if she’d made a huge mistake.
But she was stubborn, so she kept showing up, pushing through the chaos until she started to wrangle it, and Garp, into something manageable.
Garp was a lot, but once she figured out how to tame him, it was smooth sailing. She had his office running like a well-oiled ship, papers filed, desk spotless, reports actually on time for once.
Even Fleet Admiral Sengoku was floored when he stepped into Garp’s office and found it organized, beetle-clean, with reports stacked neatly. “What the hell? Since when are you this… tidy?” Sengoku asked, gaping, words failing him.
Garp jerked a thumb at his secretary, who was quietly filling out reports on the latest pirate skirmish. “See that one over there? She’s my new secretary,” he said, grinning like a proud kid showing off a new toy.
“What’d she do to whip you into shape?” Sengoku asked, genuinely baffled.
“She brought me tarts, promised more if I followed her system,” Garp said, leaning back in his chair. “Did it once, twice, then nothing, and I don’t get why, because I’ve kept this place cleaner than a Marine parade deck!”
Sengoku saw through it in a heartbeat, the secretary was playing him like a fiddle, using a reward system to keep the old man in line. The sly little thing had Garp wrapped around her finger, and he hadn’t even noticed.
“You really haven’t figured out what she’s doing to you, have you?” Sengoku said, smirking.
“What!?” Garp barked, confused as hell.
“Of course you haven’t, you’re not exactly the sharpest sword in the armory,” Sengoku said, shaking his head.
“Hey!” Garp roared, slamming a fist on his desk, making papers flutter.
Sengoku’s words got under Garp’s skin. He started pestering his secretary, trying to figure out what the hell Sengoku meant.
At first, it was just curiosity, but soon he found himself enjoying her company, doing his chores just to see her smile— tarts be damned.
She would still bring tarts every now and then. To thank her, he’d leave rice crackers on her desk with goofy notes, scrawled with crude drawings of his fist or that ridiculous dog hat he loved. She kept every single one, tucked away in a drawer, a secret collection of his dumb, heartfelt gestures.
Truth be told, she was crushing hard. After surviving those brutal first weeks and taming the beast that was Garp, she started seeing him for who he was, a loud, joke-cracking, larger-than-life man who’d bring her food, insisting she “eat up to keep up with him,” or plop down in front of her desk to ramble about some wild adventure from his past. His stories, half-exaggerated and full of cackling laughter, were oddly comforting, a steady anchor in her messy life.
Outside the Marine base, her world was a wreck. Her love life was a disaster, tangled in a toxic situationship with a younger Marine under Garp’s command. The guy was all sweet talk and empty promises, he’d blow her off, flirt with barmaids right in front of her, and, worst of all, the sex was barely worth the effort. Yet he kept worming his way back into her life, and she, naive and hopeful, kept giving him chances, each one draining her a little more.
Garp noticed one day, she looked like a wilted cabbage, all droopy and sad. He wasn’t one to let that slide, so he bided his time, waiting for the right moment. During lunch, he cornered her on the way to the cafeteria, his massive frame blocking her path.
“Let me treat you,” he said, grinning, the perfect excuse to sate his nosy streak.
She nodded, too tired to argue, and followed him.
The conversation was awkward at first, Garp dancing around the real issue like a rookie avoiding a fight. Finally, he got fed up and went straight for it. “What’s with that face? You look like you’ve been wrestling pirates in your sleep.”
“Just some personal stuff, that’s all,” she said, cheeks burning, mortified to be venting to Vice Admiral Garp of all people.
“I see,” Garp said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “Spill it.”
“Sir, I don’t want to burden you with my nonsense…” she said, staring at her plate.
“Nonsense!” Garp slammed a fist on the table, making heads turn and cutlery rattle. “I need to know what’s distracting my secretary… since that will mess up with your work!”
It was the flimsiest excuse in the world, but it worked. She sighed, giving in. “My love life’s a mess,” she admitted, cringing at how pathetic it sounded.
Garp leaned in, suddenly all ears, though a weird pang hit his chest.
Was she taken?
He hadn’t realized how much he cared about the answer, and it threw him off, he was her boss, old enough to be her grandpa, for seas’ sake. “What’s the problem?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual. “Spit it out, or I’ll have you doing push-ups until you’re crying.”
“I’ve been seeing this Marine,” she said, and Garp’s gut twisted, alarms blaring at the thought of some punk claiming her heart. “He’s… unreliable. I don’t think he even likes me, he just likes having me around.”
“What a scumbag,” Garp growled, leaning back. “What’s his name?”
She hesitated, then mumbled the name, barely audible.
“No way!” Garp barked a laugh, loud enough to startle half the cafeteria. “That wimp? He’s a lazy slacker, always cutting corners!”
Relief washed over him, mixed with pity for her. That punk didn’t deserve her, and Garp was already plotting ways to make his life hell. Extra chores, grueling training sessions, maybe a few “accidental” punches during drills, all in the name of character-building, of course.
His secretary deserved a real man, not some sniveling boy playing games.
And, though the words stayed unspoken, even in his own head, Garp knew deep down he wanted to be the man she deserved.
He’d treat her right, showing her what a real man could do. Despite his age, Garp could outshine those young, clueless Marines who probably didn’t know a woman’s body from a ship’s rigging. He’d bet his fist that wimpy Marine never made her cum, and he’d die on that hill, cackling all the way.
Weeks passed, and his secretary seemed to be holding it together, her calm demeanor unshaken, at least during work hours.
On Friday afternoon, she left the base looking fine, or so Garp thought, until that night in the village market.
He was having a blast, chowing down at a food stall, chugging sake, laughing so loud the vendor’s stand shook. “Is this seat taken?” a voice called from behind, and when Garp turned, he nearly choked on his drink.
His secretary stood there, in a dress that made her look ethereal, every inch of her screaming perfection. At the base, she dressed like a grandma, all prim and proper, hiding under layers of professionalism. But now? Garp’s jaw damn near hit the table, his eyes raking over her before he caught himself.
“Of course not, grab a seat!” he said, grinning, trying to play it cool.
But when he met her eyes, he saw the redness, the telltale signs of tears. His grin faded. “What happened?” he asked, voice gruff but soft.
“Got stood up, again,” she said, shrugging. “At this point, I shouldn’t even care.”
“Sounds like you need a drink,” the bartender chimed in, sliding a glass her way.
“Or a lobotomy,” she muttered, barely audible.
Garp caught it and barked a laugh, though his chest tightened. “Aye, crying over that wimp? I’ll make sure he’s bawling through next week’s drills, mark my words.”
She chuckled, but it was heavy, laced with sadness. “No need, sir.”
“Call me Garp,” he said, waving off the formalities, his tone warm but firm.
From there, it was like tumbling down a hill with no brakes. They talked, laughed, drank, and before he knew it, Garp was walking her home, the night air cool against their skin. As she turned to go inside, she paused, looking him dead in the eyes. “You know, Garp, I wouldn’t mind an older man,” she said, then slipped inside, leaving him stunned.
Her words burned into his brain, playing on repeat for weeks.
Was she serious?
The way she’d looked at him, all intense and unflinching, it had to mean something. Or maybe she’d been tipsy, those drinks loosening her tongue. She acted like it never happened, all business as usual, leaving Garp wondering if he’d imagined it. But it felt too real, too raw to be some alcohol-fueled fantasy.
It messed with him, turned the mighty Vice Admiral Garp into a fumbling, flustered mess. She noticed, of course, the way he stumbled through conversations and the faint flush on his cheeks.
It was bizarre, seeing the Hero of the Marines so off-kilter.
She hadn’t meant to throw him that hard.
Sure, she’d said it to test the waters, maybe a bit buzzed, but now she was the confused one. Was he into it, or was he uncomfortable? She couldn’t read him, so she let it drop, focusing on work.
One night, buried in paperwork long after hours, Garp loomed over her desk, frowning. “Why’re you still here?”
“I’m—” she started, but he cut her off.
“No, you’re not. Pack up, I’m walking you home,” he declared, leaving no room for argument.
She sighed, knowing better than to fight the old man’s stubbornness. She tidied her desk, and they walked through the quiet base, Garp filling the silence with his usual loud tales of past battles and dumb recruits.
At her door, he hesitated, tense, like he was wrestling with something.
“Everything okay?” she asked, tilting her head.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said that night,” Garp said, scratching the back of his neck, awkward as a rookie. “The older man thing.”
Her heart skipped, but she kept her cool. “You have?” she asked, voice steady, waiting.
“Yeah,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Did you… mean me?”
“Depends,” she said, cryptic, guarding herself in case she’d misread him.
“Depends on what?” Garp asked, brow furrowing, confusion written all over his face.
“On your feelings,” she said.
“My feelings are damn right!” Garp roared, all rowdy confidence, his grin wide enough to light up the night.
Well, that was unexpected.
She nodded slowly, pulse racing and not knowing how to proceed. “Do you want to come upstairs?”
“HELL NO!” Garp bellowed, startling her. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. This Friday, I’m taking you out properly, like a real man should!”
She blinked, caught off guard but charmed by his fire.
It was a far cry from that crusty, wimpy Marine, and she was already looking forward to it.
Friday crawled by like a ship stuck in the Calm Belt, but Garp was a damn saint in the meantime, going out of his way to be considerate with her.
He even left a single wildflower on her desk, a scruffy little thing that screamed he’d picked it himself.
Cute, for a man who could punch a hole through a battleship.
On Friday, she went all out, slipping into her prettiest dress— a soft, flowing number that made her feel confident. Garp showed up looking like a million beli, his fancy suit somehow making his massive frame even more imposing, yet weirdly dashing, and his dog hat swapped for a rare, slicked-back look.
The man even brought her flowers, a messy bouquet that looked like he’d strong-armed a florist into giving him the best they had.
Truth be told, Garp was dense as a cannonball when it came to romance, but for her, he’d dusted off every scrap of gentlemanly know-how he could muster, determined to prove an old-timer like him deserved a shot.
They sat in a cozy restaurant, the kind of place that felt too refined for a guy like Garp, but he made it work somehow.
“I still gotta figure out what to do with…” she said, trailing off, poking at her food.
“That wimp?” Garp asked, leaning forward.
“Yeah,” she said, sighing.
“I could always beat the ever-loving snot outta that scrawny punk,” Garp said. “The kid’s gonna keep pestering you even when I drag you out for a meal, I’ll make him regret it.”
“Yeah…” she said, glancing down. “Still, that’s completely off the table, Garp.”
“That little twerp needs a proper thrashing to know his place,” Garp shrugged, as if he wasn’t talking about beating the living shit out of one of his subordinates. “Can’t let him mess with women, especially not when he looks like a twig I could snap with one finger!”
She deadpanned, fighting a smirk. “Right.”
“So, what’s your big plan, huh?” he asked, one bushy eyebrow shooting up.
“I’ll talk to him,” she said, calm but firm.
“I could talk to him too, you know, with a fist to the face,” Garp said, letting out a bellowing laugh that shook the whole damn restaurant, heads whipping around to stare. “I bet that’d teach the brat some manners!”
“Once again, totally uncalled for,” she said, rolling her eyes, though ahe found it amusing.
The dinner was a lively back-and-forth, hopping from one topic to another, always playful, even when the conversation brushed against her deadbeat Marine ex. They had a blast, Garp’s loud stories and her quick-witted jabs bouncing off each other like a sparring match.
Garp walked her home, as expected.
He lingered at her door, shuffling awkwardly, clearly set on not going upstairs. “I should get going,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Or you could just come upstairs,” she said, shrugging, her tone teasing but deliberate.
“Wouldn’t be gentlemanly or whatever,” Garp said, his attempt at chivalry sounding hilariously out of place.
Still he was trying, bless him, but it was awkward as hell.
“Does that mean you’d disrespect my honor if you came up?” she asked, tilting her head, a sly smile playing on her lips.
“Yeah, I think so.” He said.
“But what if I want my honor disrespected?” she countered, her voice low, eyes locked on his with a boldness that made his brain short-circuit.
A long pause followed, long enough for her to turn and saunter upstairs, leaving the door wide open. “You better come, Vice Admiral, that’s an order,” she called from inside, her voice dripping with challenge.
Garp stood there, frozen, his heart pounding like a war drum.
Oh, screw it.
He stormed inside, his heavy boots thumping like cannon fire as he followed her up the stairs.
Garp was quick, catching her just as she hit the last step, scooping her up like she weighed less than a sack of rice, making her yelp. Her keys clattered to the floor, but neither gave a damn right then. After the playful jumpscare, he set her down, and—when she was bending to grab the keys—planted a kiss on her lips. The sheer force pinned her against the door, his massive frame caging her as he deepened the kiss, all hunger and heat.
She was stunned, to put it mildly.
The man was a beast. In seconds, he had her knees buckling, his lips moving with a skill that screamed Monkey D. Garp—hungry, rough and kinda playful.
His hands were everywhere—gentleman act be damned—groping her breasts through her dress, squeezing hard enough to rip a moan from her throat. His fingers slid to her neck, guiding her head so he could attack her throat, sucking a hickey without a shred of shame. Then, out of nowhere, he bit her, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark, sending a jolt straight to her core, her panties soaked in an instant.
She was dizzy, Garp’s body pressed tight against hers, his erection—intimidating as the man himself—grinding into her through his pants.
“Guess we should get inside,” he said, pulling back from the kiss, his grin pure mischief.
She needed a second to catch her breath, panting. “Y…yeah.”
She turned, fumbling with the keys, nerves and Garp’s overwhelming presence making her hands shake. To make it worse, he gave her ass a generous squeeze, smirking as she braced her palm against the door to steady herself from his intensity.
“Whoops, can’t help it,” he said, not an ounce of guilt in his voice.
Thankfully, she got the door open, because the second the lock clicked, Garp was back on her neck, pressing his hard-on against her ass—cheeky bastard letting her know he was ready to wreck her.
What happened next in her apartment was a blur. One moment she was stumbling inside, the next she was shoved against the nearest wall, knickknacks on a nearby table crashing to the floor as Garp humped her—yeah, humped, like some wild animal rediscovering his youth. What could he say? The old dog was feeling spry again. And she wasn’t complaining, half because she was too caught up in the heat, half because she was already a mess, moaning and melting under him.
At some point, her dress came off, probably lost somewhere in the kitchen. When Garp’s hunger kicked into overdrive, he pulled his mouth from her breast with a loud pop and rumbled, “Where’s your room, love?”
He made sense of her incoherent directions—her apartment wasn’t exactly a maze—and carried her there, not breaking the kiss once, pausing only to pin her against another wall for the hell of it.
Once he lowered her onto the bed, he hesitated, towering over her, his usual cocky grin softening. “You sure about this, girl?”
“More than sure,” she said, breathless and hazy.
That was all he needed.
He crawled over her, letting out a booming laugh—because of course the bastard was laughing—and locked eyes with her, brushing hair from her face, cupping her cheek. Then he dove in for the filthiest, most sinful kiss yet, all tongue and clashing teeth, a hint of biting, a string of saliva connecting their mouths as he pulled back. It was knee-buckling, sparks shooting down her spine, her body melting against his, his broad shoulders and tree-trunk arms caging her completely.
The man was ravenous.
His hands roamed, squeezing her thighs and hips so hard his fingers left red marks. “I’m gonna show you what a real man can do,” he growled, voice thick with lust.
Her eyes widened, his words sending shivers through her.
“Bet that wimpy ex never made you cum,” he said, fingers creeping dangerously close to her cunt.
“N…no, he didn’t,” she admitted, face burning with shame.
Garp hummed, smug as hell. “Too bad for that punk. No way he’s getting you back after I’m through with you…”
What the hell did that mean?
He didn’t leave her wondering long. His fingers went to work, rough but skilled, his thumb pressing her clit with just enough force as he circled it. When she started squirming, he slid two thick digits inside, his other hand pinning her down, splayed across her lower belly. “How many rounds do you think you can take, love?”
“What?” she gasped, completely out of it.
“How many?” he pressed, grinning like a shark.
“I… don’t know,” she said, naive and about to learn why he was asking.
He kept a steady rhythm, driving her wild, until he curled his fingers just right, and her eyes went wide, a moan ripping from her throat as her back arched. Garp was having the time of his life, watching his usually composed secretary fall apart under his hands. She was teetering on the edge, legs shaking, breath ragged, her walls clenching around his fingers. Feeling generous, he pushed her over, shaking her to her core.
“That’s one,” he grunted, pulling his fingers free. “Now, open up, love.” She did, dazed, and he stuffed his fingers in her mouth. “Suck ‘em clean.” She hesitated, then obeyed, putting on a little show as she sucked, earning a low hum from him.
“Aren’t you a good girl?” he cooed, eyes dark with hunger.
Garp was still half-dressed, shirt unbuttoned, jacket long gone. He started stripping, peeling off his clothes as she watched, her pupils dilating, biting her lip. It hit him like a cannonball—being desired at his age, when he thought his spark had faded years ago. “Like what you see?” he teased, fishing for her reaction.
She blushed, looking away. “Well, yeah… you’re, uh, like a wall of muscle.”
What a shitty compliment, she wanted to die.
Garp’s laugh shook the room, his ego swelling. “Hah! Feeding my pride, eh, love?”
He leaned down, planting a soft kiss on her lips before flipping her onto her stomach with ease, like she weighed nothing. Still laughing, he manhandled her into all fours, her shocked gasp only fueling his grin.
She hadn’t expected this skill from a man his age.
Her mind flashed to something Fleet Admiral Sengoku once said, about Garp and Aokiji using ships as punching bags, the old man’s stamina endless, relentless. Now, she wondered if he’d bring that same intensity to her. After his “how many rounds” question, she wasn’t sure she could handle more than one or two, not when her ex couldn’t even manage one.
His fingers traced her spine, then he kissed the back of her neck, positioning himself behind her, his cock thick and heavy, pressing against her entrance.
“Garp…”
“Ready for me?”
She nodded, a bit panicked. “Could you, uh, go gentle at first, please?”
That cracked him up, a full-belly laugh that rattled the walls. “Hah! Gentle, she says! Don’t worry, love, I’ll ease you into it—gonna feel damn good, I swear.” He tilted her chin to kiss her lips before starting.
He thrust in slowly, letting her feel every inch, his size stretching her to her limits, overwhelming until she adjusted.
He started in doggy style, on his knees, hands gripping her hips, pounding into her with a rhythm that had her clutching the sheets. When he sensed her nearing the edge, he yanked her upright by the hair—not rough, but a firm tug near the roots, the slight pain sharp and exquisite. Her back pressed against his broad chest, his arms like steel bands around her, one hand splayed across her stomach to hold her steady, the other wrapping gently around her neck—not squeezing, just keeping her in place.
“Feel how deep I am, girl?” Garp whispered in her ear, voice husky, thrusts shifting upward, hitting spots that made stars burst behind her eyes.
She was a mess, only upright because he held her.
His hand slid down, finding her clit, circling it as he fucked her, pushing her to the edge again. Tears streamed down her cheeks, soft cries of overwhelming pleasure escaping. She came a second time, clenching around him, but he kept going, not even sweating, manhandling her through the aftershocks, tearing another orgasm from her.
He flipped her onto her back, not giving her a second to breathe, trapping her mouth with his lips again.
Garp wasn’t slowing down—could probably go all damn night.
“Tired yet?” he teased between kisses.
“N…no,” she lied, panting.
“Can’t keep up with an old dog like me?” he grinned, smug as hell.
She covered her face with her arm, gasping as he gave her a moment to catch her breath.
“Forget how to talk, love?” he chuckled, tickling her palm. “Or nobody has ever fucked you this good?”
“I… uh…” she stammered, breathless.
“Not fair you’re tapped out when I’m not even done,” he teased.
“You haven’t!?” She glanced down, shocked to see his cock still hard, resting against her thigh.
“Forgot you’re used to weaklings,” he said, smirking. “Guess I’ll have to train you, like one of my recruits.”
He kissed along her forearm, playful but hungry.
“Alright, Vice Admiral,” she muttered, half-mocking, too hazy to land the sarcasm.
Garp’s grin widened, and he got back to work.
By the fifth, she was gone—fucked out, brain mush, legs trembling uncontrollably as he pulled another orgasm from her, his kisses softening but no less intense, his stamina as stubborn as a battleship.
He could’ve kept going, cock still hard inside her, but he finally let himself finish, groaning low as he spilled deep, filling her with a heat that left her boneless.
Garp wanted to keep going, but one look at her fucked-out state told him she’d had enough for now.
“Easy there, love,” Garp murmured, voice softening as he pulled out, gathering her trembling form against his chest.
He was surprisingly gentle in aftercare, grabbing a warm cloth from the bathroom, his massive hands careful now, massaging her shaky legs until the tremors faded. He tucked her into bed, holding her close, muttering gruff praises like, “You did good, girl,” until her hazy mind drifted off, safe in his arms.
It was the best sex she’d ever had.
And the afterglow? Pure, mindless peace—no trace of feeling used or uneasy, just complete contentment.
The next morning, Garp stayed true to his word, treating her like a damn queen. He stomped around her kitchen, whipping up a massive breakfast of half-charred eggs, barking, “Eat up, gotta get your strength back after last night!”
She complied, still foggy from the night before, body sore but thrumming with satisfaction, as he slapped the eggs onto plates with a grin wider than when he’d sunk a pirate fleet. He’d even scratched a shitty smiling face into the eggs with a fork—ugly as hell, but the effort made her heart skip.
After, he scooped her up, brushing off her protests with a laugh, and carried her to a bath he’d drawn, his massive frame crowding the tub, turning it into a cozy den. “Now, let me handle this, love,” he rumbled, his rough hands washing her hair with surprising care, calloused fingers gentle, savoring the quiet.
If she could’ve melted into a puddle of goo, she would’ve, right there in his arms.
The man had studied the gentleman’s handbook (Garp’s version) and hell if it wasn’t charming as hell.
They ended up on the sofa, her reading aloud from an adventure novel, her voice rising with excitement over tales of pirates and treasure. Garp sprawled out, head in her lap, eyes half-closed, content like he hadn’t been in decades, his calloused hand tracing lazy circles on her thigh. “Keep reading, love,” he grumbled. “I like hearing your voice.”
After that night, Garp and his secretary settled into a relationship, kept as quiet as she could manage, her insistence on discretion clashing with his don’t-give-a-damn attitude. She was dead-set on avoiding gossip, knowing Marine Headquarters would buzz like a hornet’s nest if word spread she was bedding the Monkey D. Garp.
Garp, true to form, didn’t care who knew—he’d have bellowed it from the top of the tallest mast, arms crossed, laughing like a madman if she hadn’t shut him down.
Still, he respected her wishes, keeping his hands off in public, though his eyes lingered too long, a cocky grin tugging at his lips— like he was daring someone to call him out.
She was happier than she’d been in years, her life smoother than a calm sea, thanks to Garp.
He wasn’t perfect—a stubborn, bull-headed bastard who’d rather punch a problem than think it through—but she’d learned how to wrangle him. A sharp glare or a well-timed rice cracker could steer him straight, and he’d laugh, booming, “You’re scarier than a Sea King!” as he fell in line.
They were domestic in their own way, savoring quiet moments—her reading adventure novels while he lounged on her couch or him cooking massive, messy meals of charred fish and rice while she baked a couple of tarts.
The sex was mind-blowing, a clash of Garp’s overwhelming strength and her eager surrender.
His massive frame dwarfed her, his broad, scarred chest and thick arms making her feel tiny as he manhandled her into whatever position struck his fancy.
Doggy style was his go-to, loving how deep he could go, growling like a beast as he gripped her hips, doing whatever the hell he wanted with her body— her moans only spurring him on. He also loved pinning her down in a mating press, legs folded back, or spooning her when they were feeling lazy, his cock still relentless even in slower moments. The man got creative, switching positions like a battle strategy, making the most of the night with his endless stamina.
Cowgirl was rarer, but when she got bold—once they’d grown comfortable—she’d take charge. She wasn’t strong, but she was smart, knowing exactly how to bring the Hero of the Marines to his knees, whining and begging like a lovesick recruit for a whole damn hour. The first time she climbed on top, pinning him with a half-confused, half-sly grin, Garp’s eyes lit up like she’d challenged him to a brawl. She was out of her depth but had the spirit, and Garp ate it up, cheering, “That’s it, love, show me what you got!” He lost his mind, letting her work her hips until he was the one groaning and cursing, completely at her mercy.
She learned something about herself—she loved a vocal man, and from then on, she’d do anything to hear Garp’s rough, desperate sounds.
Her best trick? Her blowjobs. They sent him to another damn dimension, his fists clutching the sheets like he was holding on during a storm, muttering, “Fucking hell, girl,” as she worked him over. She got so good at it, chasing those sweet sounds, that he’d have to stop her, panting, “Enough, love, I’m not lasting with that mouth!”—a rare defeat for a man like him.
And Garp? He matched her fire. If she was thorough going down on him, he was a beast in return, a pussy destroyer—and yeah, he’d proudly called himself that a couple of times.
Foreplay wasn’t his forte—too impatient, pounding her like a man possessed—but he made up for it, eating her out like it was a whole damn banquet. Face-sitting was his favorite, caged between her thighs, grinning like an idiot, licking his lips in anticipation. “Garp, I’m gonna suffo—” she’d start.
“Nonsense!” he’d bark, her hovering over his face, mid-conversation in the weirdest damn position. “Sit down, girl! My face is your throne—only weaklings dodge a woman’s pleasure!”
“But…” It was a lost cause.
“I’d die happy between these thighs, love! I take down pirate fleets, damn it, I can handle this!” He wanted that cookie, bad. “So sit!”
She sighed, giving in, still not putting her full weight down until his massive hands yanked her into place. From there, she was done for, his stubborn ass spending hours with that relentless tongue, leaving her a trembling, soaking mess.
She’d try to push him off, rarely succeeding, but damn if she didn’t try.
Outside their private world, she carried herself with newfound confidence, her days free of her ex’s pathetic bullshit.
But that wimpy Marine, true to his spineless nature, came crawling back one day, cornering her outside the base with his slimy sweet talk, begging for another chance.
Her voice was all politeness, but her eyes were ice-cold, done with his nonsense. “We’re done. You never gave a damn about me, so save it.”
He didn’t take the hint, stepping closer, his tone turning whiny, manipulative. “Come on, you know you miss me,” he said, grabbing her arm. She yanked away, but before she could say anything else, a shadow loomed—Garp, massive and pissed, filling the corridor like a goddamn battleship.
He’d heard every word, grabbing the punk by the back of his uniform, hoisting him up like a wet mop. The Marine dangled, legs kicking, face pale as Garp’s grin turned feral. “Are you bothering my secretary, little shit?” he growled, voice low, the kind that’d make any Emperor of the Sea piss themselves.
She panicked, heart racing, not wanting a scene. “Garp, put him down.”
Garp ignored her, shaking the Marine like a disobedient puppy. “Listen up, you sniveling brat. Come near her again, and I’ll make you scrub barnacles off the ocean floor until your hands bleed!” His grip tightened, making the punk whimper. Garp dropped him, letting him scurry off like a cockroach, never to bother her again.
She turned on Garp, exasperated but secretly relieved. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, hands on her hips.
“Had to make sure the bastard got the message,” Garp said, shrugging, his grin pure mischief.
She sighed. “Pretty childish, Vice Admiral.”
“Childish? Hah!” he boomed, proving her point. “That’s how you handle punks!”
In the end, their wild, messy bond worked.
