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gav-san · 6 days ago

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The Sundress Incident

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Oneshot: Monkey D. Garp x reader Length: 4 K+ Rating: 16+ (Language)

Vice Admiral Garp is undone by a sundress, strategic sabotage, and one very dangerous woman.

Come get your GILF @thisloserhere

Port Harla simmered beneath the blaze of high noon, a hot and hazy checkpoint nestled along the East Blue trade lane. The air pulsed with the hum of cicadas, thick with heat and the scent of salt, sweat, and something faintly metallic. Stone streets radiated warmth like griddles left too long in the sun, and the harbor shimmered as if the world itself had been thrown into a fever dream.

Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp stood at the edge of the dock, arms crossed, jaw set. He was there to oversee a routine supply transfer. Or at least, it had been routine before everything began going wrong.

The crew dragged their feet like sulky children, slapping lazily at flies and fanning themselves with whatever paper or hat they could find. One man had tucked a fish down his shirt to keep cool. Another had mistaken sugar for salt in the rations. The cannonballs were miscounted. The ink on the manifests was smudged to the point of illegibility. The rice balls he’d brought from town were sad and soggy, warm in the worst way. Everything, in short, was going to hell. Slowly. Inefficiently. With the infuriating calm of a man being bled dry by ants.

And the sun. Gods, the sun. It pressed on him like a weight, baking through his uniform and leaving him sticky and half-feral, a warhound being slow-cooked in navy blue.

He tugged at his collar for the tenth time and roared something unrepeatable at a sailor who dropped a crate of cannon primers. His voice cracked over the water, startling a flock of gulls from the rafters. Bogard winced from a respectful distance. A bead of sweat slid down the side of Garp’s face and disappeared into his collar, right as he bit into a lukewarm rice ball and seriously considered committing violence.

That was when it happened. The moment everything stopped.

A shape stepped out from the haze at the edge of the port. Not a pirate. Not a marine. Not anyone who belonged in this heatstroke of a warzone. A woman.

You.

You walked with the unbothered sway of someone completely unsuited for a place like this, and somehow made it feel like everything else was the one out of place. Your shoulders were bare. Your sandals were delicate. And your sundress—small, yellow, and criminally light—moved with the wind in a way that was not appropriate for wartime. Or peacetime. Or any time that required a man of discipline to remain disciplined.

It was the kind of dress that didn’t hug curves so much as whisper to them. It flirted with your knees. It played with the breeze. It sparkled a little in the sun, as if it knew exactly what it was doing. The color was bright and wicked, like sunshine licked over honey. Or sin.

You had a little bag tucked over one arm. A parasol spun lazily in your hand. And your expression, God help him, was the sort of thing that could get a priest excommunicated just for noticing it.

Garp choked on his rice ball.

Bogard, who had been checking the harbor log, followed the line of his commanding officer’s suddenly stricken gaze. He paused. Blinked. Then looked again.

“…Sir?” he asked cautiously.

Garp said nothing.

He just stared, rice ball half-chewed, one hand still mid-motion at his collar.

You met his gaze as you strolled closer, the picture of afternoon leisure, a summer day in motion. You smiled—easy, lazy, sun-warmed—and it was the kind of smile that promised nothing but mischief and slow, thorough ruin.

From that moment forward, Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp would never know peace again.

“I’m fine,” Garp snapped, wiping his mouth and chest in one frantic motion. “Just—the heat.”

Sure. The heat. Not the way your dress dipped low at the back. Not the flick of your fingers adjusting the hem like it was riding up, which, spoiler alert, it absolutely was. Not the soft, bouncing step you took as you moved toward the harbor, like you didn’t have a damn clue the Hero of the Marines was one breath away from barking on all fours.

He watched the way the light caught your hair. Watched the sundress flutter against your thighs, fabric teasing like it had a personal vendetta. His brain—veteran of a thousand naval battles, siege master of coastal strongholds, slayer of sea kings—emptied.

You weren’t even trying.

You stood with one hand on your hip, the other lifting your parasol with a gentle turn of the wrist. The sun caught the tops of your shoulders. Your smile was bright. Your eyes were all kinds of trouble. You wore yellow. Garp, now and forever, loved yellow.

Awooga.

He didn’t say it out loud, but the sentiment echoed in his soul with the clarity of cannon fire.

You weren’t loud. You didn’t need to be. You vibrated on a frequency only his poor, overheated bones could detect. You were a danger dressed like a daydream, sunshine painted with warning stripes. That little dress clung to you like it had opinions—tied in scandalous bows at the shoulders, swaying well above your knees, moving like it knew exactly how to weaponize a breeze.

Garp stopped walking.

Then he stopped breathing.

And then, like a man struck directly in the spine by divine interference, he grunted, “Huh.”

You caught his gaze and smiled again. Slower this time. Measured. Your sandals whispered over the stone, and the parasol twirled lazily in your hands like you had nowhere to be except exactly where he was.

He hadn’t noticed how long he’d been staring until Bogard leaned over and said, low and dry, “Sir. Your rice ball is leaking.”

Garp didn’t blink. “Don’t care.”

You smiled again and let him look.

Let him take it all in.

And oh, he did.

He devoured you with his eyes—starved, stunned, silent. He took in the curve of your waist, the sunlight on your thighs, the ribbon sliding from your shoulder like it had secrets. You weren’t showy. You weren’t flirting. You were worse. You were possibly interested. Like a dream that walked toward him instead of vanishing. Like an invitation that didn’t need words.

It did something unholy to him.

By the time you reached the ship and tilted your head in a show of gentle confusion, Garp had already imagined bending you over every stable surface of the vessel. Twice.

“Vice Admiral, isn’t it?” you asked, squinting just enough to pass for innocent. “Could you help me? I’m a little turned around.”

He made a noise that might have once been language. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

He cleared his throat. Adjusted his waistband. For stability. No other reason.

“Hi?” he offered, with the helpless tone of a man trying not to drown in thigh-high water.

“Hello,” you replied, voice smooth as honey poured slowly over warm stone. “Quite a day for a stroll, no?”

You let the wind catch the hem of your dress again. Just slightly. Just enough.

His eyes dropped. You felt them settle, hot and unrelenting, like fingertips dragging across skin.

“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” he said. His voice came out too low, too rough around the edges.

You stepped closer, your sandals silent, your parasol tilting like punctuation at the end of a flirt.

“Neither do you.”

You smiled like a girl who knew exactly what she was doing. Knew that he knew it. Knew he wouldn’t stop you even if he could. Sweetness bloomed across your face, innocent on the surface, soaked in sin underneath.

“I do wonder,” you murmured, your tone soft and rich, like butter left to melt over rum cake. “Would you happen to know if there’s a ship heading east?”

He was reasonably certain he was headed east now. Spiritually. Mentally. Possibly even physically.

Garp’s jaw twitched. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. His brain had thrown itself overboard.

“Yeah,” he managed, dragging the word out like he was lassoing it from a distance. “Yeah, maybe. Why? Where you headed?”

“Anywhere cooler,” you said, lifting the parasol to your shoulder with a faint sigh. “It’s sweltering.”

Your skin gleamed in the sun. Your lips curved like you knew what they did to a man. And Garp, veteran of wars, scourge of pirates, Hero of the Marines, stood in the middle of a dock in full uniform, sweating like a schoolboy at confession.

“You look a bit warm yourself,” you added, tilting your head. “Are you all right, Vice Admiral?”

He coughed into his fist, loud and aimless. “Peachy.”

Somewhere behind him, Bogard made a strangled noise like he had just swallowed his tongue.

You shifted again, fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt with casual elegance. Garp’s hand jerked, and his rice ball slipped in his grip for the second time that day. He fumbled it back into place with the desperation of a man clinging to the last shred of dignity.

There was a freckle.

One.

Right on the inside of your thigh.

It caught the sunlight like it had been placed there on purpose, and it stole every rational thought he’d ever had.

“You, uh, need an escort?” he asked, chest puffing up with the blind confidence of a man experiencing religious awakening. “Could give you a tour of the flagship.”

Behind him, Bogard made another sound. Garp ignored it. His blood was hot. His vision was hazy. His soul had already fled.

You tilted your head, gaze soft and considering. “Would you?”

Garp grinned. He flexed, just a touch, like a bear trying to impress a butterfly. “Sure. I mean, can’t let someone so delicate wander around alone in pirate waters.”

Your lashes lowered in the kind of blink that should be classified as a controlled substance. When your fingers brushed his arm, light and grateful, something behind his eyes flickered dangerously.

Garp nearly shut down.

He believed it. He wanted to believe it.

Because for three whole seconds, the world slowed to a crawl. No gunfire. No sirens. No orders barking across the harbor. Just you. Just your touch. Just the idea of possibility cracking open in his chest like spring after war.

And in the place where logic once lived, only one thought bloomed: Wife material.

You let him offer the tour.

You accepted.

Bold of him.

Bolder of you.

Around you, the Marines had stopped pretending not to stare. Some watched with awe. Some watched with terror. A few whispered behind their hands, unsure if they were witnessing courtship or an oncoming scandal.

Garp didn’t notice.

He was grinning like a fool and offering you a skewer of grilled fish from a street vendor with the enthusiasm of a man who believed himself blessed.

He was trying to guess your background. Diplomat, maybe. Or royalty. Possibly the daughter of some high-ranking admiral slumming it in disguise. An angel, if angels had wicked smiles and legs for days. A mirage, if mirages could touch.

Definitely wife material.

“I don’t usually escort civilians,” he said, puffing up like a peacock showing off his medals. “Too busy keeping the seas safe.”

“Oh, you seem very safe,” you said, voice sugared and innocent.

He preened like a rooster on parade.

He told himself it was a matter of professional courtesy. Basic good manners. Chivalry, even. You didn’t argue. You just walked beside him, steps light, questions softer still, your laughter slipping into the air like the scent of something addictive.

You let your fingers brush his arm. Once. Just once.

His entire body reacted like he had been struck in the gut.

You paused beside the cannons, leaned forward with the curiosity of someone very new to weaponry. Your dress slid a little higher as you bent to examine the rigging, and your lip caught gently against your teeth. It was unintentional, probably. Maybe.

He stood behind you, fists clenched at his sides, trying to remember what year it was.

“Something wrong, Vice Admiral?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder. Your voice was polite. Your eyes were not.

He looked like a man on trial, guilty of crimes against restraint.

“No,” he said, a little too fast. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

You stepped toward him, slow and unhurried, like the thought of falling into his arms had simply crossed your mind and you were entertaining it for sport. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His whole body had locked into place, spine tense, hands twitching at his sides.

He watched the fabric of your dress shift with each step, soft as smoke and dangerous as gunpowder. Every sway of your hips sent his brain further into emergency shutdown. You walked like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

And then you whispered, “You’ve been watching me since the dock.”

His throat worked around the sudden dryness. He swallowed hard. Too hard.

“You wore that dress on purpose,” he growled, voice cracking at the edges with something between accusation and desperation.

“Of course I did,” you murmured, tilting your head just enough to be lethal. “Wouldn’t you, if you knew someone like you was watching?”

That was it. That was the moment. The moment he broke.

Not physically. Garp was still every inch the Marine. Built like a fortress. Steady as war. He didn’t buckle, didn’t tremble, didn’t collapse in any obvious way.

But something cracked. Deep inside. Quietly.

Because you had undone him. With a sundress. With a voice that sounded like heatstroke and sin. With thighs he had been trying, and failing, not to think about since the second you stepped into the sun.

He didn’t know it yet, not fully, but this was the start of his downfall.

Because once you stepped aboard that ship, his brain stayed behind, tangled somewhere in your dress, and never caught up.

You let him lead. Let him think he was in charge.

He pointed out the helm, still trying to sound composed. Showed you the cannons again, now with fewer coherent sentences. Took you to the map room, where he gestured at things with a lot of unnecessary flexing.

You cooed softly at each station he showed you. Nodded in all the right places. Eyes wide. Smile bright. Every inch the sweet, attentive civilian.

And then, when no one was watching, you stepped behind him.

Your fingers moved fast, practiced. Two ropes twisted into a sailor’s knot. A dagger, slipped from your parasol, drove cleanly into the pulley control. The mechanism jammed with a metallic groan. Somewhere deep in the ship’s rigging, tension snapped.

Garp frowned. “Huh. Did you hear—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You stepped in close, reached behind him, and pulled.

His belt came undone with the crisp efficiency of someone who had absolutely done this before.

His trousers hit the deck with a heavy thunk.

Garp spun, half-naked, boots on, pants pooled at his ankles, outrage forming like a stormcloud.

Before he could speak, you kissed his cheek.

“Thanks for the tour, sweet thing.”

Then you were gone. One smooth dive over the side. A small splash. And there you were, already landing on a waiting raft bobbing just offshore.

You turned and gave a little wave.

Garp remained frozen, stunned, pantsless, red-faced, and unfortunately aroused. Not just with fury, but with something much worse.

Want.

Because you had pantsed the Hero of the Marines. Not figuratively. Not in some lofty, political, metaphorical way.

Literally.

One flick of your parasol, lined on the inside with kairoseki, how very rude—and a quick tug of his belt while he was gesturing gallantly at the horizon. Down went the whites.

The Marines screamed.

You blew him a kiss.

“SHE STOLE MY WALLET!”

Garp’s roar shook the harbor. He was still trying to yank his trousers up when the first explosion rocked through the fleet.

One by one, his ships began to spin in place. Anchors dragged like drunken sea serpents. Sails flapped and tangled. Masts knocked together with splintering groans. Ballasts came loose. Compasses spun like they’d been cursed.

You had sabotaged the rudder controls during the walk. Loosened the anchors. Unclipped sails. Cut half a dozen key lines and trapped the others in knots so clever they’d take a full crew a week to untangle.

It was adorable chaos.

Strategic humiliation.

You waved from the raft as it bobbed into the sea lane, now significantly richer in both beli and the priceless treasure of Garp’s tactical embarrassment.

“Thanks for the tour!” you called, voice warm and bright over the rising sounds of mayhem. “I’ll write!”

Back on the deck, Garp stood trembling, pants halfway secured, hair askew, eyes fixed on the horizon like it had personally betrayed him.

Bogard approached in silence and handed him a report.

“She destroyed the formation, sir.”

Before Garp could respond, a second ship behind them swung hard off course, performed a majestic, slow-motion spin, and slammed into the pier with all the grace of a drunk cow. The sound of crunching wood was deafening.

Both men winced.

“She rewired the helm lines,” Bogard added quietly. “In less than fifteen minutes. Walking with you.”

Silence followed.

Then came the bellow.

“She—she—I had plans for that woman!”

Bogard said nothing.

Garp pressed the note to his chest like a war medal and swore into the ocean with all the fury of a man wronged by fate itself.

Then, much softer, almost reverent, he whispered to no one at all.

“She’s perfect.”

Aboard your raft, you unpinned the parasol. Inside it: his wallet, his compass, and a map of the Marine fleet’s entire formation schedule for the next three weeks.

“Vice Admiral Garp,” you said dreamily, kicking your feet up, “you are not ready for me.”

The raft had long vanished beyond the horizon by the time the full scope of your crimes revealed itself.

One warship had beached itself completely on the western sandbar, its anchor lovingly wrapped around a fishing hut like an ill-mannered embrace. Another had unfurled half its sails upside down, flapping uselessly in protest. That one had you to thank for your “accidental” fiddling during the cannon tour. A third was now on fire. Not from battle. From a lemon cake.

Specifically, a lemon cake strategically placed in the boiler room.

It had combusted with comedic timing and surgical precision.

Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp stood in the center of it all—shirt open, belt crooked, eyes bloodshot—watching his entire command structure collapse like a drunken domino game.

“You see what she did?” he bellowed, voice cracking under the weight of disbelief. “She undid everything! In a sundress!”

Up the mast, halfway tangled in chaos you had left behind, Bogard called down dryly. “She also pickpocketed you mid-stare and rerouted our supply crates to the Revolutionaries, sir.”

That one stung.

This wasn’t just humiliation. This was sabotage delivered with a smile and executed with satin gloves. Tactical carnage in soft yellow cotton.

The image of your bare shoulders lingered behind his eyes like a fever dream. The smirk. The parasol. The way your dress had shifted with the breeze like it was conspiring against him. You moved like you already owned him and had chosen, generously, to leave just enough of his ego intact to let him pretend he still had a chance.

It was the most brutal defeat he had suffered since God Valley.

And he wanted it again.

A few minutes later, a breathless marine officer stumbled across the wreckage with a torn envelope in hand.

“Sir! This was in your boot.”

Bogard took it and passed it over. “Left you this.”

Garp opened the note. The handwriting was elegant. Teasing.

Next time, I’ll take the pants too.

He stared at it.

Read it again.

And again, slower this time.

Then whispered, like a man standing at the edge of something sacred and terrifying, “Damn.”

He folded the note with the care of a man tucking away a medal. Slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat like it was a love letter written in blood.

“…And god damn.”

Bogard climbed down from the rigging, landing beside him with the tired gait of someone emotionally bracing for impact.

“That was no ordinary woman,” Garp said at last, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

“No, sir,” Bogard replied. “That was a whole naval disaster in lipstick.”

Garp looked out to sea, haunted and awestruck.

“She’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Bogard raised an eyebrow. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“…Yes.”

Later, Garp’s command office was quiet.

The paperwork hissed at him. He wasn’t sure if it was cursed or if the memory of your thighs had finally driven him over the edge.

Garp sat hunched at the table, staring at reports like they might bite.

Bogard entered like a man delivering a eulogy.

“Sir.”

“Don’t,” Garp muttered. “I’m still recovering. She’s in my dreams now. I hear her voice every time I close my eyes. She pantsed me spiritually.”

Bogard placed a sealed folder in front of him. The wax crest shimmered with the kind of clearance that meant secrets. Dangerous ones.

“You’ll want to see this.”

Garp opened it. He expected the worst.

He did not expect the name.

Gol D.—

He blinked. Stared.

“…Gol D.?”

Bogard nodded.

Garp flipped through the rest. Faster now. His finger trailed down the page as if afraid the words might vanish.

Pirate ties. Sister of Gol D. Roger. Suspected strategist. Operator for the Revolutionary Army. Known saboteur of Marine operations.

The blood drained from his face.

“I flirted with Roger’s sister?”

“You dry-humped her with your eyes for fifteen minutes, sir.”

“I gave her a tour! I let her on board!”

“You tried to carry her parasol.”

“She kissed me!”

“Yes. And stole your wallet.”

Garp groaned and dragged both hands down his face. “She’s a Gol.”

“A certified one.”

“She dismantled my fleet and made me want to propose.”

Bogard, without comment, handed him a bottle of rum.

Garp took it. Chugged half. Slammed it down.

He stared at the wall. Flushed. Ashamed. Aroused. Something in between.

“God damn that family. No business being that smug. That sharp. That—”

He exhaled hard through his nose, like a man approaching grief. Or acceptance.

“…I’d still marry her.”

Bogard blinked. “Sir?”

Garp began pacing, wild and uneven. “She made me look like a fool. Stole classified documents. Sank two ships. Mocked my authority. Humiliated me in front of my entire crew.”

He turned. Locked eyes with Bogard.

“And I’ve never wanted someone more.”

Bogard did not blink. “So that’s your type, huh?”

Garp dropped into his seat with a heavy thud and ran a hand through his hair.

“She’s dangerous, Bogard. Emotionally dangerous. She’d run my life into the ground and leave me thanking her for the experience.”

Bogard nodded slowly. “She’d never let you retire.”

“She’d monogram the word ‘coward’ into my laundry if I forgot our anniversary.”

“She’d seduce you and dismantle your command chain in the same breath.”

Garp’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “And I’d help her.”

They sat in silence.

Outside, another warship finished sinking sideways into the harbor.

Neither man flinched.

The Oro Jackson, a few months later:

Mid-Grand Line, aboard the Oro Jackson, the Rodger crew is enjoying a rare moment of peace.

Until Garp’s warship appears on the horizon for the fourth time that month.

Roger groans. Rayleigh makes tea. Shanks and Buggy place bets. And you? You just sit on the railing, swinging your legs and looking like sin in silk.

“There he is again,” said Rayleigh calmly, sipping from a chipped mug.

Shanks leaned over the railing with Buggy clinging to his ankles. “Think he’s after the captain?”

“Think he’s after her,” Buggy muttered, pointing directly at you.

You waved cheerfully at the Marine warship growing larger in the distance. “Twelve minutes before he starts shouting.”

Roger groaned, face already in his hands. “Twelve minutes before I jump overboard.”

“You know,” Rayleigh offered casually, “we could just hand her over. Solve two problems at once.”

You shot him a look.

He amended quickly. “Three problems. He gets a wife. We get a break. The Marines get therapy.”

Roger raised his head. “I would, except he doesn’t chase her like a man in love. He chases her like a man who can’t decide if he wants to put a ring on her or a collar.”

“He wants to die married,” Rayleigh said.

“Same thing,” you muttered.

On Garp’s ship, currently steaming toward the Oro Jackson like a man possessed:

“FULL SPEED!” he bellowed, fist in the air, cape flapping like it owed him money.

A Marine scrambled up the lookout. “Sir, are we engaging Gol D. Roger?”

“I’M GONNA KILL ROGER!”

The crew shouted in unison: “YES, VICE ADMIRAL!”

Garp’s next breath was slightly softer.

“…AND THEN I’M GONNA MARRY HIS SISTER!”

The crew: “…Sir?”

Garp grabbed the rail and stared dead ahead.

“You ever seen a woman destroy your command structure, steal your wallet, and still make you think about naming children?”

Bogard muttered, “Only when I’m dreaming of her, sir.”

“THEN YOU GET IT.”

Back on the Oro Jackson:

“I don’t get it,” Shanks said, clapping as the warship approached. “Is he here to kill us or flirt with her?”

“Both,” Buggy said, hiding behind a barrel. “Probably at the same time. He’s going to punch Roger with one fist and propose with the other.”

Roger braced his foot on the helm. “HEY, MONKEY!”

From the Marine ship: “ROGER, YOU BASTARD!”

“WHAT IS IT THIS TIME?” Roger shouted. “YOU WANT MY HEAD OR MY SISTER’S HAND?”

“I’LL TAKE BOTH!” Garp roared back, fist cocked and sparkling with Haki. “AND I HAVEN’T DECIDED WHICH ORDER!”

You leaned into the shouting as if it were dinner theater. “Sweet of him to ask, though.”

Roger turned and glared. “Do you like this?”

“I like men stupid.” You grinned. “It’s the only way I get flowers."

#Monkey D. Garp #garp x reader #monkey d garp x reader #warcrimes #Humor #Fluff and Chaos #Tactical Seduction #Enemies to Lovers (but only one of them knows it)#Military Romance but Unhinged #Comedy of Errors #rodger's sister #gold d sister

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