The ship rocked gently beneath your boots as you stepped down into the officer’s galley, drawn by one pure, sacred instinct: churros.

You had been thinking about them all morning. Perfectly warm, cinnamon-dusted, tucked into that little airtight container on the third fridge shelf—your reward for surviving the last three days with him. You opened the fridge with casual confidence, already anticipating the soft crunch, the warm sugar, the—

Empty. No. No no no. You blinked. The container was there. But the inside was scraped clean, not a speck of cinnamon, not a crumb of fried dough. Just the sterile echo of betrayal.

"...No he fucking didn't," you muttered, voice dropping into a growl. You turned on your heel, not walking—storming—back up to the main deck, each step a loaded cannon.

And there he was. Garp. Laid out on a sun-bleached bench like he owned the damn ship, massive arms behind his head, shirt tugged halfway up his stomach, grinning like a man with no regrets. And in his hand? A napkin. The same kind you wrapped the churros in.

He looked over just as you arrived, biting into the final churro with a satisfied groan, not even trying to hide it. "Damn, these were good," he said through the last bite. "Real soft. You oughta order more."

There was a moment of silence—so thick the ship itself seemed to hold its breath. You reached into your coat and calmly pulled out the enchanted cuffs. Then the foldable, rune-etched foot stocks.

"...Ah," Garp said, mid-chew. "Now let’s not get—"

"Off with the boots."

"You’re not seriously—"

"Boots, Garp."

Two minutes later, the deck was quieter—save for the sound of grunting, struggling, and the very distinct sound of massive marine boots hitting wood. Garp now sat locked against the base of the mainmast, wrists cuffed high above his head, arms flexed with resistance that wasn’t going anywhere. More importantly? His bare feet—huge, weathered, vulnerable—were locked into the polished wooden stocks just in front of him. Toes twitching. Soles flexing. No socks. No defense.

"C’mon now," he said, voice already cracking into a nervous laugh, "l-let’s talk about this—c’mon, I’ll buy you more, I’ll—hell, I’ll make ‘em!"

You just stepped forward. He yanked at the cuffs, boots long gone, toes curling in full panic.

"You’re really gonna do this over churros?!" he cried. "You’re insane—psychotic—completely unfair—!"

His heel thudded against the stocks. No give.

"Please—please, mercy! Y-you know I’m—my feet—!"

And yet? Even with sweat on his forehead, even with those enormous soles trembling, even as the panic rose in his voice—he was smiling. He always smiled when it was just the two of you.