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wispitty · 1 month ago

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shanks x reader | “a new hire” {ch.1}

summary: you're the new waitress at makino’s bar. sweet, shy and just looking for a quiet place to belong to. but when the red hair pirates dock for the night, you catch the eye of their infamous captain, shanks—and somehow, one night turns into something far more than you'd prepared for. tag list: shanks/you, slow burnish, tension & tenderness, made from shanks brainrot (literally its so bad), first sight feelings, he's protective chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

Chapter 1: Warm Welcomes

The golden light of the setting sun spilled through the windows of the little seaside bar, casting a warm glow over polished wood and soft shadows. You moved behind the counter, carefully arranging plates and cleaning as you went, sleeves rolled up and hair slightly tousled from the afternoon rush. It had been about a month since Makino brought you on, and while you were starting to find your rhythm, you still felt like a small note in a song you hadn’t quite learned the melody to yet.

The front door creaked open just as you reached for a clean glass.

Boots on the floorboards. Laughter, rough and familiar. A deep voice rumbling in easy amusement. You turned, half-expecting another local—only to freeze when you saw who had stepped inside.

Shanks.

The infamous captain of the Red Hair Pirates stood in the doorway, black cloak billowing slightly from the sea breeze, his one hand casually resting on his hip. And behind him? His whole crew.

His dark eyes swept across the bar once before landing on you—lingering there, quiet and curious.

He looked older than the stories told. A few more lines around his eyes, a little more weight behind his gaze. The jagged scar over his left eye only emphasized the sharpness of his stare. And yet… the corners of his mouth pulled into a grin. Not cocky. Not even playful.

Just… warm.

“Well,” he said, voice low and smooth, “this place hasn’t changed a bit.”

Behind him, Beckman stepped in with a cigarette between his lips, giving a faint nod to the bar’s familiar walls.

Shanks tilted his head slightly, eyes still on you.

“Except that part,” he added. “I don’t remember her.”

Beckman glanced over. “New hire,” he said simply.

Shanks hummed, his grin deepening. “Is that so?”

He crossed the room slowly, shoes tapping softly on the floor, and leaned against the counter. Despite his easy posture, there was a quiet intensity to him—like the sea just before a storm, calm but impossibly vast.

You realized you hadn’t said anything. Not yet.

But when the situation catches up to you, you stiffen immediately. No matter who they are, customers just walked in. And all customers need to be greeted.

“O-Oh! Hello there! Welcome to Makino’s!”

Shanks blinked, then let out a soft chuckle at your flustered greeting. There was something disarming about it—how your voice wavered just slightly, how your hands moved quickly to set the glass down as if you’d just remembered you were holding it.

“‘Makino’s,’ huh?” he repeated, straightening up a little. “Still has a nice ring to it.”

He glanced around the room like he was taking it all in for the first time again—the weathered stools, the sun-warmed countertop, the faint scent of citrus wood polish that always lingered near the shelves. Then, his gaze returned to you, and this time it didn’t drift away.

“You must be the new waitress Makino mentioned in her last letter.” His tone was lighter now, teasing. “Said you were polite. Said you were sweet. Said you baked.”

Beckman raised an eyebrow behind him. “She also said you shouldn’t scare her.”

��I’m not scaring her,” Shanks replied easily, then turned to you again with a half-grin. “Am I scaring you?”

“Hehe, no. Not at all. Nice to meet you, Mister Shanks.”

You can’t help but break out into a soft smile as you eye the infamously famous pirate before you. One whose reputation preceded him, but not alongside all the funny stories Makino had shared with you.

“Makino’s mentioned you before to me, too. Along with your crew.”

“Seems I’ll have to bring out the best barrels if her favorite customers are back in town.”

At that, Shanks’ grin widened—not the smug kind pirates wore when they won a fight, but the kind that slipped out when someone genuinely caught them off guard. He let out a low, appreciative laugh, and his eyes—deep and sharp, but warm—crinkled slightly at the corners.

“Well now,” he said, resting his elbow on the counter as he leaned a little closer, “if that’s your version of a welcome, I might have to start showing up more often.”

Beckman muttered something under his breath about “he already does,” before heading to his usual seat near the counter.

“Don’t mind him,” Shanks said with a wink. “He just doesn’t like when someone else gets a better smile than he does.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but to your surprise, it wasn’t unpleasant. It was… fluttery. The good kind. The dangerous kind.

You turned slightly, trying to busy your hands as you reached for the drink menu and pulled out the reserve ledger Makino kept for special requests.

“If I remember right, you prefer the—ah, twelve-year aged rum? With a splash of lime?”

He blinked, a little impressed. “So she really talked about us, huh?”

“She said if you didn’t show up with a barrel of trouble, you showed up asking for her best,” you said shyly, before your eyes flicked up. “I was told to keep an eye on the charming ones.”

“Charming?” Shanks echoed, the smile in his voice unmistakable now. “I hope you listened.”

Before you could answer, one of the younger pirates called out to you from a table, asking for a round. You nodded quickly and excused yourself, turning away to grab mugs from the shelves—but you could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back.

As Shanks took his place near Beckman at the counter, they both settled into a comfortable space.

“New hire’s easy on the eyes, huh?”

Shanks didn’t answer at first. Instead, he watched you for a bit.

He watched you from the corner of his eye—how you laughed softly when one of the younger ones tried to flirt for an extra pour, how you steadied the tray with a careful hand, how your brows furrowed slightly when you thought no one was looking, double-checking the drink order on your notepad like you didn’t want to mess up.

There was a quiet care in your movements. Nothing flashy. Just… thoughtful.

“…Yeah,” he said at last, voice low and laced with something Beckman hadn’t heard from him in a while. “Easy on the eyes.”

Then, with a slow exhale, he added under his breath, “Too easy.”

Beckman chuckled, stretching his arms behind his back. “You’re staring, you know.”

“Am not.”

“You are. Like you forgot how to blink.”

Shanks raised an eyebrow. “I have one arm. You want me to lose that too?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

They both smirked, but Beckman didn’t push further. He knew that look on Shanks’ face well. It wasn’t just interest—it was curiosity. The kind that stuck. The kind that didn’t fade once the drinks ran dry or the ship set sail.

A few seconds later, you returned to the bar with a few empty mugs, your eyes meeting Shanks’ as you offered an amused huff, still a bit winded from running around.

He sat up straighter, gaze gentle.

“Still standing,” he teased. “That’s promising.”

You grin, shaking your head while balancing the mugs in your hands. “Goodness, you all surely know how to drink! Haha! If you’ll excuse me to wash these a second, I’ll be right back to get your orders.”

Shanks watched you disappear behind the swinging door with a quiet, lopsided smile still tugging at his lips. The clinking of glasses and the familiar hum of his crew faded into the background for a moment as he leaned back against the bar, his fingers idly tracing a water ring left behind on the wood.

Beckman eyed him sideways. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?” Shanks asked, far too innocently.

“The look-before-you-leap thing.”

Shanks huffed a small laugh. “I’m not leaping. I’m just… appreciating the service.”

Beckman scoffed. “You don’t smile like that over rum.”

“I do when it’s served with a smile like hers,” he muttered under his breath, almost surprised by his own words.

When you returned, cheeks slightly flushed from the steam rising from the wash basin and fingers damp from drying your hands on your apron, Shanks straightened ever so slightly.

“You alright back there?” he asked. “Didn’t lose any fingers in the sink war, did you?”

You let out a soft laugh as you approached, setting the clean mugs down in front of him. “Still all ten accounted for, Captain.”

He raised his brows. “Oho? Captain?”

“Well… aren’t you?” you asked with a gentle, teasing lilt. “I thought I’d be polite.”

“Careful,” he said, that playful glint returning to his eye. “You call a man ‘Captain’ with a voice like that, and he’s bound to start sailing circles around you.”

Beckman sighed. “Here we go.”

You laughed, covering your mouth just a little, and Shanks swore—for a moment—the room didn’t feel like a bar at all.

It felt like the start of something he wanted to see through.

Amidst the commotion, the sound of two doors opening rang out.

From the back door, Makino walked out, seemingly having just returned from delivering something and picking up groceries on the way.

From the front, another fresh crowd of rowdy, thirsty sailors to serve.

You quickly ran up to her, shooting her a smile while grabbing a good handful of menus.

“Welcome back! I’ll go get the new ones, you go greet old friends.”

Makino blinked at your statement for a second, her eyes sweeping over the crowded bar before landing on the unmistakable silhouette near the counter.

That familiar mess of red hair.

“Shanks,” she said warmly, already moving toward him. “I was wondering when the wind would toss you back my way.”

He turned to greet her, that roguish grin forming with genuine affection. “You really ought to bolt the windows, Makino. I might sneak in even when the doors are locked.”

They shared a hug—brief, but familiar. A silent understanding passed between them, layered with years of history and more unspoken memories than most people would ever collect in a lifetime.

Beckman tipped his head politely. “Makino.”

“Ben,” she returned with a smile. “Still keeping this one from causing too much trouble?”

Beckman gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Depends on the day.”

Behind the bar, you ducked out of their way, moving back into the wave of incoming guests, taking orders with that same soft tone and polite efficiency, weaving through the chaos like a gentle current against a tide. Shanks’s eyes followed you just for a beat—until Makino nudged him lightly with her elbow.

“She’s a good one,” she said quietly, knowingly.

Shanks glanced at her.

“She’s been helping a lot while I’ve been short-staffed. Real sweet. Bit shy.” Makino gave him a dry smile. “Not a fan of loud drunks, so behave.”

“No promises,” he said, though the smile that tugged at his lips said otherwise.

Makino leaned in a little. “She likes people who don’t just look like they’ve got stories, you know. Prefers the ones who live them.”

Shanks gave her a long look, like he wasn’t sure whether to thank her or tease her off.

But Makino was already moving down the bar, greeting familiar faces and returning to the rhythm of her tavern like she never left.

And Shanks—Shanks turned back to his drink, eyes on the rim of his mug, fingers tapping idly, even as his thoughts wandered toward you.

Eventually, the evening turned to dusk amidst the rowdy bar.

Shanks and Beckman engaged in good drinks and warm chatter, alongside Makino who joined them between serving orders.

Suddenly—

CRASH.

The crash echoed through the bar like a pebble dropped into still water. Small, but disruptive.

The chatter dipped for just a second, long enough for every head to turn toward the source of the sound. You were already moving, smile soft and apologetic as you tried to ease the moment.

“No worries,” you said gently, ducking to fetch the broom from behind the bar. “Happens all the time.”

But the snickers that followed weren’t the good-natured kind. One of the rowdier newcomers—a sailor with too much drink and too little self-restraint—elbowed his friend, nodding toward you.

“Clumsy little thing, ain’t she?” he slurred, not nearly quiet enough.

“Shame to waste a glass,” the other muttered. “But I think I’ll be the one to drop ten more if it makes her bend over like that again.”

Their laughter wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. Mean-spirited. And it crawled up your spine like ice water.

Shanks had been halfway through a sip when the sound of the crash hit, but it was the following snickers—and the look that passed between the two men—that made him stop mid-sip.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t say anything.

He just looked.

And that was worse.

Beckman didn’t need to ask. He saw it in the way Shanks’ jaw flexed slightly, the way his good hand lowered his mug to the table with the kind of silence that warned.

The men kept laughing.

Until they felt it.

That sudden stillness.

Like the shadows themselves began to stare.

Shanks rose from his seat—not fast, not dramatic. Just calm. But in a room like this, calm carried weight. The music faltered. Conversation quieted.

He took a few steps, the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet as he walked up behind the two snickering men. They only realized he was there when the warmth drained from their skin.

Shanks didn’t shout. He didn’t bare teeth or pull a weapon.

He just leaned forward slightly, voice low and steady.

“…Say it again.”

The man froze.

Shanks tilted his head, like he was asking the most casual question in the world.

“I didn’t quite catch it,” he said. “Say it again. About the waitress.”

The second man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to his empty mug like it might protect him.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t think,” Shanks corrected. “That’s your problem.”

A pause.

“Mine?” He smiled faintly. “I don’t take kindly to folks like you who make good people feel small.”

Behind the bar, broom in hand, you’d returned just in time to see the two men pale like ghosts—nodding quickly, stumbling over apologies, before practically tripping over themselves to stand and relocate.

Shanks didn’t even watch them leave.

He turned to you instead, and for a heartbeat, all the noise in the room seemed to muffle again.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now. Just for you.

You strained a smile, as reassuring of one as you could muster, as you nodded. “I’m fine, thank you.”

And quietly, “Sorry, heh. Still, um, still getting used to it.”

Shanks studied you after that left your lips.

Not the kind of look meant to make you squirm—but the kind that noticed you.

The way your fingers clutched the broom just a little tighter than they needed to be. The way your smile pulled at the corners but never quite reached your eyes. The way you stood there, trying to laugh it off for everyone else’s sake.

Trying to take up less space than you deserved.

And something in him twisted.

Not in anger—not anymore. That had passed.

This was something else.

You don’t belong in a place like this.

The thought struck him unexpectedly. Not because you were soft-spoken. Not because you were too sweet. But because, maybe, people like you deserved to live in a world that didn’t demand armor to survive it.

Beckman was watching him from his seat again, brow arched, silent as ever.

Shanks cleared his throat, straightened just a little, and let a breath out through his nose.

“Well,” he said softly, slipping his hand into his coat pocket, “you handled it better than most of us would have.”

He took a slow step toward the counter again, then paused—just close enough for you to hear him over the din of the crowd.

“If they bother you again, you let me know. I don’t mind raising the tide.”

There was something in his voice now. Not teasing. Not dramatic.

A promise.

And with that, he walked away, leaving you standing there in the golden glow of the lantern light, heart a little heavier, and a little warmer too.

Shanks sank back onto his stool with a quiet grumble and the telltale sound of the stool’s wooden legs scooting along the floor. His jaw ticked slightly, still working through the remnants of whatever emotion had taken root in his chest since that encounter. He took a sip from his drink, slower this time.

Beckman said nothing at first—just blew a soft stream of smoke out the corner of his mouth and gave his captain a long, sideways look.

“You gonna sit there and scowl at every man who notices her?”

He didn’t even bother to hide the smirk.

“I’m not scowling,” Shanks muttered.

Beckman hummed. “Then your face is just stuck like that?”

Shanks grunted. “I don’t like that look on her face. Like she’s used to brushing that kind of thing off.”

Beckman didn’t comment, just let the silence say what he knew his captain was already thinking. There were a lot of kinds of strong in the world. The kind that held a sword. And the kind that held a smile, even when people didn’t deserve it.

Before Shanks could brood too much deeper, the two sailors at the next table caught his ear.

“—I’m just sayin’, she’s the nicest person I’ve met in this whole town!”

“She smiled at me, dude. Like, actually looked at me and smiled.”

“She’s gotta have someone, right? Someone like that? No way she doesn’t.”

“I dunno, I heard Makino say she just moved here. Bet she’s single.”

The two chuckled under their breath, casting bashful glances your way as you refilled a table’s water jug, oblivious to the admiration trailing in your wake.

Shanks raised an eyebrow.

Beckman let out a quiet snort. “Looks like you’ve got competition.”

Shanks didn’t say anything at first, swirling the liquid in his mug.

Then, with a faint smirk: “They’d drown before they reached her.”

Beckman gave him a side glance. “You sure you wouldn’t?”

Shanks chuckled under his breath. “I’m already treading water, Ben. Don’t worry.”

He said it like a joke.

But his eyes drifted back to you all the same—watching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how your face lit up with a laugh you gave to someone else.

And for just a second, that quiet tug returned to his chest.

Damn.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as passing through another port.

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