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signofthefloss · 1 year ago

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For me, I will base all of the characters' faces with their singers no matter what. Even if the characters are literal real person (like the Pope and The Roman Gang), I envision this whole thing like a movie/theater of some sort where they are just actors. I also use the story's progression and settings as reference to what each character could wear or look like.

Gabriel Laymann:

This character has two forms, 1 in real world and 1 in Avantasia realm. For the real world, he must follow the dress code for Dominican Order which is something like this picture:

Meanwhile in Avantasia realm, I made the character look like the actor at the current time (Tobias Sammet in early 2000s, specifically the years the albums came out), but not everything is a carbon copy. I made Gabriel slightly taller in Avantasia since he mentioned something about him "running faster". So basically, long dark wavy ginger to brown hair, lean body, and young.

The attire he wears depends on the occasions, maybe during the first entry he looks like a normal medieval village boy with a brown vest, linen clothes and pants, and leather shoes. By the time he meets Elderane and Regrin and they talk about the plan of ambushing the people during The Tower, he dresses up as a "local tour guide", maybe the attire is adjacent to Sesidhbana's culture. Something like a patterned cloak, a medium lengthed robe, and a belt to hold items. Gotta make him look official, so to say. Then after all the commotion, he wears into something more comfortable (a linen shirt but with more intricate patterns on the seams) with appropriate accessories/weapons for safety measures like a dagger or crossbow. I envision this to be worn during occasions like in The Looking Glass and Chalice of Agony.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention that in the real world, he did have to disguise himself after he escaped the prison with Lugaid (Vandroiy) so I made him wear a dark green robe with a hood to blend in with the forest and the crowd (if he ever had to go through one). So in total that's like 5 outfits for him. Damn. What a wardrobe for this monk.

Scarecrow:

This character I am not sure how he would look like in details for the clothes, but I do know that he gets Tobi's 2008~2010 look.

I also know that he's in the Victorian era so. Gothic Victorian Composer aesthetic I guess? I haven't explored Scarecrow's canon attires much but one thing for sure is that his sense of fashion fades as he progresses through his story. Like, c'mon. The guy is practically insane. There's literally a song called Twisted Mind.

I mean, you can see the Victorian influences in these pictures right?

Okay, perhaps his character would wear eyeliners too but only when he's performing at the opera house (not sure as what, conductor? Opera singer? Circus performer? Eh, I'll research about it later).

And he wears all ragged clothing when he's not acting like the star of the show, casually walking down the streets of wherever in deep purgatory hell he is in. It's really hard to pinpoint the settings with this story.

I also read some opinions about how this character is based on Faust. I don't know the details of that story but both of their situations sound alike (e.g. selling their souls to the devil in exchange of what they desire most). So yeah, kinda agree with that opinion actually. Yeah, that's all I just wanted to say for Scarecrow.

Aaron Blackwell:

This character also has 2 forms because in the 2nd album he got sucked into the ghost realm or purgatory hell or something (I don't know I actually haven't read the lyrics for Ghostlights sorry).

Now this gets interesting, this character does NOT look very much like Tobi himself during the time the albums came out. There's a resemblance of course but I kind of based him on stereotypical impressions of these words: English Victorian Scientist/Watchmaker. So if I imagined that, I would picture him wearing oval spectacles, having a bushy goatee, twirly mustache, and sideburns. Bonus point for his curly hair to look more pansy. Yup.

So in the story, the setting is during winter time. In the journal, the character said that he can see "spirits", either this is a result of him working tirelessly with no breaks til the sun rises or he has some undiagnosed schizophrenia. I don't know. Like I said, I didn't read the lyrics. Plus, the journal's handwriting is too cursive for me to decipher the words.

So based on those info, I gave him a long dark blue coat and cape, it would make his silhouette look like a ghost if you think about it. When indoors, he just wears a blue vest (+ golden seams) with white linen long sleeves, a pair of casual trousers, his basic accessories like his spectacles and the little pocketwatch (The colours are picked from the album cover btw).

During Ghostlights, he looks a bit more, dead? Like, you can see the eyesbags and dark circles on him, the pale skin, the lifelessness in his eyes. His attire is basically nothing but black. His cape is longer and more torned because why not? You're gonna die. So, look and wear like it.

Misplaced Entity:

This is gonna be a long one.

For this character, I based the shadowy figure from the Moonglow album cover. Technically I would put 2019 Tobias' face on the character but the storyline is clearly based on the author's personal experiences when he was in his youth so... I'm using early Edguy era Tobi for the character's face. Preferably one with no facial hair to capture the essence of youth for the Entity.

(Yeah I don't know why he got the pride flag printed on his face, it was already like that)

Attire wise? Well, you guessed it. Victorian era. Tobias loves it so much, maybe a little too much. At first, I did envision that It would wear very ragged clothing, something that shows the words poverty and pheasant. It also wears a dark forest green cape with a silver moon brooch (an heirloom??? Dunno) that could at least protect it from minor harms. Not sure why I felt like that should be in design, maybe cuz Tobi makes it sound like this Entity just got kicked out of Its own home/sanctuary for being different than Its circle's expectations. And that results into It being a refugee.

But then I thought maybe that headcanon was a bit too specific and falls far from the vague storyline, hell, it wasn't even said in the lyrics that the Entity was kicked out of Its home. What the hell brain? Maybe It was just shunned on for being Its authentic self and felt like going on a self-discovery quest to know why It is born that way and how It can improve Itself.

Ah. Whatever. Same thing.

Oh yeah. Forget to mention that Tobias uses It/Its pronouns for the Entity. The character is possibly Intersex/Nonbinary/GNC since It called Itself a "weak hermaphrodite" (The Raven Child, Moonglow). Just saying.

Anyway, in the 2nd album I tried to give the character nicer clothes; more proper and, well, more Victorian touch to it, as Tobi likes it. The cape and moon brooch stays the same, though.

However, things get a little tricky here since the story has been officially animated but it has THREE different designs for the same character.

Either it is based on how the animators interpret the character with the songs given to them OR the stories are episodes of different Entities (Hence why the album is called A Paranormal Evening With The Moonflower Society). I'd like to think it as the second option but I'd like to focus more on my personal Entity design. Hell, even my Entity design has 2 separate forms (due to the fact that I had to adapt It in a cartoony style for my Storyboarding project assessment. Well, it's only heavily based, it's not really the exact same Entity... But... If we follow the rules of the 2nd album's name, it could fit in the story, right? Meh, whatever).

That's all I can ramble for now, maybe in the future I would tweak other things. We'll see about that.

Avantasia artists!

i am once again asking where you get your references for all the protags (Gabriel, Aaron, the Entity, etc)

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2b4st4r · 2 months ago

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lookkkkk what if Shanks accidentally showed his very clingy side with reader infront of his crew? I mean shanks would probably be the type who wouldn’t mind to display public affection but maybe he was just too drunk and starts acting clingy in a way(or maybe different types of actions)that the crew would not expect?

hopefully this could give you some ideas!!<33

The Red-Haired Pirates Love

Shanks x reader

Words: 4,794

Warnings: alcohol consumption, vomiting, mild language, threat of violence, and caregiving themes.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The gentle rocking of the Red Force was a familiar lullaby, one you’d grown accustomed to over your years with the Red-Haired Pirates. It was a life of salty air, boisterous laughter, and an unspoken understanding that wove through the crew like the threads of a well-worn sail. And at the heart of that understanding, for you, was Shanks.

You never needed to announce it. There were no grand declarations, no whispered confessions overheard by nosy crewmates. Instead, your relationship with Shanks was etched into the very fabric of daily life aboard the ship. It was in the way his hand would subtly find the small of your back during a heated discussion, a quiet anchor in the midst of the chaos. It was in the almost imperceptible press of his lips to your forehead when he thought no one was looking, or the soft brush against your cheek that felt more intimate than any passionate kiss. These weren't constant displays of affection, but rather fleeting moments, stolen glances, and quiet touches that spoke volumes. The crew had seen it all—the way he’d pull you a fraction closer when you were standing side-by-side on deck, his fingers lightly grazing your arm, or the almost absentminded way he’d press his lips to yours, a soft, comfortable gesture that meant more than any word.

And then there were the conversations. "Oh! That reminds me of when you wake up," Shanks might chuckle, a wide grin spreading across his face as he recounted a particularly chaotic morning escapade involving Benn Beckman and a misplaced map. The crew would glance between the two of you, a knowing glint in their eyes, before turning back to their drinks. Or perhaps you'd be admiring a particularly vibrant sunset, a rare moment of quiet contemplation, and find yourself saying, "Shanks would love that," knowing full well the kind of joy such a simple beauty would bring him. It wasn't just your words; it was the way you’d both speak of each other, not as separate entities, but as intertwined halves of a whole. Everyone saw it, everyone felt it. You were Shanks's, and he was yours, in a way that needed no formal title or public display. The crew just knew.

The night was a symphony of celebration, the red haired pirates alive with the raucous joy of the crew. Sake flowed like a river, laughter boomed, and the aroma of roasted meat mingled with the salty sea air. You, however, were an island of sobriety in the boisterous sea. Your glass remained untouched, a silent sentinel beside you. You knew all too well the consequences of Shanks's enthusiastic drinking—a charming, albeit headache-inducing, whirlwind of a man who would need your care later, and even more so in the harsh light of morning.

Your gaze, seemingly casual, drifted towards him every few moments. He was a vibrant blur in the center of the revelry, bottle after bottle disappearing down his throat with alarming speed, his booming laugh easily cutting through the din.

"And so I told Yasopp," Benn Beckman rumbled, a thoughtful puff of smoke curling from his cigarette. You were supposedly discussing the finer points of long-range marksmanship and the surprising resilience of certain sea kings. "A true sharpshooter relies on instinct, not just aim. A calculated risk, you understand?"

"Mhm," you murmured, your eyes flickering back to Shanks just as he clinked bottles with Lucky Roo, a spray of sake arcing into the air. He was already leaning heavily on Yasopp, his arm slung around the sniper's shoulders.

Benn’s observant gaze followed yours. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing like a tiny ember in the dim light. "He's certainly... in his element tonight," he drawled, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Worried about the hangover, are we?" It wasn't a question, more an acknowledgement of the unspoken duty you always took upon yourself.

You let out a soft laugh, a small, knowing sound that was almost lost in the din of the celebration. You brought a hand up to your temple, pressing your fingertips against your forehead as if already warding off the phantom headache that would undoubtedly be yours tomorrow. "You know it, Benn," you sighed, shaking your head good-naturedly. "He'll be a complete mess. Demanding hot towels, complaining about the light, probably swearing off sake until the next port." You glanced at Shanks again, who was now attempting to dance a jig with a rather bewildered Rockstar, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Someone's got to keep him from sailing us into a storm cloud, right?"

Benn took another slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, softening just a touch as he watched you. "It’s a tough job," he finally said, his voice a low rumble, "but someone’s gotta do it." He paused, a flicker of something akin to admiration in his gaze. "He’s lucky to have you, you know. Most people would have thrown him overboard by now, especially after a night like this." He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "He’d probably still be smiling, mind you, even as the sharks circled."

He extinguished his cigarette butt in a nearby ashtray, the faint hiss swallowed by the surrounding merriment. "It's more than just the hangovers, though, isn't it?" Benn mused, his gaze drifting towards Shanks, who was now attempting to lead a singalong, albeit off-key. "You keep him grounded. He flies so high, he needs someone to remind him where the deck is." He looked back at you, a knowing glint in his eye. "He trusts you. More than anyone else, I reckon."

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken bond you shared with the boisterous captain. It was true. You were his anchor, and he, in turn, was your unwavering compass. You wouldn't have it any other way. Even if it meant another morning spent coaxing him out of bed with strong coffee and a steady hand.

Both you and Benn watched Shanks for a few moments, a brief lull in your conversation as the captain continued his boisterous revelry. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Shanks suddenly stilled. The wide grin faltered, replaced by an ill, greenish tinge that spread across his face. His eyes widened slightly before he bolted, a desperate dash to the edge of the ship. He leaned over, a retching sound tearing from his throat as everything he'd consumed that day, and likely much of the day before, violently exited his stomach.

"Oh, for crying out loud, Shanks," you muttered, already moving. You were there in an instant, pulling his long, red hair back from his face with one hand while the other rubbed soothing circles on his shaking back. "Rough night, huh, Captain? Just get it all out." Your voice was soft, laced with a familiar blend of exasperation and concern. "You’re going to hate yourself in the morning, you know that?"

The crew, who moments before had been roaring with laughter and song, fell into an abrupt, almost comical silence. Lucky Roo paused mid-bite, his drumstick still in his mouth. Yasopp lowered his tankard slowly, his eyes wide. Even Rockstar, who had been tangled in Shanks’s ill-fated dance, seemed to freeze in place. They knew this routine. It was a common, albeit pungent, side effect of their captain's boundless enthusiasm for sake. A few of the more seasoned members merely sighed, shaking their heads in a mixture of pity and amusement. Others, younger and less accustomed to Shanks's dramatic exits, exchanged wide-eyed glances, trying to stifle their snickers. Benn Beckman simply watched, a faint smirk playing on his lips, as if to say, told you so.

Shanks heaved a few more times, his shoulders shaking with the effort. Finally, he straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A slow, almost triumphant smile spread across his face, completely oblivious to the green tinge that still lingered on his cheeks.

"Alright, that's enough of that!" he declared, his voice a little hoarse but already regaining its usual booming quality. He pushed off the railing, swaying slightly. "Now, where were we? The party's still going, isn't it?" He looked around at the still-stunned crew, who were slowly beginning to resume their previous activities, albeit with a new, cautious energy.

You let out a long, slow sigh, a mix of exasperation and profound affection. You were just about to scold him, perhaps suggest he consider a glass of water, when his eyes, still a little glazed from the alcohol and the recent exertion, met yours. A slow, impossibly cheeky grin stretched across his lips, the kind that always managed to disarm you, even when you were at your most annoyed. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Shanks's eyes, previously a swirling mess of drunken cheer, suddenly sharpened, focusing entirely on you. The cheeky grin softened into something profoundly tender, a look you knew intimately but one the rest of the crew rarely, if ever, witnessed. He took a wobbly step towards you, then another, until he was standing just inches away. His hand, warm and calloused, reached out, not to steady himself, but to gently cup your cheek. His thumb brushed softly over your skin, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down your spine.

"There you are," he murmured, his voice surprisingly low and clear, completely devoid of the earlier slurring. "My anchor." His gaze held yours, deep and unwavering, filled with an affection so potent it felt like a physical presence. "Always there to pick up after my messes, aren't you?" He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. "What would I do without you, my love?" he whispered, a hint of genuine vulnerability in his tone that made your heart clench.

A hush fell over the ship, deeper than before. The last vestiges of drunken chatter died out. Every single member of the Red-Haired Pirates, from the usually oblivious Lucky Roo to the ever-stoic Benn Beckman, was frozen, eyes wide, staring at the intimate scene unfolding before them. This wasn't the subtle touch or the knowing glance they were used to. This was raw, open affection, a side of their captain they had never witnessed. Shanks, the boisterous, carefree emperor, was openly displaying a profound, loving devotion to you. It was a sight that would be etched into their memories, a testament to the quiet, powerful love that bloomed between their captain and the woman who was his world.

Shanks, still with that uncharacteristic tenderness in his eyes, didn't just lean away. Instead, he tightened his grip on your cheek, his thumb continuing its gentle caress. Then, in a move that startled even you, he pulled you closer, wrapping his other arm around your waist and effectively pinning you against his chest. His head dipped, resting on your shoulder, and you could feel the soft brush of his hair against your neck.

"Don't leave," he mumbled, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against your ear. It wasn't a demand, but a plea, thick with drunken sentimentality. He tightened his embrace, pressing his face into your hair, inhaling deeply. "You smell like… home."

He nuzzled closer, a happy, almost childlike sigh escaping his lips. His grip became even more possessive, as if he feared you might vanish if he loosened his hold even a fraction. He swayed slightly, and you had to brace yourself, hands coming up to his back to keep both of you steady.

The crew remained utterly silent, their gazes glued to the scene. This was beyond anything they had ever witnessed. Their fierce, independent captain, reduced to a clingy, affectionate mess in your arms, openly showing a vulnerability that was startling. Lucky Roo nearly dropped his drumstick, and Yasopp’s jaw hung slightly agape. Benn Beckman, for the first time in a long time, looked genuinely surprised, a flicker of bewildered amusement dancing in his usually unreadable eyes.

You were, for a few long seconds, utterly frozen. Not from discomfort, but from sheer surprise. This level of overt affection, especially in front of the entire crew, was unprecedented. Your mind raced, caught between the instinct to gently push him away and the overwhelming warmth that spread through you at his desperate clinginess.

Then, as his head settled more firmly on your shoulder and his mumbled words of "home" echoed in your ear, you relaxed. A soft sigh escaped your lips, and your hands, which had been hovering uncertainly, finally settled on his broad back. You began to rub gentle circles, a familiar, soothing gesture. He was heavy against you, his familiar scent of sea salt, sake, and something uniquely him filling your senses. You leaned into his embrace, letting yourself be enveloped by his unusual neediness.

"You're impossibly drunk, you know that?" you murmured, the words soft against his hair. A small, knowing smile played on your lips. It wasn't a question, more an observation laced with boundless affection. "Absolutely, hopelessly drunk, Captain."

Shanks mumbled a soft, "I know," his voice muffled against your shoulder. He pushed his face further into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a series of warm, lingering kisses there. Each touch was soft, tender, and deeply affectionate, a stark contrast to his usual boisterous demeanor. You felt a shiver ripple through you, a pleasant warmth spreading from where his lips met your skin.

Then, he slowly lifted his head, his eyes, still a little unfocused but now with a sharp glint, sweeping over the astonished faces of his crew. His arms, which had been wrapped around your waist, tightened possessively, pulling you even closer until there was no space between you.

"What are you all looking at?" he demanded, his voice suddenly back to its familiar roar, though it held an edge of something new—a possessive challenge. A wide, almost feral grin spread across his face, daring anyone to comment. The crew, who had been gawking openly, flinched back, some quickly averting their gazes, others pretending to be deeply engrossed in their drinks. The silence that had fallen over the Red Force moments ago transformed into a palpable tension, thick with unspoken questions and newfound understanding.

You could feel the heat radiating from Shanks, both from his body pressed against yours and the sheer intensity of his gaze on the crew. It was a clear warning, a declaration of ownership that made your cheeks flush. Yet, despite the public display, you couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth. This drunken, clingy Shanks was surprisingly endearing.

"They're just surprised, Shanks," you murmured, patting his arm. His embrace, however, only tightened.

He grunted, still glaring at his stunned crew. "Well, they shouldn't be. You're mine," he declared, his voice booming across the ship, leaving no room for misinterpretation. He then buried his face in your hair again, letting out a contented sigh. "My lovely, beautiful Y/N."

The crew, having taken their cue, quickly scattered or found something intensely interesting to stare at in the opposite direction. The previous boisterous party atmosphere slowly began to filter back in, but now with an undercurrent of new understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the captain's unspoken, yet now very much spoken, relationship.

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "Yes, yes, I'm yours. Now, how about we get you to bed before you decide to declare war on the moon?" You tried to gently extract yourself from his grasp, but he held firm, a stubborn weight against you.

"No, stay," he whined, sounding remarkably like a giant, affectionate child. He pulled back slightly, his eyes half-lidded, and leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It was a slow, tender kiss, full of the kind of unspoken devotion that had always existed between you two, now laid bare for all to see.

When he finally pulled away, a triumphant, if still very drunk, smile played on his lips. "See? Much better than dancing with Rockstar."

You rolled your eyes, a smile of your own blooming across your face. "Come on, you big oaf," you said, finally managing to guide him away from the railing and towards the captain's quarters. "Let's get you cleaned up. And tomorrow, you're getting a very strong talking-to about your alcohol intake."

Shanks just chuckled, leaning heavily on you as you steered him through the lingering festivities. "Anything for you, my love," he slurred, before promptly tripping over his own feet, nearly taking you both down. You braced him, a familiar rhythm of support and unwavering affection that had always defined your life with the Red-Haired Pirates, and with him.

Navigating the bustling, still-celebrating deck with a half-conscious, overly affectionate Shanks was a familiar challenge. You chuckled softly as he mumbled about forgotten treasures and the bravery of seagulls, his weight a comfortable burden against your side. Finally, with a surprising amount of effort and a few gentle shoves, you managed to get him through the door of the captain's quarters.

The cabin was dimly lit, the only light filtering in from the single porthole, casting shifting shadows on the familiar maps and discarded coats. You maneuvered him towards the large, comfortable bed, his momentum almost toppling you both onto the soft mattress. He collapsed onto it with a contented groan, sprawling out like a starfish.

You sighed, but it was a soft, fond sound. You pulled off his boots, then his coat, tossing them onto a nearby chair. His movements were slow and sluggish now, the last vestiges of adrenaline giving way to the heavy pull of sleep. He shifted, reaching out a hand, blindly searching for you.

"Y/N?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"I'm here, Shanks," you replied, gently pushing his unruly red hair back from his forehead. You slipped off your own clothes, leaving them in a neat pile. The cabin air was cool, a welcome relief after the warmth of the crowded deck.

When you slid under the covers beside him, the mattress dipping with your weight, he immediately shifted, rolling onto his side to face you. His arm snaked out, pulling you close, tucking your head under his chin. His breath, smelling faintly of sake, ghosted over your hair. He pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to your temple.

"Stay," he whispered, his voice barely audible now. It was a primal request, born of deep comfort and a profound sense of belonging.

You nestled deeper into his embrace, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. The rhythmic creak of the ship, the distant muffled sounds of the lingering party, all faded into a soothing background hum. You closed your eyes, a peaceful smile on your lips. Being here, with him, was exactly where you were meant to be. Drunk or sober, boisterous or tender, he was your home, and you were his. And as sleep claimed you both, you knew, with absolute certainty, that tomorrow, even with the inevitable hangover, would begin exactly where today left off: in the quiet, comforting embrace of your shared world.

The first rays of morning sunlight, usually a welcome sight, felt like daggers against your eyelids. You stirred, a familiar ache thrumming behind your eyes, a ghost of Shanks's impending hangover. He was still dead to the world, a heavy, warm weight beside you. His arm was still slung possessively around your waist, his head buried in your hair, his breathing deep and even. He looked utterly peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaotic, vibrant man he usually was, and certainly a marked difference from the drunken mess he'd been mere hours ago.

You carefully extracted yourself from his grip, a feat that usually required a surprising amount of stealth. He mumbled in his sleep, a soft, indistinct sound, but didn't wake. After slipping out of bed, you pulled a loose shirt on and padded quietly around the cabin, gathering the strewn clothes from the night before. His boots lay haphazardly by the door, his coat draped over a chair like a fallen hero. The faint scent of stale sake still clung to the air, a testament to the previous night's revelry.

You glanced back at him, a fond smile touching your lips. He was completely oblivious, sprawled across the bed, one leg dangling off the side. You knew what the morning would bring: the groans, the complaints about the light, the desperate pleas for water and strong coffee. But for now, in this quiet, peaceful morning, he was just Shanks, your captain, your lover, lost in a deep, well-deserved sleep.

You slipped out of the cabin, closing the door softly behind you. The deck was still mostly deserted, a few early risers already tending to their duties, their movements quiet and purposeful. The fresh morning air was a welcome contrast to the stale warmth of the cabin, and you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable chaos of a pirate ship waking up.

Your first stop was the galley. You pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent of simmering stew and fresh bread washing over you. Yasopp was already there, perched on a stool, nursing a steaming mug of coffee. He looked surprisingly spry for someone who'd been partying just hours ago. He glanced up as you entered, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Captain's personal nursemaid," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Rough night, huh? Sounded like our captain had a real good time." He leaned back, taking a sip of his coffee, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Though, I gotta say, never seen him quite so... open about his affections before. Quite the show for the crew."

You rolled your eyes, heading straight for the pantry to grab some crackers and then to the water barrel. "Oh, hush, Yasopp. He was drunk off his skull. You know how he gets." You filled a tankard with cool water and found a small pouch of painkillers in the medical kit usually kept in the galley.

"Drunk, maybe," Yasopp conceded, "but that didn't stop him from practically stapling himself to you, did it? And that little speech about you being 'his'..." He let out a low whistle. "Pretty sure the entire Grand Line heard that one." He leaned forward, his grin widening. "So, when's the wedding?"

You threw a cracker at him, which he expertly caught mid-air with a laugh. "You're lucky I'm too tired to chase you around the ship right now, Yasopp. Just get back to your duties before Benn finds you loafing around." You hoisted the tray with the water, crackers, and painkillers, ready to make your escape back to the cabin and your very hungover captain. "Some of us actually have a job to do."

Just as you were about to make your escape, the galley door swung open again, and in strode Benn Beckman, a fresh cigarette already lit and dangling from his lips. He took one look at Yasopp, then at you with the tray, and a faint smirk played on his usually stoic face.

"Morning, Y/N," he rumbled, his voice low and even, a sharp contrast to Yasopp's boisterous teasing. "Looks like you're already earning your keep this morning." He paused, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. "Captain giving you trouble?"

"Just the usual," you mumbled, a flush creeping up your neck. You knew there was no escaping the crew's observations.

Yasopp snickered. "She's just mad because I called her the Captain's nursemaid, Benn. And asked about the wedding."

Benn raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Wedding, huh? Well, after last night's performance, I'd say it's about time. He certainly made his intentions clear." He glanced at the crackers on your tray. "Crackers, though? For him?"

You sighed. "It's all I could grab quickly. He's still dead to the world, and I just want to get him something before he starts demanding it."

Benn shook his head slowly. "He'll want toast. Thick, buttery toast. Always does after a night like that." He gave you a look that said, you know this.

"Crap," you muttered under your breath, realizing he was absolutely right. Shanks loved toast. You knew this. You just hadn't thought of it in your sleepy rush. Turning on your heel, you marched back to the counter where the bread was kept, already pulling out slices. "Alright, fine, toast it is. Happy now?" you grumbled, half to yourself and half to the two grinning pirates behind you.

"Just make sure it's nice and toasted, Y/N," Yasopp called out, still chuckling. "He likes it practically burnt sometimes, remember?"

"Oh, I remember!" you shot back, already sliding the bread into the galley's well-used toaster. "I remember a lot of things about him that I'm sure he'll regret remembering himself later today." You grabbed a butter knife, intending to spread butter on the eventual toast.

"And make sure you slather that butter on," Benn added, a smirk playing on his lips. "He needs his sustenance after such a… vigorous night."

"You two are absolutely insufferable," you muttered, turning to face them, the butter knife pointed playfully in their direction. "One more word, and this butter knife is going to find a new home in your respective eyeballs."

Just as the words left your mouth, the galley door creaked open. In a flash, a pair of hands were around you, pulling you back against a familiar, warm chest. You tensed, ready to fight, but then a low groan rumbled against your ear, and the scent of stale sake and Shanks's unique musk filled your nostrils.

"My head," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and a burgeoning hangover. He buried his face in your hair. "And you shouldn't threaten the crew, Y/N. They're good lads." His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you closer still, his chin resting on your shoulder. The butter knife still clutched in your hand felt suddenly ridiculous.

Yasopp burst into outright laughter, quickly joined by Benn's deeper snicker. You felt a mortified flush creep up your neck, heat spreading to your ears. Shanks, oblivious in his hungover haze, simply tightened his grip, burrowing his face further into your neck.

The toaster dinged, signaling the readiness of the toast. You carefully twisted within Shanks's embrace, his grip surprisingly pliant when you moved with purpose. You managed to butter a thick slice, the rich aroma filling the galley. Turning back to him, you held the toast up to his face.

"Here," you said softly, pushing a piece into his mouth.

He grumbled around the mouthful, his eyes still closed. "Not hungry."

"I know, baby," you replied, your voice gentle but firm. "But you can't take painkillers on an empty stomach, or you'll feel even worse." You waited patiently as he slowly chewed, the motion of his jaw a silent testament to his reluctance.

Once he had swallowed, you handed him the tankard of water. He took a long, grateful gulp. Then, you offered him the painkillers. He swallowed them without complaint, still leaning heavily against you, his familiar weight a comforting presence despite the morning's chaos.

With the painkillers swallowed, Shanks finally let out a long, shuddering sigh, the worst of the immediate nausea seemingly abating. He sagged against you, a dead weight, but his grip remained stubbornly firm.

"Better?" you asked, gently rubbing his back.

He nodded, a barely perceptible movement against your hair. "Still feels like a sea king's trying to dance on my brain."

Yasopp and Benn, who had been quietly observing the entire exchange, exchanged a glance. Yasopp cleared his throat. "Alright, Captain, glad to see you're still in one piece. We'll, uh, leave you to it." He winked at you, a mischievous glint in his eye, before he and Benn discreetly exited the galley, leaving you and Shanks alone.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "They'll never let you live this down, you know."

Shanks just grumbled, burying his face deeper into your neck. "Worth it," he mumbled, his voice already drifting. He shifted, his body relaxing against yours as the painkillers began to take effect. You could feel him sinking back into a lighter sleep, the heavy weight of his hangover beginning to lift. You stood there for a few more moments, cradling him, the quiet hum of the ship your only company. It was a familiar comfort, this dance of chaos and calm, of boisterous adventures and tender mornings. With Shanks, it was always an unpredictable journey, but one you wouldn't trade for anything.

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