✩ OlderSugarDaddy!Shanks x Fem!CollegeStudent!Reader
✩ Word Count: 1.8k
✩ Tags: Fluff, college stress, Age gap, crying, burnt out, kissing :P, Shanks is 40 and reader is 22, Comment to be added to taglist, I have one more story in my drafts 😝
✩ Synopsis: Its exam season at your college and so far the studying has been kicking your ass, well mostly the studying for chemistry and when you finally break of course SugarDaddy!Shanks catches you mid break down. And his ways of comforting is spending money on you.
✩ Sugar Daddy!Shanks M.List | One piece M.List
Shanks’ penthouse was usually the one place where you could breathe.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Soft rugs your feet sank into. Expensive leather furniture that felt too luxurious to sit on sometimes. The warm scent of cedarwood from whatever cologne Shanks preferred. Normally it all eased your chest the moment you stepped inside.
But not today. Today felt like hell.
Your chemistry textbook sat spread open on the massive marble kitchen island. Flashcards all over the place and far too bright. Notes scattered. Your laptop screen filled with problem sets that somehow looked more confusing every second.
You’d been studying for hours. You barely noticed when the sun slowly painted the sky in a deep orange and pink hue behind the skyline, or when the soft city lights came on outside. All you noticed was the pounding in your skull, the formulas twisting in your vision and the slight burn in your eyes.
And then your frustration finally snapped.
A shaky breath. A wrong calculation for the fifth time. A pit forming in your chest that got tighter and tighter until your eyes blurred, then spilled over entirely. So there you were: sitting on one of Shanks’ barstools, hunched over chemistry notes, shoulders shaking with quiet, miserable sobs.
You didn’t even hear the front door click open. But you heard his voice, low and warm, the kind that always made your body instantly uncoil.
“Sweetheart?”
You stiffened. Footsteps padded across the penthouse floor, and then Shanks appeared at the other side of the island, red hair slicked back loosely, keys still in hand.
The moment he saw your tear stained cheeks, his entire demeanor shifted. Confident. Concerned. Gentle in a way only he could manage. He moved around the island without hesitation and crouched beside you, brushing a knuckle softly down your cheek.
“Hey. What’s going on?”
You wiped your face clumsily, embarrassed, your entire body feeling hot. “I—It’s nothing. I’m just… stupid.”
His eyebrows shot up immediately. “Don’t say that.”
“I can’t get any of this right,” you choked. “The exam is in two days, and I—I’ve been trying, but none of it is sticking, and—” Your voice cracked. Hard. Shanks’ expression softened, but his voice deepened with steady reassurance. “Come here.”
You slid off the barstool and he caught you instantly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest. You buried your face in his shirt, gripping the fabric while tears soaked the cotton. His hand stroked your back slowly, rhythmically, grounding you. “You’re burned out,” he murmured into your hair. “You’ve been pushing yourself way too hard.”
“I have to do well.” Your voice is still shaky as you speak.
“And you will.” He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his big hands. “But not like this. Not while you’re falling apart, sweetheart.” You sniffed, eyes glassy. “I can’t stop studying.”
“Yes,” he said softly, brushing away a tear with his thumb, “you can. And you’re going to. Right now.” Your breath trembled. “Shanks, I really—”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupted gently, “you’ve been sitting at that counter since noon. You’re shaking. Your eyes are red. You need a break. A real one.” He stood, still holding your hand, and pulled you toward him with that easy confidence that always made your stomach flip. “Go get your shoes.”
You blinked. “What? Where are we going?”
He smirked, just a little. “Somewhere that isn’t this kitchen full of chemical equations you’re ready to set on fire.” Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped. He grinned wider at the sound. “Good. There’s my girl.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles. “Let me take care of you for a bit.”
You hesitated. “You really don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His voice dropped, rough and sincere. “Let me spoil you.”
The way he said it made your chest warm. So you nodded, grabbed your shoes, and let him guide you out of the penthouse and down into the private elevator.
Shanks leaned against the mirrored wall, eyes tracing your face with that slow, appreciative look he never bothered hiding.
“You look tired,” he murmured. “Still beautiful. But tired.” You flushed. “You’re supposed to be helping, not flirting.”
“I can do both,” he said easily. “I’m a great multitasker.” He says so carelessly as he throws a wink your way.
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
The city was glittering when you stepped out into the evening air. Shanks’ car, a sleek luxury model you still weren’t used to riding in, waited at the curb with a soft purr.
He opened the door for you, hand warm against your waist as he helped you in.
“Seatbelt, sweetheart,” he teased as he shut the door. “Can’t have you falling apart twice in one night.” Your cheeks heated as he rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat. “You’re impossible.” He gave you one of those devastating grins. “And yet, you’re here.”
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
Fifteen minutes later, you were standing in front of a high-end boutique, the kind with mannequins wearing outfits that cost more than your textbooks combined. You stared. “Shanks…”
He squeezed your hip lightly. “Pick whatever you want.”
“That’s too much.”
“For you?” He raised a brow. “Never.”
Inside, he was worse, affectionately worse. He wandered through the racks with you, pulling out sweaters, dresses, tops, holding them up to your body with thoughtful consideration.
“This color looks incredible on you,” he said, draping a soft cream sweater over your arm. “You should try this one on, trust me.”
“Oh, that one’s coming home with us. No arguing.”
Every compliment made your cheeks warm. Every touch, a hand on your back, brushing hair from your face, tipping your chin made your chest lighter.
When you stepped out of the dressing room in one of the outfits, he looked you up and down slowly, lips parting in a soft whistle. “Sweetheart…” His voice dropped, amused and reverent. “You’re going to make the whole world jealous.” You covered your face. “Shanks!”
“What?” he chuckled. “I’m being honest. And extremely biased.”
By the time you left the store, Shanks’ arm was draped around your shoulders, bags in his other hand despite your protests.
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
In the car back to the penthouse, he glanced over at you and really looked at you.
“You feeling better?” he asked quietly. You nodded, voice soft. “Yeah. A lot.” He reached over, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Good. Because you deserve more than stress and tears.”
Then his hand slid to your thigh, warm and steady. “And next time you’re hurting,” he murmured, “you tell me sooner. I’ll always take care of you.”
Your heart fluttered, full and steady for the first time in days. “Okay,” you whispered. Shanks smiled slow, soft, and adoring. “There’s my girl.”
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
The penthouse was dim when you stepped back inside, the warm gold accent lights glowing along the walls, city lights spilling in through the massive windows like scattered stars. Shanks set the bags down by the entryway, the click of the private elevator behind you sounding louder than anything else.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Shanks turned to you, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted as he took you in, your soft new sweater, your calmer eyes, your slightly shy smile. “There she is,” he murmured. “My pretty girl.”
You stepped closer without even realizing it. Something in his voice low, coaxing and warm, pulled you toward him like gravity. Shanks reached out, fingers brushing your jaw lightly. “Feeling okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Better. Because of you.” That tiny confession made something flicker behind his eyes, something warm, something wanting. “Good.” His thumb traced the bow of your lower lip. “Because I wasn’t done spoiling you yet.” Your breath hitched, and he chuckled softly at your reaction, eyes gleaming with playful heat.
He lifted his hand, sliding it behind your lower back, guiding you closer until your chest met his. His voice dropped velvet, teasing, dangerously soft. “Come here.” Your hands found the fabric of his shirt without thinking. Shanks dipped his head, forehead brushing yours, noses nearly touching.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his breath warm against your lips.
You didn’t even need words, you just nodded.
He smiled. Slow. Devilish. Tender.
Then he kissed you.
Not rushed. Not demanding. Just slow, sweet at first, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth with every soft press of his lips. His hand slid up your spine, fingertips grazing just enough to make you shiver.
When you sighed into the kiss, he deepened it gently but firm, lips moving against yours in a way that sent warmth curling through your stomach. Your fingers curled into his shirt. His other hand came up to cradle your cheek, tilting your face just right as he murmured against your mouth.
“That’s it, sweetheart…”
He kissed you again, a little deeper, a little hungrier, but still careful, like he was holding something fragile. You could feel him smiling against your lips when you gasped softly.
He pulled back just an inch, just enough to look at you. “God,” he breathed, thumb brushing your kiss swollen lips, “you’re beautiful when you let yourself relax.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly. Shanks laughed softly and leaned in to steal another quick kiss, just a teasing brush of lips that left you chasing after him. He smirked, pleased. “Cute.”
You swatted his chest lightly. “Stop.”
“Can’t,” he said, tugging you closer by the hips. “Won’t.”
His nose brushed yours again in a soft nuzzle that made your heart flutter in your throat. Then he tilted his head toward the sprawling living room where the city lights glittered through the windows. “Come sit with me,” he murmured. “Let me hold you a while.”
You followed him to the couch, and he pulled you straight onto his lap no hesitation, no question. His hands settled warmly on your waist, thumbs stroking gentle circles through your sweater as you curled into him. His legs spread slightly to cradle you more comfortably, and he leaned back, exhaling slowly like having you there calmed him too.
“There we go,” he whispered, resting his chin on your shoulder. “That’s where you belong.” You felt his lips brush your neck, soft, lingering. Not quite a kiss, more like a promise.
His arms tightened around you, warm and steady and impossibly safe. “Let me take care of you tonight,” he said softly against your skin. “No stress. No tears. Just me and you.”
You turned your head toward him, your lips brushing his cheek. “I’d like that.”
He smiled slowly, warm, and a little dangerous.
“Good,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, “because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”
You melted back against him, and Shanks held you through the quiet, through the city glow, through the soft warmth pooling in your chest… kissing you again and again, slow and patient, as if you were the only thing in the world he cared to touch.
©Bella2025
