One Piece Men + reacting to fever!reader (short fics)
- ❝you pushed yourself a little too hard during a horrible fever, resulting in fainting. How will your s/o react to that?❞
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Fluff, banter and scoldings; SFW. Reader is she/her. 𓂃۶ৎ cw: Zoro's fic is a bit suggestive. 𓂃۶ৎ wc: 900 per seperate fic.
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro, (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: based on these two requests but i made it about fever because i have one right now and got nothing to do so here! enjoy pretties! (˶˃⤙˂˶) <3❞
Rob Lucci
“stupid girl.” Rob Lucci was sitting with his leg crossed on a chair in front of your bed, head held high as he sets on scolding you.
“What were you expecting—going grocery shopping with a fever.” His lip twitched. “You would still be on the floor, passed out, had I not come home today.”
You wanted to retort but the heat was unbearable.
“Mmnh…” is all you manage to give back and he narrows his eyes. Getting up. Sliding away the drenched towel he had placed on you. Palm landing on your forehead. Cold. Icy. Giving you a shiver.
For a moment, all he does is feel the swell of warmth beneath his hand. His sharp gaze does not leave, drilling down at the state you, but the longer he watches, the colder you burn.
“I was out of groceries.” You say at last, huffing. “I had no one else to—”
“why did you not call me.” Tone flat, assertive.
You give him a long, long stare. Vision slightly blurry from all the heat and head ache. “… it’s just a fever.”
His brows pulls at that.
Gaze not leaving as you feel him take in the shape of you. Flushed. Warm. And terribly small. Something shifts in those dark green eyes of his as an intrusive thought appears in his mind.
Now you’re the most vulnerable. Now you’re the most weak. If he had to — you would be left defenceless to kill.
You know that as well as he does.
And still.
You're foolish enough to want him anywhere near you in this state. Truly. You’re too trusting.. too good. Something settles in his gaze and it’s not soft, or sweet but the sharpness eases. Not a lot. Not anything notable, but something indelibly tender makes it to his eyes.
“Rob?” Your voice snaps him out of it, a brow going up. You’re a whole ruin. Cheeks burning, breathing is heavy and short. Had he not come home when he did… the thought of you struggling up from the floor hall, dizzy and exhausted—something about that makes his body tense.
Not annoyance, not disgust but an uneasy feeling, a sombre one.
“Next time, you will call.” He says it as if it’s absolute. Withdrawing his hand, reaching for the bowl and towel on your nightstand. You watch him bring the drenched cloth to your forehead.
The cold of the water making you shudder. Squeezing your eyes shut. Cheeks burning at the sensation.
Once done, he sits back on the chair.
“Get some sleep.”
You look to him.
Arms crossed. Back leaned. His face as stoic as ever.
“Are you going to leave?” Your voice comes out a lot softer than intended and he blinks.
“… no. Not tonight. Or tomorrow.”
You give him a weak smile. “I’m glad.”
A silence settles between you two. You’re burning, and he’s watching. Silently. Presently.
Everything starts becoming heavier; your body, your vision, even keeping your eyes open was a strain.
“… I wanted to call you. I just didn’t want to be a bother.” You confess at last, more breath than words.
A pause. Hattori flutters close. Tilting his head back and forth. Cooing. Then, does Rob lean in, adjusting the blanket to your collar. Drenching the cloth. Fix your hair out your face before placing it back on your forehead.
“You won’t be.”
When you wake up, head lighter and vision clearer. Shifting your head, you’ll find Hattori staring at you, perched on the night stand. His bowl of seeds, usually set in the living room, is now right beside him.
“Did he make you watch over me? Seriously…” You cough at the end and your door creaks.
It’s Rob. His hair wet, towel over his shoulders. “You look better.” An observation, not a remark. He strides over and you sit up, slowly but without strain.
“Did you sleep well?” He says, placing a hand on your forehead.
“You didn’t leave.” you breathe, not being able to stop the smile on your face.
His eyes narrows, but not with malice. “… No. I didn’t. I fixed you breakfast.”
You catch his sleeve before leaving, and he glances, stopping in his tracks.
“Rob...”
Your voice is soft, warm and his brows pinches.
“I love you.” you say, letting go of his sleeve and his lips part. Posture turning rigid. Until suddenly, he comes closer, his movement slow, careful as if approaching something dangerous.
He leans over you like a shadow, swift and smooth, hands going to your shoulders. Pushing you back into bed. Head landing on your pillow as he tucks you in. His touch is gentle, terribly so it’s almost unbecoming. Until he at last places a kiss on your forehead. Lips soft. So soft.
Your cheeks burn, and this time, it’s not from the fever.
Leaning back, he gives you one quiet look. “Stay put. I’ll bring the tray here.”
Summary: That day came with a slow morning, a quiet one. Hattori pecked at his seeds as Rob fed you a lighter porridge. It’s an odd feeling, to know you’re the sole person in the world to witness his care, his worry. And even if he doesn’t reply back with “I love you too”, you know his reply sticks somewhere between the way he’s blowing on the soup, wipe your mouth once done and ask if you want apple or orange juice from the grocery store. Truly, it’s the oddest feeling of them all, but a warm one. A welcoming one.
Sir Crocodile
Your breathing was heavy, slow. Face all hot and sweaty when he places the cold cloth over your forehead.
“Look at the state you’re in and tell me what about it should have allowed you to go gardening. Go on. Indulge me.” His voice is condescending, gruff but despite his rough exterior, he’s drilled down his cigar. Letting go of his addiction for your comfort.
You want to protest but the heat is all too much. “Ss’orry…” you slurred out, “It’s just, the tomatoes… were perfectly ripe and—”
“Really. Tomatoes.” He opens a package of medicine. “I find you wobbling across the garden because of tomatoes. Have the fever reached your brain too?”
You hold in a huff. “You don’t need to scold me.”
“You gave me no choice when you were found slumped across the flower beds I fixed for you. They’re crushed now. And you’re bedridden.”
“… sorry. It’s just, they’re you’re favourites, and I only wanted to...” your brows pull. Fever burning you up.
And he glances to you.
Wrapped into your blanket. All hot and heavy. Something in his face eases; the release of his brows or maybe a softer glint in his eyes. You can’t really say.
He strides over. Glass of water in his hand. “sit up.” He commands, aiding you up by softly placing the hook behind your back.
He brings his palm close to your mouth, medicine in his hand.
Glass close to your face.
“Swallow those. Then drink.”
You do but some water spills down your chin.
“Slowly.” He empathises and you huff. Swallowing.
He leans back, replacing the empty glass with a napkin. Grabbing your jaw, wiping your chin rough but focused.
“I’m not a baby—”
“Yeah?” He muses, leaning in, and kisses your cheek. Lips lingering against you; hot, burning and all fire as his breath vibrates across your skin. “Want me to be mean? I can be mean.”
You burn from your chest to your face. Heart stuttering.
“That’s not what I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, the headache getting way too much. You feel him kissing your cheek again, lips wet, hand on the other side of your face, squeezing you against his mouth — and it’s just so unfair. Your neck flares hot, your cheeks burning into fire.
“Sir… I’m… You’re being mean right now…” You manage to huff out and you can feel the pleasing curve of his lip go up against your cheek.
He leans back, face impossibly smug.
“Lay down. I'll baby you for tonight.”
You do as you’re told but with a scowl; your own act of defiance and he gets even smugger about it. What a jerk.
He sits down by the edge of the bed. His weight dipping down the mattress. Spotting something on your nightstand. A hand reaches for it — a fairytale storybook you used to read when you were little. It’s innocent. Childish.
He pronounces the title with such condescension you hope this fever is hot enough to burn through the bed and create a hole you’ll never dig yourself up from.
“Your taste in books is even for babies. You sure you aren’t one?”
You frown, “You’re being a bully… I used to read it when I was little.”
“Really now?” He licks his thumb before flipping through it, “… Want me to read it for you?”
You blink. Heart fluttering.
You only see the frame of his back — large, huge. Shoulders sturdy, and black hair glistening by the candle light. He glances over his shoulders and your cheeks burn. Lips pressing shut.
“… Yes, please. I would like that.”
His eyes narrows as he takes in the shape of you.
Flushed, warm and impossibly small. This vulnerable state you’re in, something about it makes his heart ache. A protective instinct, almost a maternal one; wanting to hold you, kiss you — take care of you. He hums, flipping to page one.
Sir Crocodile’s back hunches, eyes lowered.
“Once upon a time… ” His voice is low, dark, the underlying gravel from years of smoking. Each sentence said with the kind of slow gentleness you almost get reminded of your father, your mother.
The fever hums into a quiet simmer, bristling your cheeks, pinching your head but as you listen to the rough exterior of his tone; you fall into its warmth.
Not the heat, not the sweat and flaring cheeks but the warmth of the blankets, the softness of the pillows, the hum of his voice. It’s endearing. Precious. Making you sink. Vision turning blurry. Eyes growing heavier, and heavier… until at last, as the story reaches its end, you fall into the softest of dreams.
He glances over, seeing you sleep. Knuckle reaching towards your face. Stroking, caressing. His touch gentle, his gaze soft. As if overlooking his brood, his wounded mate wrapped in heavy blankets.
For a long, long moment, till the candles eventually burn out and the flickers of the night makes it between the curtains; he only watches. Quiet. Present.
Fixing a drenched cloth over your forehead.
Stroking your cheek.
Reaching for a cigar.
And he does not speak as he takes a smoke. Only listening to the quiet rhythm of your breaths.
Summary: When you wake up, the fever has cleared, if only a little bit. And you’ll catch the waft of tea being brewed, freshly plucked flowers by your nightstand. Your favourites. And when your eyes glaze up, they’ll widen. Slumped on a chair next to your bed, you’ll find him. Head hanging, arms crossed. His slicked hair undone, chest rising and falling. And you’ll press down a smile. Reaching close, and with the softest of motions; you kiss him on the cheek. Hearing him grumble awake. “Sleep well, dear?” You say and he’ll hum. Kissing you back.
Trafalgar D. Water Law
Your face burned, throat chafed and you even had to brace yourself each time before swallowing your own spit.
“Idiot.” Law says, back facing you as he fixes something by the table.
“I’m not—”
“Yeah? Then what do you call someone who decides to walk back home, in the rain, with a fever, when the traffic is the most hectic?”
You frown. “I needed to get home somehow—”
“Exactly. So why didn’t you call me.” He still isn’t facing you, glass clinking.
“Because… you’re working and,” you huff, “it’s not a big deal. Just a fever.”
“It’s not just a fever.” He glances over his shoulder, “What would have happened did I not decide to pick you up? You’d still be outside in the rain, passed out, that’s what.” He strides over, his steps sure, set and when he at last looms over you, he leans in. Offering a glass of water and medicine in his hands.
“Drink that, then I’ll run your temperature again. I’ve put some honey to make it easier.”
You grumble, taking a sip only to find the water lukewarm — “Law?”
“Shh. It’ll help your throat.”
And you comply, swallowing the medicine, the water and as you hate to admit it; he’s right. It still hurts to swallow, but it does not chafe as badly as you thought it would.
You ease back into your pillows, and he sticks a thermometer into your mouth. Place a drenched cloth over your forehead as he watches the temperature rise, and rise, and rise. Once it stops he gives you one sharp look.
“Just a fever.” Law mocks you, “Can’t believe you, sometimes.” He snatches the thermometer and tuck the blanket around you tighter, closer. Making sure no air leaves at the end of your feet.
“How are you feeling? Headaches? Muscle cramp?”
You huff, heat burning down your neck. “Just a headache.”
He hums, slumping down a chair next to your bed, before letting out a sigh.
“Are you my girlfriend or my patient.”
For some reason, that makes you feel small. “… I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a burden.”
Law blinks.
The sensitive tone of your voice makes him straighten his back, leaning forward. “Don’t be. I’m just teasing you.” Fixing your blanket around your collar.
“… I like taking care of you.” He mumbles and you shift your head.
“Say again?”
He tenses, and adverts his gaze. Leaning back against the chair. Crossing his arms. “Nothing. Now get some rest.”
And you’ll give him a cheesy smile, pretending to not have heard that.
A pause follows — you sink into the warmth of your blankets, feeling the bristle of heat cling onto your cheeks, sweet forming at the nape of your neck. For one moment, Law just looks you over and you close your eyes. Feeling everything becoming heavier; your eyes, your head, your body and breath.
“I wanted to call you. I did. I just didn’t want to be in the way.” You mumble and his shoulders slumps at that, brows pulling. “What makes you think that?”
“Mmnh,” You don’t have the strength to answer, you just frown in discomfort from the headache.
At that, his gaze settles on the state you’re in. Not as a doctor, not as a surgeon dissecting your health and categorising your symptoms but as your lover. You’re swollen with heat, fatigue, and it tugs at his chest to not do more for you.
He leans in, his tatted knuckle caressing your cheek. His skin cold against your burning flesh, making you shudder as he places a palm on the side of your face. “Sick or not; I’ll always prioritise you. You know that, right?”
“… yeah, I do.”
He smiles a little that, not much but it’s there. “That’s my girl.”
And when sleep comes to take you; Law does not leave your side. No for the whole of the night; he sits there waiting, watching. Readjusting your blanket. Fix a new wet towel, and when the last of his energy stifles, and his eyes douses closed; he’ll still be there.
Not leaving. Not going.
Not ever.
Summary: When you wake up, your throat doesn’t chafe, your head doesn’t ache. And when your gaze drifts to the side, you’ll find Law still in that chair. Chin dropped, hat tipped down, arms crossed and breathing slow and heavy. You’ll press down a smile. “I love you.” you hum. And maybe, just maybe, you won’t catch the small curve of his mouth forming.
Donquixote Doflamingo
For some reason — he was annoyed, or maybe… frustrated? scared? You can’t tell.
He was biting his thumbnail. Sat at the edge of your bed. Pink feathered coat tossed onto the couch.
You just woke up from a daze, all you remembered was going out for some errands, something about an appointment you couldn’t miss, but then when you stepped out; the world just fell apart.
“mmhn,” you shift your head and Doffy immediately snaps his gaze onto you. “Doffy?” you wheeze and he scoffs. Shoulders easing. “Ah. There she is. The sick duckling is awake.”
You squeeze your eyes shut at the sudden wave of headache. Grimacing. “Where am I..?”
“My bed. So. Tell me, sweet, little, dove.” He leans in, voice growing sweeter and sweeter; and that grin of his isn’t endearing or cute or anything close to innocent, no. It had mockery written all over it. “Care tell me why I found you passed out on your porch? Heaving? Wheezing? Flushed and sweating?”
“I was…” Immediately, a coughing fit seizes you and his shoulders slumps, grin faltering, not vanishing, not dropping, but it falters. He helps you up, larger hand placing above your shoulder blades as he brings you a glass of water.
“Can’t do anything, can you? I leave you out of my sight for one second and you get all feverish. Poor, poor birdie.” He taunts you with a voice so kind it makes his remark sound like a soft kiss, and not a dig at the fact you’re burning fire beneath your skin.
You ignore him, gulping down the water even if it feels like swallowing clumps of sand at the size of eggs. And when finished, he wipes your chin, helps you ease down your pillows with steady, present hands.
From this angle — you look a lot like his mother — and he can’t stand it. He moves away, reaching for a towel only to drench it, squeeze it, as he tries to keep his usual composure. Anything related to you; shatters his mask of control like sand, leaving him tethering. Jaw clenched, brows furrowed. Feeling disgustingly powerless.
When he reaches for you, he removes the locks of hair away from your face with such gentle precision you almost manage a smile. Almost.
“What’s that smile for, hm? You’re enjoying this aren’t you? It wouldn’t be beneath you to get yourself sick just to be doted on.”
You puff out your cheeks. “You like doting on me.”
He does not answer, but that grin of his is a reply for all else. Doflamingo places the wet towel over your forehead, and you shudder at the cold sting of water flushing down your hairline. “Mmh, i’sh cold.” you mumble and one corner of his lips curves.
“Oh, is it now? Had you done a better job taking care of yourself, we wouldn’t be here would we, dove?”His voice is all mockery. Seriously. What’s his problem.
His hand lands on the side of your jaw, soft, warm. Too warm. It almost burns you apart.
“Doffy… you’re hot.”
He gives you a brow, a smile. “Flattering me won’t save you.”
Did you not feel your head splitting in two from the sheer headache, you would be rolling your eyes.
You’re sick and still, he teases you. You shift your head to the side as protest and you can practically hear the grin on his smug, handsome face. His hand is still on your cheek, thumb rubbing against your skin. Even if it burns, even if it’s sears; Doffy’s touch is slow, gentle if not tender.
It almost makes you forgive him.
“I’ve already had the doctor look in to you, get some rest for now, cariña.”
You hum, letting out a slow, heavy breath before meeting his gaze. “will you stay with me? Tonight? Please?”
Perhaps your voice came out a lot softer than you intended, perhaps your gaze was too pleading and your cheeks far too flushed, or maybe, just maybe, that rancid heart of his has a softer spot reserved for you, and only you — making him bend down. Placing a kiss on the corner of your lip. Faint, lingering.
“Anything for you, my girl.” He says it as if it’s a secret, a vow, one pledged solely to you. And the softness of his voice, the warmth of his breath, it makes you keen—the fever burning hotter than ever.
Summary: When you wake up, the fire in you has calmed. Your body grown light, your head at ease. And when you turn your gaze to the side of the bed, you’ll find him right there next to you. Dozed off, his face more boy than man. It makes you grin. Maybe having a fever isn’t so bad when a narcissistic pink feathered peacock dotes on you.
Roronoa Zoro
It was pouring.
You and your swordsman were both soaked, and both separated from the crew, surveying the environment that was more maze than forest. And suddenly, things started to grow heavier.
Your breathing, your body, luggage and even your eyes were becoming a strain to keep open — and before you knew it, the world spun black, Zoro’s voice clanging in the air, your name leaving his lips as you crashed into the abyss. Or the grass. Or both.
When you wake up, the first thing you see is stone. Stone and vines.
“hngg,” your body burns, heat boiling you down into one hot mess made of sweat and shivers.
You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling something wet place over your forehead.
“—Zoro?” You huff, and when you open your eyes, you’ll see him right there next to you.
“You’re finally awake,” his face as stoic as ever but you spot his shoulders easing, slumping. As if he’s kept tension in there for days. He lets out a breath.
“You’ve been sleepin' for half a day.”
“What?” You start to shiver, hands clammy and he gently pushes you back down when you try to sit up, that’s when you realise you’re completely naked.
You turn towards the fire, and see yours and his clothes placed next to it. As if to dry.
When you meet Zoro’s gaze, you spot him rubbing his neck. Ears burning red.
“We were both drenched, I had no choice unless risk your fever getting worse.” For some reason he cannot meet your gaze and you stifle a smile, deciding to tease him.
“Why’re you acting like you’ve never seen me naked before.”
“That’s different, lady.” He grumbles, reaching for a bottle of water, leaning in close to help you take a drink.
You try your best chugging it down without wincing from the sore throat.
“Thank you…”
He wipes your chin, voice soft, low — sweet. “Of course.”
Zoro lays down next to you, and you whine when he brings himself beneath your blanket, cold air entering with him.
“Zoro?”
“Shh...” He brings you close to his chest. “I’ll need to keep you warm till Chopper picks up on our trail, but with this rain, it’ll take a while.”
You cannot see his face, not with your head under his chin, but the beating of his heart reveals everything else. Fast, hard — erratic.
You hum, pressing your face into his chest, your legs entangling with his. His thigh in between yours. You clutch your legs onto him, taking his warmth for your own.
And your skin starts boiling fire. Hot. Unbearably so. You whimper a little but you don’t mind it, not when his arms are locked around your figure as if to cradle you, baby you.
One hand on the back of your head, the other on your spine. He doesn’t caress you, just holds you. Firm. Steady.
"Zoro…”
He looks down to meet your gaze, “hm?”
You stare at his stupid, handsome face. His lips thick, soft — and the fever has made you stupid. You lean in, giving him a kiss, it’s slow, it’s faint but when you part the air between you two grows heavy.
“Ssorry,” you slur, sweat starting to build down your back, “I shouldn’t… make you.. sick,” you huff, your chin falling but he gently steers your face back up. Meeting his gaze. Desire written all over him.
“Does it even matter anymore?” His voice low, dark and hushing and you burn even hotter with the way he’s looking at you.
He kisses you back, this time, it’s wet, heavy and you whine into it.
Cheeks burning, the heat between your chests are bristling fire and you cannot stop yourself from clutching onto him as he presses you closer. Harder. Your legs clenching onto his, his thigh pressing up in between your core. And when his tongue skims over yours, you break it off — not being able to breathe with all this searing warmth.
You’re both huffing, burning, and you bury your face into his chest.
Beneath your palm you feel his heart bulging out his chest and you hide a smile.
“Chopper better hurry… or we’ll both be found with a fever.” He grumbles and you nod, a head ache taking over.
“Everything hurts,” you mumble and you feel him pressing you closer to him.
“Just hold out a little longer, ‘kay? I’ll keep you warm.”
You shudder, taking his word for it — digging your face into the crook of his neck, feel his hand on the back of your head, and when sleep comes to steal you away, you’ll still be held, still feel his heart bulge beneath your palm, not once leaving you cold.
Summary: The next morning, you’ll wake up in the familiar room reserved for the sick on the Sunny, the fever long gone. Blinking however, you’ll find a certain moss-haired fool laying in the bed next to you. Cheeks red, wet towel over his head and you press your lips. Such idiots you both were, and now he has to pay for it. You sit up, your head light and body rested, and you snuggle next to him. This is going to become a whole cycle but you don’t care.
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