Saving Private Jeon | j.ww [1]
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: You’re 99.9% sure this idol guy is into you. If he could stop injuring himself every five minutes, maybe this thing could actually go somewhere. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, smut, strangers to lovers, idol!au, military!au ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: private jeon wonwoo r u kidding me?, eventual smut ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: exaggerated injuries though nothing gory, probably wrong ways to treat said injuries bec I don't work in the medical field and have only ever watched one season of grey’s anatomy, second-hand embarrassment cos wonwoo’s a hot mess bruh ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 2.2k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Hello Wonwoorideuls! Finally unleashing this from the drafts. I wrote this a while back, like around May and kinda just let it fester in the WIP folder. Dusted the cobwebs off it a bit this week and idk this turned out real cute. Enjoy!~ ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes 2: Thanks to user @sumzysworld's comment for inspiring the title of this story. Not betaread so all mistakes are my own. TAGLIST IS OPEN
Series Masterlist | Wonwoo Masterlist
There are three short raps on the door before it swings open.
“Private Jeon, reporting for medical,” the officer says behind him.
You don’t look up right away. Mornings are busy, and it’s already been a parade of sprains and stress-induced stomach cramps. You finish logging the last patient’s chart, then turn to see the new arrival.
And… Ah.
The subject of gossip that has made its rounds from the gate to the clinic today. It’s the idol guy. Jeon Wonwoo. Member of Seventeen. Rapper, apparently. Face like he walked out of, well, The Face Shop.
A loud clang shakes you from your thoughts. Dara, the nurse trainee, drops a metal container as she walks in, obviously recognizing the celebrity in the room. Bless her, but she needs to keep it together. There are several more idols and actors coming through, and she can’t be fidgety.
You’re not completely immune to being starstruck, but being in the medical field, you’ve learned some tricks to regulate your breathing, to slow down your heart beat to a normal cadence. So far you’ve only ever had to employ it once in your history of being assigned here in Nonsan Training Center. Just once, when Min Yoongi of BTS came through to get a routinary inspection of his shoulder. That was… yeah. A career highlight. Fuck, he was unreal.
You snap out of your thoughts and glance up at the man you’ve only ever glimpsed through your sister’s photo cards standing there in sweat-soaked camo, skin flushed from drills, sharp jaw tight.
“Private Jeon,” you say, stepping around the counter. “Tell me what happened.”
“Landed wrong during a leap in obstacle drills,” he replies, voice strained. “My ankle rolled out. I didn’t hear anything snap, but it’s pretty stiff now.”
You nod, already motioning toward the exam table. “Boots off. Sit up here. Can you manage?”
He obeys without complaint, fingers quick on the laces, movements sharp with practiced discipline. But there’s a slight wince as he pulls his right boot off, and when he peels his sock down, the ankle’s already beginning to swell.
You kneel beside the table and reach for his foot gently. “Tell me if this hurts.”
He does, though it’s almost stripped of emotion. His responses are quiet, clipped. You know he’s hurting but trying not to show it with the way he is biting his lip. You don’t exactly know why he’s trying to stay poised, so you just get back to your physical assessment.
The bone isn’t broken. You’re sure of that. The sprain is definitely there, but low grade. He maybe has a week of it if he’s careful. You start prepping the wrap.
“You had this before,” you say casually. “The injury?”
His gaze drops to his hands in his lap. “Yeah.”
You nod, not pressing. Most guys either talk too much or not at all during treatment. Wonwoo doesn’t seem inclined toward either extreme.
“Swelling should go down in a few days,” you tell him, finishing the wrap. “But I’m going to ice it and get your unit commander to scale you down for now.”
Wonwoo sighs, then nods.
“Crutches or limp? It’s your call.”
“I’ll limp.”
“Of course you will,” you mutter under your breath, and he actually cracks a smile at that. These men would rather be caught dead than be seen with crutches on their first day. In some ways, you get it.
You hand him the cold pack. “Use this for twenty minutes every few hours, if you can manage. Come back tomorrow for a follow-up. But if you feel fine, then you can come the day after.”
He nods. Stands, testing his weight carefully. No dramatic flinches, no performative winces. Just a slight hitch in the step and a tightly drawn breath.
You reach for the door, but he pauses before leaving and glances over his shoulder. Your eyes meet again and your lungs betray you.
“Thanks,” he says, glancing down on your name plate. “Dr. Y/L/N.”
“Just doing my job,” you shrug non-chalantly, even though something you can’t name for now lingers in the air.
There’s a light tap, barely audible over the sound of your Spotify lo-fi playlist. You look up from your desk to find idol guy already leaning against the doorframe, hair damp from drills, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He seems less rigid today than when he came in pain from his injury.
“I was told to follow up,” he says. “Didn’t want to get yelled at for skipping medical.”
“You say that like I’d chase you down the field with an ice pack.” You raise your brow, “I am busy. You’re not my only patient, you know.”
He, too, raises his brow, gesturing to the completely empty space before him with open palms. Yeah, you’re not busy now. But it does get packed once the drills get more demanding.
“Oh come on. Just sit.”
He gives the smallest smile–more in his eyes than his mouth—and finally steps inside. The scent of cedar and clean laundry follows him in.
He sits carefully on the exam table and you pull the cart closer and kneel in front of him. Thankfully, the swelling’s gone down. There’s still a hint of bruising around the outer ankle, but the joint moves fine under your fingers.
“You heal fast,” you murmur.
“Tryin’ not to be high maintenance,” he shrugs, chuckling a little, and you can sense a tease is incoming. “I hear the clinic here’s bussin’.”
“Yah!” You glance up. He’s watching you again with a sly grin as you stand and pat down your trousers. “Don’t come crying to me if you can’t walk next week.”
“Don’t miss me if I don’t.”
You huff, feeling your cheeks warm at the insinuation. “Good bye, Private Jeon.”
It’s the third time this week you find yourself in the presence of idol guy. Honestly? This one’s kind of funny, mostly because you saw the whole thing happen with your own two eyes.
You were in the cafeteria, tray in hand, the mackerel and a few banchan already making your mouth water as you headed toward your usual spot by the window. Wonwoo walked in alone and for a second, it looked like he was about to head your way.
And then he slipped. Just like that. Full-on banana peel moment courtesy of an unattended puddle, while the janitor had momentarily left to grab a mop. You were out of your seat as soon as he hit the floor. He was clearly in pain, wincing and clutching his side, and between you and the janitor, you got him back to the clinic quickly.
Which is how he’s here.
You clear your throat and pull over the cart. “Well, congrats. You’re back in my clinic. Again.”
He blinks, lips twitching into a tired half-smile. “The clinic’s much more cozy than the barracks.”
“You could’ve just said so. Didn’t have to wipe out the linoleum.”
You help him lean on the exam table and crouch to remove his boot and his uniform pants which are damp from the waist down from the mop water.
“Please remove your boots and your trousers,” you instruct evenly, even though you are hoping to god he is wearing boxers, because you do not think you are ready to see idol guy’s dickprint right now.
Boxers! Halleloo.
Stripped and only in a non-descript pair, you see that his knee is scraped lightly, but it’s his hip that took the worst of it. You help him lay back onto the cushioned table. You click your tongue, inspecting the fresh swelling already starting to bloom on his outer thigh where he took the impact.
“You know,” you say, voice casual, “you don’t have to be polite about being in pain. It’s not a competition.”
You hear a gentle grunt.
“I’m not gonna give you a lollipop and tell you you’re a good boy just because you don’t cry. Not a pedia.”
“I still want the lollipop,” he says, smiling a bit, just a flash of teeth, then winces with an audible yow! when you press just a little too hard.
“Okay, now I believe you,” you say, easing off.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Fuck, that’s sore.”
“So, why?” You start removing the old bandage securing his ankle.
There’s a pause. You expect him to deflect, but instead, he says, “Because everyone’s watching me all the time. Just because I’m an idol.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Just stares straight ahead, jaw ticking slightly.
“I was hoping I’d be anonymous here,” he continues quietly. “I thought maybe for once, I’d just be another guy in a uniform. But it’s still there. The… expectation.”
You nod, slow. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“I’m sorry you’re feeling that way.”
“You know they volunteered me to lead the welcome rites. I mean I’m going to do it. I just don’t know if I deserve the honor. Or if I even want it.”
He looks down at you then. Really looks. And something in your chest tugs, not just because he’s beautiful (he is), but because he’s said something so real and heavy and he chose to say it here. To you.
You shift slightly and gesture to the bandage. “You know, wrapped ankles are a great equalizer. No one looks cool limping.”
He huffs. “Not even me?”
“Especially not you. Four eyes with a busted foot? Yeesh.”
That earns a full smile. And then, with perfect comedic timing, he says, “I nearly fell in the shower this morning.”
You’re horrified. “From the ankle?”
“No. From being fuckin’ exhausted. But let’s pretend it was the ankle so I don’t sound as lame.”
You snort. “You’re really selling this tough guy image.”
“Eh. I was never the tough one.”
That line hangs in the air a moment too long.
“I think,” you say, quieter now, “you’re allowed to not be anything in here.” You gesture around your tiny little clinic. “You can just be yourself with me.”
You see something shifting in his expression. He nods, smiles and damn if it isn’t the prettiest you’ve seen in your life.
You finish securing the wrap and tap his heel lightly. “Rest this tonight. Ice again. The hip, too. That one’s gonna have a nasty purple bruise in a day or two. I’m serious.”
“Noted.” He swings his leg down, slower this time. “Guess I should be careful.”
“You think?” You smirk. “Because you’re not getting a fourth visit this week. I will be locking the door.”
He chuckles. You leave momentarily as he gets dressed.
Then, you remember something. On impulse, you dig into your bag, past your power bank, a squashed granola bar, and an old tube of mascara you should definitely throw out and close around the crinkly plastic of your favorite treat. Chupa chups.
“Hey, Private Jeon.”
He pauses, glancing back.
You pass the lollipop at him (strawberries and cream) and his fingers receive it gingerly. Before he can say a single word, you step backward and shut the door in his face.
You hear a cute little laugh from the other side. Smiling like a damn fool, you lean back against the wall as you listen to his footsteps fade down the hall.
No need to check, but in your highly educated guess, your BPM is off the charts. With a beep, your health watch even warns you so.
Dara has the biggest smile when you walk in the clinic the next day. Your brows meet then parts when you see what she is gesturing to.
A tiny bundle of flowers on your desk, nary a note, nary an indication of who or where it came from. You peer at it closely, carefully like it's a dying insect. But honestly it's a simple handful of blooms.
“Happens every batch,” Dara says airily, flipping through the morning chart logs. “Wonder who it is this time, doc.”
You were never the hot chick in high school or med school or hot chick anywhere for that matter. But there's something about being the young, albeit slightly bitchy doctor in the boot camp that's working to your favor.
You really should lean into it more. Still, it always throws you a little when this happens. You keep thinking it’s just some weird fetish these anxious boys are trying to live out while they are in a suspended reality for 18 months.
Dara smiles conspiratorially as she starts reading the recent patient’s names. “...Park Bongjoong. Lee Mingi. Song Dosan. Jeon Wonwoo…”
That makes you pause. And unfortunately, Dara catches that minute reaction.
“Oh?” Her pretty brown eyes glitters.
“Shut up.”
“Wait.”
“Fuck off, Dara.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“He's not. He won't…”
A knock. Both your heads whip to the door.
Lee Mingi.
And you don't know why, but a weird pang of disappointment flashes through you. It's stupid. Poor bloke is just here for a follow-up. It doesn’t mean anything.
You’re on your way to the gate when someone across the field hollers your name. You can’t help the grin that forms on your face when you see idol guy approach. He’s still limping.
“Did you get it?”
“Hmm?”
He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
You blink. “Wait. The flowers?”
He nods once, sheepish.
“They were from you?”
“I guess I should’ve left a note.”
“They’re pretty,” you say, tucking your hands in your pockets. “But… what were they for?”
“Just a thank you.”
“Oh,” you say, heat creeping up your neck. “Okay.”
“Cool,” he says.
“Coooool,” you echo, extending the vowels for no reason at all. “But, thank you for what?”
“For...”
Thunk!
Out of nowhere, a soccer ball slams into the side of his head. His eyes widen, and then he sways, and then?
Lights out.
…and he drops like a sack of laundry.
Not again!
Part 2 >
A/N: So, do we want a part 2 or…?
Thanks for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo
P.S. I purposely did not tag the permanent taglist because I know y'all signed up for BTS, and I'm not sure if everyone in the list fucks with SVT. So am erring on the side of caution here. But if any of the permies also wanna get tagged for Wonu content going forth, then just drop me a note! I’m adding a couple of moots too that I know are carats, hope you don’t mind my loves <3
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@tea4sykes @angellekookie @gfgygyverff @sumzysworld @uno4wonwoo
@codeinebelle @wonvsmile @supi-wupi @youre-on-your-ownkid @twixxxpie
@moochii-daisies @backtothebluesideee @kkaetnipjeon @woozuzu