| synopsis: waking up to calm, peaceful, relaxed mornings with Juhoon.
A/n: in case any of you were wondering, the reason why I’m uploading so much at the moment, it’s because I’m getting rid of drafts and old notes😭
The first thing y/n noticed was the sound of the ocean.
Soft waves rolled against the shore outside their little house, the gentle noise mixing with the quiet hum of the morning. Sunlight peeked through the curtains, painting warm patterns across the room.
The second thing y/n noticed was the warmth beside her.
Juhoon’s arms were wrapped comfortably around her, his face slightly buried into her hair as he slept peacefully. His breathing was slow and steady, and for once, there was no schedule to rush to, no cameras, no endless rehearsals.
Just them.
Y/n smiled softly, looking at him.
“Juhoon,” she whispered.
He didn’t move.
“Kim Juhoon.”
A tiny smile appeared on his face.
“Mm… five more minutes,” he mumbled.
Y/n laughed quietly. “You always say that.”
“Because it always works.”
“It’s literally not working right now.”
Juhoon slowly opened his eyes, looking at her with a sleepy expression.
“It worked enough. I got to wake up next to you.”
Y/n rolled her eyes playfully, but she couldn’t hide her smile.
“You’re so cheesy in the morning.”
“And you love it.”
“…maybe.”
Juhoon smiled like he had won, pulling her a little closer before finally sitting up.
“Okay, okay. Breakfast?”
“Breakfast.”
The two of them got out of bed and started their slow morning together.
⸻
The kitchen was small but cozy, with a window that faced the ocean. It was one of y/n’s favorite parts about the house. Every morning felt like a scene from a movie.
Juhoon stood at the counter making breakfast while y/n sat nearby, watching him.
“You know,” y/n said, “I still can’t believe we actually moved here.”
Juhoon glanced over.
“Me neither.”
“Do you miss the busy life?”
He thought for a moment.
“I miss performing,” he admitted. “But this…”
He looked around the quiet house.
“This is nice.”
Y/n smiled.
“Yeah.”
Juhoon walked over and placed a plate in front of her.
“Eat. You need energy.”
Y/n looked at the food.
“You made this?”
Juhoon gasped dramatically.
“Excuse me? I’m offended.”
“I’m just asking!”
“I’m a great cook.”
“You burned toast last week.”
“That was one time.”
Y/n laughed as he sat across from her.
Breakfast was simple, but it was perfect. No rushing. No stress. Just talking, laughing, and enjoying being together.
After they finished, Juhoon suddenly stood up.
“Oh.”
Y/n looked at him.
“What?”
“We forgot someone.”
Y/n immediately smiled.
“Choco?”
“Choco.”
⸻
They walked over to the little corner where Juhoon’s pet turtle lived.
Choco was slowly moving around, completely unbothered by anything.
“Good morning, Choco,” Juhoon said.
Y/n laughed.
“You talk to him like he’s a person.”
“He understands me.”
“He’s a turtle.”
“He’s an intelligent turtle.”
Y/n watched as Juhoon carefully fed Choco, his expression becoming so gentle.
It was one of her favorite things about him.
For someone who could look so cool and confident on stage, he was incredibly soft at home.
“He likes you,” y/n said.
Juhoon looked at her.
“Of course he does.”
“You’re sure it’s not because you feed him?”
“No.”
“Juhoon.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
Y/n laughed.
⸻
After taking care of Choco, they stepped outside.
The moment the door opened, the sound of the ocean became louder.
Their feet sank slightly into the warm sand as they walked along the shore. The breeze moved through their hair, and everything felt calm.
Juhoon reached for y/n’s hand naturally.
No hiding.
No pretending.
Just them.
They eventually sat down together on the sand, watching the waves.
Y/n leaned her head onto his shoulder.
“I like this.”
Juhoon looked down.
“This?”
“This life.”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“Me too.”
For a while, neither of them said anything.
They just listened to the ocean.
The world kept moving somewhere far away, but right there, it felt like time had stopped.
Juhoon gently played with y/n’s fingers.
“You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“Everyone always thinks happiness is something huge.”
Y/n looked at him.
“But?”
“But I think it’s just moments like this.”
He looked at the waves.
“Waking up next to you. Eating breakfast. Taking care of Choco. Sitting here.”
Y/n smiled.
“You’re being cheesy again.”
“I’m being honest.”
That made her quiet.
Because he was.
Juhoon rested his head lightly against hers.
“I’m glad it’s you, y/n.”
The waves continued crashing softly against the shore.
And for once, neither of them needed anything else.
A/N: This is a commission I’ve done for @darling0donna ❤️🐢
Enjoy!! 😊
CWs: Set in the Turtles Forever movie. Fluff, some angst, mutual pining, themes of low self-esteem & insecurity, jealousy, canon-typical violence, feelings of inadequacy, character (reader) briefly in peril, self-destructive behavior (on Raph’s part), brief description of blood & self-inflicted injuries, hurt/comfort, emotional breakdown, and a happy ending. All characters are aged-up.
It’s been a few hours since four alternate versions of your friends crash-landed into your lives. And the novelty, for most of your turtles, has decidedly worn off.
For you, it’s a different story.
You’re perched on the arm of the couch, watching the spectacle unfold. The 80s versions of the turtles are a mess of energy, laughter, and noise. Their Leo is trying to get them to focus on a “bodacious battle plan.” But their Mikey is more interested in constructing a ten-decker pizza-and-ice-cream sandwich. Their Donnie is trying to explain the finer points of trans-dimensional portals.
Their Raph, well … He’s currently trying to teach a bewildered Master Splinter a peculiar handshake and some 80s slang.
“It’s like living inside a Saturday morning cartoon,” your Leo mutters, rubbing his temples.
“A really, really loud one,” your Donnie agrees. “I can’t concentrate. All I hear are arguments about whether anchovies are ‘tubular’ or ‘bogus’.”
Your Raph is a statue of fury on the far side of the room. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed so tightly over his plastron it’s a wonder he can still breathe. His gaze fixed on the antics with a look of pure aggravation. Every time his counterpart lets out a boisterous laugh or makes a wisecrack, a low growl rumbles in your Raph’s chest.
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips; you find the 80s turtles adorable and funny. Their ceaseless optimism, their goofy slang—it’s hilarious. They’re a splash of joy in your often grim world.
Your Raph’s gaze flicks over to you, and his scowl deepens when he sees you smiling. He gives you a look that clearly says, This is insane. You offer him a small, sympathetic shrug, but the smile doesn’t leave your face. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see the harmless fun; he only sees a mockery of everything he takes so seriously.
The 80s Raph, having finally given up on teaching Splinter, spots you. A wide grin spreads across his face, and he saunters over. “Hey there, good lookin’!” he says, leaning an elbow on the back of the sofa, invading your personal space with a cheerful lack of concern. “A dazzling smile like yours could light up this whole sewer. Tell me, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”
You let out a genuine laugh. It’s so corny, so unabashedly cheesy, that it’s impossible not to be endeared by it. “Wow. I’ve heard that one before,” you say, shaking your head.
“Yeah, but did you ever hear it from a hero in a half-shell?” he winks, pointing a thumb at his own chest. “Because I’m not just any turtle; I’m a lean, green, flirting machine! What do you say we ditch these guys and grab a slice?”
From across the room, you hear a sound. It’s your Raph, pushing himself off the wall and coming towards the two of you. “Alright, comedian,” he grunts, his voice low and dangerous. He stops beside the couch, placing a hand on your shoulder. His grip is firm and protective as he glares at his counterpart. “That’s enough. Go annoy someone else.”
80s Raph holds up his hands in surrender, his grin never faltering. “Whoa, touchy!” He gives you one last wink before heading back toward his own brothers.
Raph’s hand remains on your shoulder. You can feel the tension thrumming through his powerful muscles like a live wire. You reach up and place your hand on his, your fingers lacing through his, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
“Hey,” you say softly, turning to look up at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle twitching near his eye. “It’s okay. He’s just … like that.”
“He’s an idiot,” he mutters, his gaze still fixed on the other turtle’s back with a homicidal intensity. “And he was in your space.”
“I can handle a few cheesy pickup lines, Raph.”
His eyes finally meet yours, and for a second, a flicker of something else replaces the anger. Something raw and possessive that makes your stomach do a little flip. “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have to.” It’s clear he doesn’t like anyone else looking at you or treating you that way, not even a goofball version of himself from another dimension.
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before stalking off toward the dojo, presumably to beat his frustrations out on a punching bag. You watch him go, a fond sigh escaping your lips. His jealousy is just another layer of his fierce, protective nature.
The very nature you fell in love with.
Later, the situation escalates.
As if one set of alternate turtles wasn’t enough, the dimensional portal stick whisks away the nine of you and you meet yet another set of turtle brothers. And these ones are different.
Much different.
Where the 80s turtles are bright and loud, these newcomers are monochromatic and stoic. No vibrant colored masks, no goofy grins. Just cold eyes and rigid sets of their jaws. The 80s turtles try to greet them with their usual “Cowabunga!” and are met with stony silence and suspicious glares. Your turtles are wary from the jump.
“Great,” your Raph grumbles, standing beside you as everyone sizes each other up. “More of us. Just what we needed. A turtle convention.”
But you’re not looking at them with annoyance or suspicion.
You’re looking at them with a kind of awestruck reverence. Their seriousness isn’t off-putting. You can see it in the way they stand, in the way their gazes automatically catalog threats and exits. They are protectors, honed to a razor’s edge by a life of relentless hardship.
They’re the Prime Turtles.
Even the 2003 team, usually the picture of control and professionalism, looks unsettled in their presence. It’s like staring at the ghost of who they could have become if things had gone just a little darker. Beside you, you can feel the storm of energy rolling off your Raph—his frustration, his protectiveness.
Then there’s a crack of energy, splitting the air like lightning.
It’s Ch’rell—your dimension’s Shredder.
Your stomach clenches. Even the Prime Turtles snap to attention. He doesn’t waste time. He strikes.
Everything happens too fast.
Ch’rell’s armor is a blur of red, black, and silver, his movements too swift to follow. You’re knocked off your feet by the sheer force of a blast that goes wide. You hit the ground, the air forced from your lungs in a gasp. Dazed, you try to get your bearings, but a shadow falls over you. You look up, and your heart stops.
Ch’rell raises his arm, aiming to kill. He’s not looking at you with anger or hatred. He’s looking at you with a blank, cold indifference, like you’re not even a person, just an obstacle. In the fraction of a second before his weapon descends, a thousand thoughts flash through your mind. This is it. This is how it ends.
A figure slams into Ch’rell, knocking him off balance. The force of the impact makes the metal armor groan, and the claws skitter a hair’s breadth from your face, sending a few stray sparks flying. You feel a hand grip your arm, pulling you back and away from the danger. You’re on your feet, being held tightly behind a broad, muscular frame.
It’s Prime Raph.
Your heart is pounding in your ears, so loud it almost drowns out the battle. Ch’rell is, thankfully, drawn away by the other turtles. Prime Raph turns his head slightly, his eyes piercing.
“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble. It’s not a scolding. But a simple statement of fact from a man who has learned survival the hard way.
“I … thank you,” you say, your heart still hammering in your chest.
He gives a curt nod. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, a flicker of something unreadable in its depths. “You remind me of someone,” he says. “Our … friend. The one who looks after our lair when we’re gone. Stubborn, just like you seem to be. Always in the middle of things. We lost them once. For a long time.” The words are clipped, heavy with a history you can’t begin to imagine. “We don’t make that mistake anymore. There’s no room for it.”
He looks past you, at your Raph—and for a fleeting second, you see not judgment. But a flicker of something that looks like envy for a life that still has room for mistakes.
This hardened, grim warrior sees you, and in you, he sees someone worth protecting, someone who reminds him of his own home. It’s incredibly sweet in the most serious, heart-wrenching way imaginable.
You feel a presence at your side and turn to see your Raph. He saw the whole thing. He stands rigid, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white. The look on his face is no longer just simple aggravation. It’s a complex, painful mixture of shock and a new, sharper form of jealousy.
This other Raph—this darker, more serious version—didn’t just protect you. He did it with an instinctual, effortless grace that made your Raph’s own protective nature feel inadequate. He looks from his Prime counterpart back to you, his jaw working silently.
He doesn’t say a word.
Raph walks away slowly. As if every step is carrying something heavier than his body. Like if he doesn’t walk away right now, he’ll fall apart in front of everyone. You watch his retreating back, your breath caught in your throat.
You’ve seen him mad. You’ve seen him punch through training dummies and take down mutants twice his size. But you’ve never seen this look on his face.
You’ve never seen your Raph look small before.
You’re about to follow him when Leo comes up beside you. His voice is low, meant only for you. “Don’t,” he said, placing a steadying hand on your arm. “He won’t hear you right now. I’ve … never seen him look like that.” He gives your arm a slight squeeze. “Just be there for him when the storm passes. He’s going to need you.”
Leo rushes to rejoin the fray. And you don’t follow Raph. Not when he’s holding himself like that—like he’s hanging on by threads so thin you could tear him apart with a breath. You want to say something to him, anything. But what would you even say?
What do you say to someone who’s jealous of … himself?
Twelve turtles move against one overwhelming force. Even Ch’rell’s allies have joined in to assist them. Blasters fire, blades sing through the air, and the ground trembles with every impact.
And your Raph—he’s fighting like a man possessed.
Every time Prime Raph lands a devastating blow, your Raph pushes himself harder. He takes hits that aren’t meant for him, throwing himself in the path of a blast meant for 80s Donnie. He gets up, ignoring the smoking scorch mark on his plastron, and charges back in.
He’s trying to prove something. To them. To himself.
To you.
His eyes find yours across the battlefield for a split second. There’s a wild, pleading look in them, a desperate need for you to see him, to see that he is just as strong—just as capable. Just as worthy of being your protector as the hardened warrior who saved you minutes before.
The battle reaches its crescendo. And in that second, the three Raphs strike. It’s a beautiful, brutal trinity of force. Prime Raph is a sledgehammer, his blow cracking the armor with raw power. 80s Raph is a whip, his sai finding the joint with a bizarre, spinning leap that no one could have predicted.
And your Raph—your Raph is a spear point. All his pain, his fury, his desperate need to prove himself, is focused into one perfect, devastating strike.
Victory eventually comes.
The moment the threat is neutralized, reality begins to mend itself. The gray, muted world of the Prime Turtles bleeds back into its own dimension, while the vibrant, cel-shaded universe of the 80s Turtles asserts its physics. Cracks of light seal themselves, and the oppressive atmosphere lifts.
80s Raph saunters over, the cocky grin back in place. He winks at you. “Told ya we were heroes. But hey, if you ever get tired of Mr. Broody and Moody over there, you know where to find me.”
He starts to turn, but then pauses, his tone dropping the goofy act for just a second. He glances at your Raph, who is radiating misery across the way. “Hey,” he says, his voice surprisingly serious. “He’s a good turtle. A lot of passion, that one. Sometimes that stuff just gets tangled up. Don’t let him stay tangled.” With a final, more genuine smile, he’s gone.
You and your turtles finally return to your world, where everything has been restored. The usual post-battle banter is gone. Leo and Donnie are too exhausted, Mikey too subdued. And Raph … Raph is a ghost, moving with the rest of you but not truly there.
Later, the lair is quiet. Leo is meditating, trying to center himself after the dimensional chaos. Donnie is asleep at his desk. Mikey is curled up on the couch, watching a movie, seeking comfort in the familiar. Raph is in the dojo.
You follow the sound and lean against the doorframe, watching him. He’s slick with sweat, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. He’s hitting the bag like he’s trying to break not it, but himself. His knuckles are raw and bleeding.
You fetch a first aid kit and return, walking in quietly. You don’t say a word, just set it down on a nearby bench and wait. He ignores you for another full minute, pouring every ounce of his energy into the assault. Finally, his arms give out. He stumbles back from the bag, his chest heaving, and leans his head against the wall, his eyes screwed shut.
“You’re going to break your hands,” you say softly.
“Good,” he rasps, not opening his eyes. “Maybe then they’d be useful for somethin’.”
Your heart aches at the self-loathing in his voice. You step forward, picking up a clean cloth and a bottle of antiseptic from the kit. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Raph.” Your voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. “Let me see.”
He hesitates, then lets out a long, shuddering sigh of defeat. He pushes himself off the wall and slumps onto the bench, holding out his trembling, bloody hands. You kneel in front of him, taking them carefully in yours. You work in silence for a moment, dabbing at the cuts with a tenderness that feels at odds with the violence that caused them.
“It was like lookin’ in a funhouse mirror,” he finally whispers, his voice cracking. “Every version of me was … better.”
You pause, looking up at him. He has his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“The clown … he was a joke, a complete goofball,” he continues, the words tumbling out now that the dam has broken. “But you laughed. I saw your face. He made you laugh so easily. I just make ya worry.”
“Raph …”
“And the other one,” he chokes on the words. “He was everything a protector is supposed to be. Hard. Fast. He didn’t hesitate. He saved you, and I was just standin’ there, watchin’. I was too slow. I failed.” He finally looks at you, and the depth of the pain in his eyes is staggering. “He was the real deal. The hero. I’m just the angry, broken copy in the middle. Not funny enough, not strong enough. Just … angry.”
You finish wrapping his hands and then cup his face, your thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Look at me,” you command gently. “The first Raph was charming, in a ridiculous, over-the-top way. It was like watching a cartoon. Like it wasn’t real, if that makes any sense. My laughter was about the absurdity of it all. It had nothing to do with you.”
You lean closer, your foreheads almost touching.
“And the other … yes, he was an incredible warrior. He saved my life, and I will always be grateful for that. But did you see him? His world had burned away everything soft and everything that wasn’t about pure survival. He was hard because he had no other choice. There was no joy in him, Raph. No light.”
You press a soft kiss to his forehead, then pull back to look him in the eyes again.
“I don’t want the comedian. And I don’t want the soldier. I want the turtle who gets fiercely, stupidly jealous because another version of himself told me a cheesy pickup line. The turtle I want argues with his brother not out of hate, but because he’s terrified of losing him. I want the turtle who has so much love and loyalty and fiery passion inside him it spills out as anger because he doesn’t know any other way to let it out.”
A single tear escapes his eye, tracing a path down his cheek. You gently wipe it away.
“That’s the Raph I fell in love with. The one who is perfectly, imperfectly, wonderfully you. You aren’t the copy in the middle. You’re the one with heart. The one who gets to feel it all: the rage and the love. The pain and the joy. They were just echoes. You … you are the source. You are my Raph.”
He lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, and then he collapses forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His frame shakes with the force of his emotion, the tension and fear and inadequacy finally pouring out of him. You hold him tightly, running your fingers through the ties of his mask, murmuring words of comfort into his skin.
You hold him, a solid, trembling weight against you, absorbing the storm that’s finally breaking. You say nothing, just let him feel the safety of your arms, the solid ground beneath his spiraling thoughts. He stays there for a long time, his breathing slowly evening out, the sobs softening into shuddering breaths against your skin.
Finally, he pulls back, just enough to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted. He keeps his bandaged hands on your arms, as if afraid you might vanish if he lets go.
“I was so scared,” he whispers. “When Shredder went for you… and I froze. For just a second, I couldn’t move. And he—the other me—he didn’t.” His gaze drops to his own hands. “I’m supposed to protect you. I’m supposed to protect my family. It’s the one thing I’m good for. And when it mattered most, I wasn’t enough.”
“That’s not true,” you say immediately. You take one of his bandaged hands, lifting it to your cheek and holding it there. You want him to feel your warmth, to feel that you’re real and you’re safe. “And you know what happened after he saved me?” you say softly. “He looked at me, and he saw a memory. A stand-in for someone else. But when you look at me …” You trail off, letting him see the truth in your eyes. “You see me.”
His breath hitches. He searches your face, looking for any hint of doubt, any pity. He finds none.
“Why?” he asks, his voice thick. “Why me? The clown can make you laugh. The soldier can keep you safe. What do I do? I just get mad. Break things. I push you away when all I wanna do is pull you closer.” He shakes his head, a fresh wave of self-disgust washing over him. “It’s ugly. What’s inside me … it’s all sharp edges.”
“Then I guess I like sharp edges,” you reply without hesitation. “Raph, your anger isn’t ugly. It’s a shield. It’s a fire you use to keep the dark out, to protect the people you love. I’ve never feared your anger, because I’ve always seen what’s behind it. I see the turtle who would throw himself in front of a blast for his brother. I see the turtle whose heart is so big and so full of love that it has nowhere to go, so it comes out as a roar.”
You lean in, your voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “I don’t want the joke. I don’t need a perfect, emotionless soldier. I want the passion. The fire. I want the Raph who held me on a rooftop after a nightmare and didn’t say a word, just let me listen to his heartbeat until I fell asleep. I want the Raph who gets so jealous he can barely speak—because the thought of anyone else having me is something he can’t stand.”
He closes his eyes, a sense of peace settling over his features. The war inside him seems to have finally called a truce. When he opens them again, the vulnerability is still there, but it’s now mingled with a dawning certainty.
“I love you,” he says. The words aren’t loud or dramatic. They’re a quiet, simple truth spoken into the space between you, as real and as solid as the dojo floor beneath you. “I have for a long time. That’s why it all hurt so much. Seein’ you smile at him … seein’ the other me save you … it felt like I was losing something I didn’t even have the right to claim.”
Tears of your own well up now, tears of relief and overwhelming love. “You always had the right,” you whisper. “You always have.”
He looks from your eyes to your lips. You give the barest of nods, and that’s all the invitation he needs. He leans in and kisses you. His lips are gentle against yours, hesitant at first, as if he’s still afraid this isn’t real. You kiss him back with all the unspoken feelings you’ve held for him, with all the certainty he’s been lacking.
You bring a hand up to cup the back of his head, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask, pulling him just a little closer. He sighs into the kiss, his arms tightening around your waist until you’re pressed against his chest. His bandaged hands are careful not to grip too tight, but the gesture is clear. He’s not letting you go. Not now.
Not ever.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. You rest your forehead against his, your eyes still closed, just soaking in the moment.
“So,” he says, his voice a low, rumbling murmur against your lips. “No more funhouse mirrors?”
You open your eyes and smile just for him. “No more funhouse mirrors,” you confirm. “Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He grins, one that lights up his whole face. It’s not the easy, goofy smile of his counterpart, or the grim smirk of a hardened soldier. It’s his.
And it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
He looks down at his bandaged hands, then back up at you, the grin softening into something more tender. “So,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Guess this means I gotta stop punching things so hard. Kinda hard to hold your hand with scraped-up knuckles.”
A laugh bubbles up out of you, full of relief and joy. You take his wrapped hand gently in yours. “I would hold your hand no matter what.”
He helps you to your feet, and for the first time since this whole mess started, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his arm settles around your waist, pulling you against his side as you walk out of the dojo together. The storm is finally over.
And in its place, something new and quiet and strong has finally been allowed to grow.
