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Backaches, Breaks, and Babycakes	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 776 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or any of its related characters or affiliates, Naruto or any related characters or affiliates, or any artists/art pieces depicted in this story. No money is made from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Backaches, Breaks, and Babycakes
- 1
You can read more about Mikey and Bree in "A New Lease on Life," the ongoing main story. It's being gradually uploaded to this site and can be found on my writer profile. Only real warning here is for a little anal humor and risk of cavities - these two are sweet enough to rot your teeth.
Mikey tries so hard to take care of Briallen and to support her...alas, he's a virile young male and she has a smokin' hot booty. I wholeheartedly blame this entire idea on my hubby Cold - this mess is his fault.
Suggested Listening: Queen "You're My Best Friend" and Billy Joel "You May Be Right"
Backaches, Breaks, and Babycakes
On weekdays, the Hardy cousins' loft is always abuzz with energy—there's always music playing, or a television running, or somebody chattering on about their day. This, however, isn't a weekday…it's Sunday night.
Honestly, it's probably not the best idea for Michelangelo to be over tonight, Briallen admits to herself, but she can't find the heart to send him home. She's got a huge exam tomorrow. Worse yet, the professor responsible for that exam is Professor Robbins—the same Professor Robbins who showers exactly once monthly unless threatened with bodily harm, staunchly believes that deodorant use is a gateway to drug abuse, nymphomania, and liberal political leanings, and has been known to clear entire hallways during warmer weather. She sighs through clenched teeth in frustration. Bev warned her not to take his class over the summer semester—she warned her up one side and down the other!—but Bree was so sure the older woman was being melodramatic. Hilarious. The temps have been in the high nineties all week…that classroom's going to be suffocating.
Bree knows well she's quite capable of passing his exams—nay, capable of acing them with flying colors with little effort—but the tenured professor's obnoxious body odor tends to make her brain cease functioning the moment she steps into his classroom.
Thus, here she is on a Sunday night—sprawling half-naked across her bed with her nose in a textbook and her eyes on a pile of handwritten notes, reviewing for that test instead of enjoying the company of her ever-patient boyfriend. Mikey, the sweetheart, has been working unusually hard at being quiet and still so as not to distract her. Tablet in one hand, he silently reads his way through his newest digital graphic novel, from the looks of it, a newer Naruto volume. The very idea tickles Bree—a real ninja reading about a fake ninja for ninja pointers. He's even reading it in the original Japanese because (and she mentally quotes here) "something might've gotten lost in translation."
Sitting propped up against her quilted headboard, legs spread out before him and crossed at the knees, Mikey silently admires her soft, curvy figure from head to toe. Her ash brown curls are piled haphazardly on top of her head with an alligator clip, little sweat-shiny piggy-tail curls poking out every which way. Pale pink spaghetti straps drape teasingly down her shoulders, the slacking material revealing the lack of anything beneath. Sleek colorful fabric—pinkish pastel orange cotton trimmed in matching stretchy lace—clings frantically to her plump backside, showing off just enough cheek to make his hands itch. Smooth-waxed legs with full, curvy calves idly kick in the air, each movement accompanied by a flash of orange and fuchsia glitter from her polished toenails. 'Humans have such weird feet,' he considers, tablet falling slack in his grip; he's sure Rock Lee would forgive his distraction if he ever saw Bree's adorable little feet. 'They're so tiny, so fragile—and their toes are so dinky, like little kitty toe-beans but on the front instead of the bottom!'
Against his will, his eyes drift back up her legs again—up those shapely ankles, round calves, and thick, firm thighs—and back up to her panty-garbed backside. He stills, drawn in by the call of dat ass. 'No, bad Mikey! Babycakes needs to study, this is important!' But…but booty… 'NO! Eyes forward, soldier!' Bright blue eyes wide and shoulders tense, he sits back ramrod straight against the headboard, trying to put the enticing sight out of his mind. He fails. His eyes, the stubborn things, insistently drift lower and lower. Just before he can catch another glimpse of that tempting coral-colored fabric—almost the exact shade of a fresh frosty orange creamsicle—Bree groans in frustration, digging her fingers into her hair and nearly wrenching her clip loose.
"Ugh. This heat is killer," she gripes latching onto the neckline of her camisole and fluttering it to get some fresh air down her cleavage; alas, all it accomplishes is revealing the tops of her full breasts to the eyes of her already struggling boyfriend. He gulps. As if the backside wasn't tempting enough, she had to bring the boobs into play, too. Sometimes he wonders if she really doesn't realize how much she's teasing him, or if she's completely aware and just loves watching him squirm.
Despite the deceptively innocent peepshow playing havoc with his hormones, Mikey's noticed something much more pressing. Tension in her shoulders, back, and neck—circles under her eyes—a frown halfway between exhaustion and frustration—his lovely lady is pushing herself way too hard over this exam. She's told him about smelly Professor Robbins before, he recalls, and she mentioned that the exam she's studying for is in an advanced art history class…Robbins teaches that class. Clearly, she's dreading the effect of the heat wave on his poor grooming habits. Mikey frowns down at his tablet, half-forgotten in his lap. 'How can that geezer be smart enough to teach college,' he wonders, 'but still be totally oblivious that his BO could drop birds right out'a the sky?' Instead of commenting on this, however, he forces his eyes back to the screen and reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together with a comforting squeeze. Sure enough, Bree casts a grateful smile at him over her shoulder and squeezes right back. Neither one relinquishes the other's hand.
For a time, the pattern remains unchanged. Bree studies her brains out, intermittently muttering to herself and checking her notes. Every now she adds another gripe about the heat or the irritating professor or reaches up to swipe a fresh sheen of sweat off her face. Mikey halfway focuses on his tablet, every now and then narrating a particularly funny scene aloud (translating it to English so she'll understand) complete with over-the-top character voices and goofy sound effects. After all, she's stressing out too much and a good laugh might help break the tension. After a particularly classic "meeeeeeeeruuuuuuw-FOOM!" mortar-dropping sound effect that doesn't at all match the 'paper bomb hitting a tree' action, Bree pries her hand out of his with a groan. At first, he worries he's annoyed her…then that hand takes up residence on her lower back, digging into the crease right above her rear end.
"What's'a matter?" Mikey asks setting aside his tablet and pinning all his attention on his girlfriend. Sure enough, she startles as though she was lost in thought and then, blushing, winces. She probably didn't realize she even moved.
"It's just my back," she mumbles in embarrassment, eyes stubbornly trained on the page before her, hoping that's the end of it.
'Our sense of gravity intensifies the overall feeling of motion…The painting, once described as "an explosion in a shingle factory," has remained an inspiration to painters who—'
"Holy shell…who threw up an' called it art?" Sniggers burst up Bree's throat at the unexpected and off-the-wall comment.
"Marcel Duchamp," she answers mid-laughter, poking the jagged black and yellow image on the page for emphasis. "That's a futurist-slash-cubist-slash-thisguy'sondrugs oil painting of his: Nude Descending A Staircase, No. 2." Mikey leans closer, eyeing the image seriously with one eye screwed halfway shut as though trying to see the dolphin in one of those hidden picture doohickeys. He doesn't see any naked ladies on stairs in that picture but at least the end of the title fits.
"I'll take your word for it," he deadpans setting his tablet aside and flopping down on his plastron beside her. "So, what's wrong with your back?" Nope, totally not the end of it—once again, the little sneak caught her off-guard with a joke to make her feel less awkward. What a sweetheart…
"What's wrong with it?" she asks with a mock glare. "A certain two-ton shell-for-brains has completely wrecked my mattress with his bony backside. I've got springs digging into my duff all night. Thanks for that." Mikey grins, gripping his neck sheepishly, then shrugs. Instead of teasing her right back, though, he effortlessly rises to his knees and hobbles over to her, settling over her thighs. The first touch—calloused fingertips seeking out a particular nerve cluster between her shoulder blades—triggers a groan of relief. Suddenly boneless, Bree slackens against the mattress, her face falling flat into the seam of her open book with a smack. Forget Cubism—modern art annoys her anyway and that 'nude' really does look like someone threw up and called it art.
For a time, Mikey focuses on his self-appointed task—one by one searching out all the tense muscles and tender spots in Bree's back, working them loose, smoothing them out, then soothing them with gentle caresses, all to the chorus of Bree's low moaning. The further south his hands drift, however, the slower and more distracted his movements grow; finally, eyes fixing again on her taunting orange-clad rump, he stills entirely. Entranced by the sight—full, round, blushing cheeks half-hidden by cotton and lace—he completely loses track of his earlier intentions.
A sudden, unexpected sensation startles Bree—her head snaps up again, eyes wide. Rough-skinned fingertips trace the swells of her backside in a mirrored circular motion, from her lower back down her full hips to the crease of her thighs, then right up main street to her tailbone. Right as she opens her mouth—to object or sass?—Mikey leans a little closer to firmly cup a cheek in each hand, stealthily squeezing.
Bree's teeth snap shut on her words and she turns a suspicious glare over her shoulder. He's visibly entranced—lost in the wonders of the plump backside that always used to make her feel like a fat cow—his eyes locked on her rump and wide like a child on Christmas morning. Then, without warning, his lips split in a toothy ear-to-ear grin. Squeezing the cheeks, he alternates between pulling them apart and squishing them back together as though making her rump talk. "Nu, pleashe!" he says in a goofy squeaky lisp. "Don't poke me!"
Bree bursts into hysterical laughter, her face crashing back down onto her book and her lungs heaving for breath. From her backside, Mikey grins triumphantly at the loud hissing and croaking of her belly-deep laughter, giving a couple more squeezes for good measure. "Really, Mike?" she wheezes over her shoulder at him. Mikey, the cheeky little skunk, responds with a shrug and a shameless grin. Squeeze.
The textbook and notes hit the floor. She tips him off her back, rolls over, and drags him down into the cradle of her thighs, still laughing at his antics. A flash of reflected light from below her waist draws his eyes to her panties. From the back they were simple, a mix of classy and playful—sherbet-colored fabric in a tempting cheeky cut, all bordered with lace—but from the front, they're perfect. All across the fabric concealing her lightly cropped mound are shiny little decorations—tiny pink-foil surfboards. Like a deer in the headlights, he snaps his head up to meet her eyes in question; her pink-glossed lips split into a smirk, one leg lifting to trail her toes along the back of his bare calf. She knows—she's been intentionally teasing him, hasn't she? Oh, who cares anyway—it's not like he doesn't do the same to her.
Eager to please, he leans down, braces his weight on his knees and arms, and boops her nose with his snout. Two feminine arms wind around his neck, her legs wrapping around his hips and her toes curling behind his rump. Mikey isn't sure who won this match of willpower, but at the moment, he finds it hard to care. Along her collarbone, a familiar galaxy of freckles is calling his name and he can't wait to map them out all over again.

Poor Mikey...Bree just broke his brain.
* The passage about Duchamp's painting isn't from an advanced art history book, TBH—it's from an old Art History textbook left over from my father's and my college days: Artforms by Duane and Sarah Preble, fourth edition. When I made it to college, the same book was being used many years and several editions later, and it was still similar enough that I didn't have to buy a new copy for my classes - I just 'swiped' his copy. (...with permission...and kept it...he doesn't care.)
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Backaches, Breaks, and Babycakes