"April!"
Like a heavy, luxuriously soft and furry blanket, sleep smothered April's senses. Most of them, at least. She was dimly aware of someone calling her name, as though from far away. Though persistent, it was easy to ignore from within the warm cocoon of four-fifths slumber.
"April!" It was right next to her ear this time, jolting her wide awake in an instant. Disoriented, she glanced wildly around the darkness of her tiny room. Only a thin shaft of light broke the darkness; a dim yellow glow from the hallway. Her door was slightly open, and someone was standing by her bed.
She squinted in sleepy confusion for a moment. Too short to be Donnie, who wouldn't just barge into her room anyway. Not Leo for the same reasons. Too patient to be Raphael. As her eyes quibbled with the poor light, refusing to focus, April groaned. Glancing at her alarm clock, she blurrily made out "3:23" through sleep-gritty eyes.
"Mikey, what is it?"
There was a palpable pause from the darkness beyond.
"I'm cold. Can I sleep with you?" She could almost see his sky blue eyes despite the impossibility, huge and shimmering with pleading. "Please?"
April sighed. She knew that being too cold was a real danger for reptiles like the turtles, even with their layers upon layers of blankets and Donnie's jury-rigged heating system. If it were Donnie or Raphael she'd probably sleep with one eye open if she allowed it at all, but this was Mikey. Good-natured, sweet, sometimes ridiculously naïve Mikey.
"Okay, fine." The bed was a double, really too small for even one svelte human and a giant turtle, but at least then it'd be warmer. To tell the truth, her nose and cheeks often got really cold at night in the dank atmosphere of the sewer. His wide grin flashed blindingly white even in the dimness, and before she could even roll over to make space for him, Mikey was in her bed.
"Mikey!" April squawked with hoarse alarm as she found his head cradled between her breasts, pushing down the skimpy camisole she wore to bed to the point of near-indecency. His arms had settled instantly around her waist in an iron grip that made her realize how strong he was despite his smaller size; though she wriggled a few times, it was to no effect, as he'd seemingly already dropped off to sleep. Despite herself, she was charmed by the sweetly freckled, almost cherubic, face resting in her bosom. He had fallen asleep in her lap once before, and now, as then, she was struck by the beatific serenity that came over Michelangelo's features as he slept. Though he was rather heavy, and in fact gave her a pain in the sternum in this position, she found herself drifting off as well.
She dreamed of the desert.
Emerging from the shade and relative cool of some adobe slum, April found herself in an existence painted ochre and sepia. The sun was low and golden in the west in front of her, taking up seemingly half the pale, cloudless sky; the beginnings of the coolness of night drifted up her bare ankles and calves as she stood. A warm breeze, like a reassurance of the sunrise tomorrow, tickled a loose strand of hair against her neck, even as the world before her was splashed in substanceless blood by its dying rays; she pushed it behind her ear, awed by the splendor, gazing up as the apex of the sky slowly shifted to violet and the first hesitant stars glowed in the periphery of her vision.
April felt the tickle again, this time drifting down to her shoulder. She frowned and swatted at it; her hair was pulled up, as always, and it wasn't that long anyway. Now she felt the warm desert breeze right in her ear, soothing and jarring all at once, as it murmured her name.
"April, relax." Low, gentle, sweet. Disturbed from her first deep slumber of the night, she couldn't wake up at all now; truthfully, she didn't want to. Though a chill should be setting in as the desert night fell, she instead felt perfectly warm all over.
She arched her back with a sigh of pleasure, leaning back against the oddly soft stucco wall. Her camisole straps slid uselessly down her shoulders, and the rest of the garment with them, leaving pale flesh bare to the thickly warm air around her. Despite the gentle heat, her nipples hardened into tight beads of empty longing on the edge of sensation. The desert breeze that had now become her invisible paramour ghosted over the curve of her breasts, pausing to worship each nipple in turn with an offering of wet heat, and still lingering to suckle as though he couldn't let go.
He...
"Mikey!" At last, April awoke with a violent start, though in her extreme tiredness it came out a mere twitch. She found herself confronted by wide and slightly frightened, particularly soft blue eyes, and her own exposed flesh. Not just a dream. She shrieked a little, and moved to grab a pillow or the blanket or anything to cover herself, but she was still largely pinned by his weight. "Mikey, what are you doing?!"
He lowered his eyes, as though ashamed, and he thought for sure he'd come to his senses and get off her, but instead April felt Michelangelo's weight atop her shift. Her pleasure-swollen breasts pressed into his plastron, not roughly but with a seemingly incidental tenderness, as he moved to kiss her neck and ear again. Despite her shock, it drew a soft moan from April's lips, just as it had in the dream.
He was still utterly gentle, but a little more urgent now, pressing more kisses down the line of her jaw and down her chin, across her throat. His lips skimmed over her collarbone, nuzzling in her cleavage once more; his whole body trembled palpably with some emotion even sunny, utterly open Michelangelo couldn't speak of, a hope too fragile to struggle free of its chrysalis. His thigh slipped between hers and she was momentarily alarmed again, before his mouth touched hers for the first time.
She had never imagined how he'd taste; it had never occurred to her to imagine it; yet April immediately found herself drunk on it. He was nectar and rainwater warmed by a gentle sun, honey that soaked in through her tongue and suffused every vein and nerve and bit of skin in a slow shudder of molten, liquid pleasure. It reminded her of the time she'd tried her father's sweet red wine, and she hadn't been able to stop taking tiny sips, holding each one in her mouth until the flavor was gone and she was lightheaded and out of her senses. Just as she surely was now, her arms instinctively wrapping around his shell, embracing him even more closely until she felt the spiral markings imprinted in the soft flesh beneath her elbows and forearms. Michelangelo took this gift of her submission, no, her welcoming; as he did all the few things given to him in the world; she felt his gentle smile against her shoulder.
Though his large and strangely warm hand was guileless slipping up her thigh, it seemed to move with instinct nonetheless. April tilted her head back with a little "hmmmm" of a moan as his fingers brushed over the thin fabric of her panties, touching her hesitantly for a moment before slipping in the elastic to one side. Even in the dimness she knew he was watching her in his attentive way, Michelangelo's eyes utterly fixed on her face to gauge every tiny response. Fascination at the slightly rough texture of the lush curls between her thighs played across his features, followed by a wide-eyed look dangerously close to awe as the side of one finger slipped inside to find ready wetness brought on by her reverie and his kiss.
"April..." Michelangelo's voice was a little choked, but still velvet in her ears. He brought his finger up to their lips, a curious pink tongue flicked out to taste. He closed his eyes, his face transformed by genuine pleasure, savoring her essence as she had his, and only now did April find herself truly wanting more. He kissed her lips again, a brush of satin flavored with feminine arousal, as innocently as though he didn't realize the intimacy of what he was doing. "Can I...go on?" His voice was quiet, husking over the words, but as sure as the sunrise.
April opened her legs more for him, gravity drawing him closer as she laid back. He understood her wordless acquiescence, and she felt something long, hard, and lightly damp with a strange, silky moisture against her thigh as he released himself at last. It was so big that she felt a jolt of fear in her heart and stomach; her fingers wandered to the edge of the bed, catching and grasping in the sheets for something to hold onto as she looked away, not wanting him to see her instinctive mistrust. In his great empathy Michelangelo sensed it anyway, turning to whisper in her ear. "I promise I won't hurt you."
It didn't seem possible, and her mind was wild with the specter of promises carelessly made and broken as she felt the tip pressing against her entrance. Though Michelangelo knelt between her thighs now, leaving only a few strips of skin touching, she could sense every micron of his being trembling with the effort to go slowly and gently. It was a throbbing, utterly smooth heat that filled her, and though April dug her fingers into the mattress, it was so smooth and sweet that she felt no pain, even when he was at last panting atop her, fully sheathed, still watching her eyes with sweet worry. His angst made a little wound in her heart, and April reached up to brush the backs of her fingers over his cheek.
"Mikey, it feels so good...please don't stop." She meant it to reassure him, but found it true as her words sent a jolt of need through him; he groaned and all but collapsed atop her, pressing their bodies closer together. He moved shallowly at first, barely withdrawing, as though he couldn't stand to part from the comforting liquid heat of her around him. She knew from the creases of his face that Michelangelo was struggling for what precious little control he was capable of to begin with; at the same time, April found that the way the bottom 'v' of his plastron pressed against her mound was just right to give her a tingling shock of pleasure each time as he rubbed against her. The ecstasy built up her spine like mercury rising in a thermometer, making every nerve ending thrill with a fire his wildly, yet smoothly thrusting hips kindled in her core; he moved with a deliberate, liquid grace that belied the bare threads of restraint he clung to. She could barely breathe from the anticipation and his weight atop her; she had nothing left to resist with when those huge and surprisingly gentle fingers moved from her hips to her shoulders, caressing downwards and taking her arms to wrap around him once more.
"April-I need-to feel-all of you-" The words were bitten off, cut off by his own pleasure as Michelangelo lost himself inside her time and time again; he was hazily aware that it actually got better than this somehow, although it was impossible for him to believe. April's legs hooked behind his, and she squeezed him violently against her, her legs opening wide as her body made a last plea for more. With her eyes scrunched closed on the airy precipice over a golden lake, she moaned her words much louder than she meant to.
"Mikey, now!"
"April!" For a moment, she didn't know if Michelangelo was admonishing her to be quiet or if it was his own cry of completion; then she felt herself filled and flooded by a gentle liquid warmth better than she'd ever imagined possible. She managed to open her eyes for an instant, looking up into a face transformed by a smile so wide, ecstatic, and uncensored in its reflection of pure pleasure that it seemed miraculous, even on Michelangelo. With a gasp of satisfaction, April collapsed beneath him, not caring that in her spent exhaustion, he seemed to be literally crushing her. She felt his lips against her own only as a distant sensation before she dropped into the abyss of sleep again, this time hot and full and dreamless.
"Oh shit."
That was the problem with dreamlessness; wakings were rarely so pleasant. April groggily opened one eye and glared at the turtle in her bed. The place between her thighs was wet and a bit cold, but felt pleasantly slick and silky, and she rubbed them together as she rolled onto her side. "Now what?"
Michelangelo glanced at her nervously. "The guys are up. I'd better go." Before she could say anything else, almost faster than she would have believed possible, he had escaped the tangled trap of her sheets and slid out the door.