The year was 1943. The time was late evening. The date was May 1st. Daylight had dozed into darkness, liquor had fast begun to slay the sober, and twilight had then flared into bonfires. The Flysenhower had just come into port at Sand Island, along with a few other carriers, and Skipper Riley was in search of a strong drink. The Corsair been craving a Whiskey Sour for what had felt like months.
The atmosphere was quite festive, and friends who had been separated upon clearing basic training were once again reunited as military decorum was more or less thrown out the window for a precious time before shipping back off again. Skipper tipped his nose up, smiling in gracious acknowledgment as he passed by a group of young, female Bearcats as they giggled their "Hey theres". He was strolling up to the bar he'd been looking for, hoping to relieve himself of the excited jitters of his wheels touching solid ground after weeks at sea with a nice, stiff drink, when a crackle of static electricity had gone through him. He froze. She was here. He deviated his path immediately, following the little wisps of residual aura signature, left and right, until he eventually stumbled upon another Corsair, a female, being pursued by a male SBD Dauntless. And she did not seem to be the least bit interested in his advances.
"That's alright, Sinker," the Corsair was saying politely but not without a certain level of curtness in her voice, "I think I can do just fine for myself, thank you. I won't be needing an escort tonight."
"Ah, but you never know what you need...," the Dauntless said, shooting her a look, "...Until you need it."
Skipper could see where this was going. Both war planes' noses were raised as they faced each other, everything about the female just screaming "Get lost" from her raised control surfaces to the stiffness in her landing gear to the tense rippling of her Soul's animosity. Had this guy been struck blind, deaf, and dumb or something?
"Why in the world would a plane like me need the protection of a gauche, sneaky little coward like yourself?" the gull-winged plane shot back, obviously having had enough of the dive bomber. "Disappear! Before I make you regret it."
"It's you who'll regret it!" Sinker growled, making to lunge for the female aircraft, any amatory feelings replaced with angry aggression.
But then, mid leap, the wind was knocked out of him as a tremendous weight fell upon him, and in the next instant he felt teeth gripping none-too gently into his back before being thrown roughly to the ground. The Dauntless scrambled back up on his wheels, engine revving angrily as he looked around for his attacker, but then the revving was choked into silence upon recognizing the interloper, his face falling.
"Skipper!"
"Yes, you know me," was all Skipper said as he loomed over the other plane.
Sinker looked between the Corsairs, cowering in indecision before deciding that it wasn't worth it to tangle with two of the likes of them and scampering off. Skipper turned to face the female war plane, and her voice died in her throat when she was finally able to get a good look at his face.
"Oh..."
It really was him. It had been two years since she'd last grinned at him. Two years since he'd given her that slow smile of his. Yes, he knew her. It wouldn't matter how long they might be separated, he would know her anywhere. She was just the epitome of the female Corsair; still strongly featured sure, but if the svelter frame and wise eyes didn't renown her for womanhood, her sense of independence and unlimited spirit sure did, and Skipper had instantly become smitten with her because of it when they had first met all those years ago.
They had actually dated once or twenty in those early years, and then decided to slow down after the twenty-first. Nothing had happened between the two to cause this change in their relationship. Their feelings had simply mellowed out a bit through the process of getting to know one another. They didn't quite see each other as lovers or Bonded Companions; something less than the first but yet more than the second. That, and they had their careers to attend to. As fighting stock, their first priority was in protecting their country with every ounce of their ability until the inevitable day came that they may have to sacrifice their lives for it.
"Hello, Alta."
"Skipper!" she shouted in surprise, control surfaces fidgeting as she grinned like a dolt to fake off her shock. She smoothed out her voice at long, thankful, last, and sounded more like the woman who wore poise and dignity as her own clothing again."I didn't expect to see you here! Gosh, it's been so long!"
Skipper smirked at how she was stressing to redeem her composure.
"I wasn't expecting you to be here as well. Care to join me for a drink?"
Alta hesitated, peeking at him from under her lashes. Would that really be Kosher? But she really could stand to spend some time with a familiar face, especially after that earlier debacle.
"Gosh it's so nice to be on dry land again. I feel all old and wilted from being shut up down in that dank old carrier, but all the same I just feel so sapped when I should be celebrating with everyone else. I mean, does it look strange for someone like me to be here?"
Alta's beaming smile had failed to look coy the more it seemed that the embers from the bonfires shining in Skipper's eyes were burning the very paint off her armor plating. Since when had he grown this handsome? The two Corsairs had known each other when they were both quite young. Male aircraft matured much slower than females, but it could still be pretty amazing what two years could do. Skipper's "Hmph" of a chuckle had jarred her out of her chagrin.
"I wouldn't say so. However..." and he moved to take the lead, but before he passed by, he stopped to whisper near the little window behind her left eye, "...wouldn't it be strange to celebrate alone?"
Oh, that didn't help. That didn't help at all. Whether it be the amber glow from the street lamps syruped in his stormy eyes, the moonlight glinting off of his plating, the bronze complexion honeying his underbelly by the firelight, the mightiness of his voice, the way his familiar, comforting scent intoxicated her senses- no matter which way it went, her convictions as a self-assured, competent fighter were tossed aside. She turned, coming up slightly behind and along his left side.
"It might be, yeah."
What could she say? There was just something about the chivalry of being swept away by a man like this, and she moved closer to him, their wings touching, to show her satisfaction in how the night had turned.
They had both made it to Skipper's original destination in no time. Skipper pushed a wing through the steel doors of the establishment to let Alta through, then led the way past the main bar to a more secluded table to be alone with her. Skipper smirked. God, to be alone with her; that sounded just too devious, didn't it? Skipper tucked himself in neatly beside Alta, but made sure to keep enough distance between them so that she felt comfortable.
"Something softer," Alta was saying as their drinks were ordered, "I don't want to do any hard drinking tonight."
She stared as the drinks were brought to them; the Whiskey Sour that Skipper had been pining for, and this odd, bright pink concoction.
"It's mixed with gin." Skipper said, "They call it a Pink Cadillac. I know you don't like stuff that's sweet, but it isn't too bad and it's pretty light."
"Ooh," Alta licked her lips to savor the tartness of it. "It's not too bad at all. Thank you."
Tucking into their drinks, Skipper caught them both off guard when he quietly began to ask her questions, but his wording was a bit clumsy when he spoke to her, as if he too was thinking twice about being here with her. But Alta answered him enthusiastically, and they caught up with each other, sharing casual talk for almost an hour.
Alta, as expected, did most of the talking, while Skipper continued to keep up a formal wall, but would allow himself to slip in and out with her whenever the conversation would warrant. Likewise, she kept her intrigue in him subtly shown, but one low, rolling thunder chuckle from him and suddenly she felt weak in her landing gear. She blamed it on the rounds of Pink Cadillacs that she had spontaneously decided to order back to back, and the many rounds of Whiskey that Skipper was guzzling down, until both war planes began to feel looser, and looser...
They were scooting closer and closer to each other every time she laughed, their cheeks were fevering redder and redder at each sip of alcohol, and his breath felt warmer and warmer each time his lips would brush her as he whispered closely to her. Accidents and slurs. Awkward smirks and pretty smiles. Conversations about the world and if there wasn't really something more to it than what there was. Questions about the secrets of life and the meaning of living. Eye openers and mind openers. Her wing on his when she laughed like a hyena on nitrous. His intense, considerate stares when she spoke like a wise Joan of Arc. Her playfully smacking him when he got sarcastic. His lips fighting back the cackle when she got silly. It was just like older times again.
And all the while the tension of romance between them festered like bees in a hive. With his stare being so fervid when he looked at her, and her body language being coyly bashful when she looked at him, their connections were going haywire like sparklers on the Fourth of July in anticipation at what they both couldn't deny was being hinted at tonight.
"Now, I really have to ask you why you're being so..." and then Alta laughed out the last bit. "Well, so charming!"
"You don't think I have the ability to be charming, Alta?"
He finished off the last of his drink, feeling the rush of alcohol dull his senses just that much more as he looked into jade irises that were dulled with their own inebriation. Alta shivered at another one of his chuckles before narrowing her eyes at him with a silly smirk to mask how he was making her feel.
"Oh, please. I can see right..." and she squinted, "... through you. And you know exactly what you're doing."
Skipper shook his front at her poor slurs, raising a brow to complete the "tsk, tsk" attitude he was sporting now. Alta polished off the last of her Pink Cadillac, the booze having numbed out most of her brain by now. Half smiling with a light-headed look on her face, she loosened up and settled into her landing gear, sighing refreshingly in contentment. Then her eyes flashed as she gave Skipper a look.
"Wanna get out of here?"
The two Corsairs both rolled out onto the beach, suddenly stricken with a certain, happy, almost giddy, energy. They chased each other in and out of the rising tides, faking each other out as they sparred. The ground shook and sand was thrown up as they jumped, bowed, nipped, and pinned one another, their Souls leaping every time they made contact. They leapt against each other one last time, Alta ending up on Skipper's back as he lowered back down, semi-riding him with her tail gear still on the ground, playfully nipping over his plating as he taxied along the beach a bit. She jumped down, and pressed her body to his, before coming around to his front. They nuzzled, and then Alta reversed a little, and then, tilting a bit, met Skipper's mouth in a simple kiss.
Two years. Two years since he had felt her lips against his. With the feeling of the floodgates opening in the heart of him, Skipper returned the kiss, careful not to put too much force into it. The mingling scents of the drinks on their breaths seemed to complement each other as Alta's lips were licked by a smooth, strong tongue. She opened her mouth wider for him to explore her however he wished. Alta dragged out a moan and she shivered all the more as he kissed her deeper, causing her to feel that heat rise up back toward her tail and wash over her frame. Skipper groaned as she trapped his tongue between her lips and suckled deep, tasting whiskey in every sip, her teeth feeling every bud over the top of it.
Skipper nibbled her lip as he pulled away from her to trail more kisses down her chin and belly, feeling things tighten down in his tail at the "Mmm!" that squeaked in Alta's throat, a low growl emitting from his engine.
Skipper moved back up and pushed into her mouth once more to explore her, demanding that freedom. The whispers, the stares; they didn't matter. She was here, he was here, and now they were here, drinking each other in right on the beach, touching and caressing, gasping and moaning. Trying to get more of each other.
By now, Skipper's arousal was becoming painfully obvious, but he still remained in the moment. That is until Alta strained out a shuddering whimper as a certain warm, syrupy feeling began permeating through the rear half of her, her own arousal beginning to ooze between the plates of her ventral access panel.
Skipper let go of the kiss and shut his eyes tight, gritting his teeth. His nervous system had been jolted as her scent overrode every rational thought. He needed to take her. It would be so easy with how fired up she was now, but for fear of her shame, he at least held on to the rationale that they should move somewhere more private. He felt himself throb as she came forward and slid her body sideways underneath the front of his. She was so ready.
"Let's go..." he shuddered into her ear.
"... Go?" Alta repeated in a breathless whisper, still melting in the alcohol's influence. She turned, burying her mouth against his side, oblivious to her own responses. "...Go where?" She tongued around the exhausts behind his engine cowling, dampening the heated metal there. "Skipper..." She bit at the fore of his wing, fighting to control her hormonal excitement. "...Go where?"
Talking didn't seem like an option. Stutters were incoherent, breaths were labored, lips and tongues were everywhere, and heat was exploding through their fluid lines as they found themselves up on the roof of one of the hotels.
Skipper wasted no time once he was sure they were alone, releasing a relieved sigh as the plates of his panel snapped apart and moved back as his cock slid from its compartment. Alta observed the action openly. Yes, yes. It certainly was amazing what two years could do. She leaned down, gently scraping her nose and prop blades against the underside of Skipper's length, feeling its weight and textures of ridges and rubbery little nodes. She passed in front of him, then crouched down into her landing gear, lifting her tail. Upon that signal Skipper heaved himself over the top of her, and with a few quick little thrusts, embedded himself inside of her warmth and got straight down to business.
It all went so fast. Grunts and gasps, pounding thuds and juicy stabs. Skipper's slow but rough thrusting had Alta crying out and moaning loudly almost instantly, and the noise was honey to his ears. He braced his landing gear in front of her wings to grind into her harder, and she leaned down more to allow him in deeper. He bit her wing, she hoarsened out his name. He began to pick up speed now, and Alta doggedly met him for each thrust. He panted, she gasped. He whimpered, her engine growled. And then the inevitable seemed to happen completely at random as Skipper shuddered, his landing gear trembling as he continued plunging in and out, engine growling harshly into his ragged panting.
Alta, feeling her insides suddenly awash in jet after jet of hot seed, sobbed out Skipper's name as ecstasy exploded in her core, radiating outward and settling in all throughout her frame. They stayed connected for a few moments, both aircraft panting hard. Alta sighed, whimpering through the aftershocks as she leaned up, pressing herself up against Skipper's underside. He leaned down, caressing her in his landing gear as he pulled out, resulting in a flood of frothy semen flowing back out in its wake.
Later, the two Corsairs slumbered together in blissful contentment after checking in to that same hotel. Like hell they were going back to their respective carriers tonight. Alta would be staying behind, remaining in Airway for some time, but Skipper would be shipping back off tomorrow for the Solomon Islands, where he would be given his very own squadron of Corsairs to train and command. Who knew how long it would be until he next time they saw each other? Not to mention that in all likelihood, there may not be a next time. This was war after all, and denial was not a reflex of either plane. Skipper nestled in closer to Alta, kissing her softly as she slept. They were going to savor this moment together for as long as they could.
A.N. - Alta was the closest thing to a Bond Mate that Skipper has ever had, but alas, the flow patterns of their Souls just weren't quite compatible enough to push into that territory. She was a huge pillar of support for him upon his promotion and the heavy burden of responsibilities that came with it, lending as much advice and comfort when and wherever she could, and had been able to stay with him through much of his long and arduous recovery after the great tragedy in Glendalcanal. She was very much the deciding factor in his survival at that time, for as bad as the physical damage was, it paled in comparison to what his Soul had undergone, and it was greatly feared that he would die. Despite this, however, Skipper was just never the same after that day. In time, only able to put off her obligations for so long, Alta had to take her leave, and eventually met her match while stationed in New Guinea and subsequently Bonded after being discharged at the end of the war. This is not something that Skipper dwells about negatively at all. He, as well as everyone else, knows that those things are not altogether in their control, but he probably does think of her from time to time.