Skipper had begun to worry. The sun was starting to hang lower in the sky and Dusty and Ripslinger had both been MIA for a while now. Just as Dusty had made it his duty to make sure that Ripslinger was never out of his sight for any long period of time, Skipper had also made it his own duty to see that Dusty was never left alone with Ripslinger for longer than was necessary.
But kids could be fast, you know, and every once in a while they both seemed to just up and disappear every other time Skipper would turn his back. The first time it happened they had both suddenly reappeared just as Skipper was about to go looking for them. Dusty was in horrible shape, and though Ripslinger wasn't exactly looking like a basket of fruit himself, Dusty was obviously the one that came off worst. He'd said they'd been in a fight, but that it had been settled (Clearly, Skipper thought wryly) and that it wasn't anything that anybody should be getting up in arms about. Ripslinger, although seemingly a little subdued, had these odd, barely-there vibes of relief and maybe even smugness that were not lost on Skipper. His unease was only increased when he looked over the bite patterns and their particular location over Dusty's frame.
It took a lot of Dusty running interference, but everybody seemed to buy it and not press the issue any further. Skipper did at first, and continued to reluctantly believe it the second time it happened, at least until he turned up in Dottie's garage for the third time. He had winced in sympathy at the awful, gnawing wounds; it looked like he'd been attacked by some giant, rabid can-opener in some places.
"Just leave it alone, Skipper," Dusty had said, as his voice faltering with pain and barely unshed tears as he waited for the pain meds to kick in. "I know what I'm doing."
"No... No you don't know." Skipper countered, his tone sympathetic and strained, "Just look at yourself!"
"I know, I know..."
Dusty shut his eyes tight as Dottie washed more of the fluid that flowed from his wounds and had dried and congealed in some places over his plating. Skipper gave his cheek a few slow, gentle licks although Dusty did not relax.
"I just don't see why you can't get that having him stay here has been a mistake from the very beginning."
"You don't understand, Skipper. I saw... Just drop it. You don't know what we're going through."
"What do you mean what "we're" going through?" Skipper's voice was drawn and thin, nearly at his wits end with his student and Companion's stubbornness despite how dire the situation appeared to be. "Rip's not the one in here being patched up; you are. What's with all this "we" stuff you've been saying anyway?"
Dottie was quiet as she listened, her face blank, giving away nothing about her own thoughts on the matter while she worked to patch closed some of the deeper gashes before sautering them shut the rest of the way.
"I... I don't..." Dusty began, starting to become a little woozy from the drugs. "I can't explain it right now. Even if I could, you'd never believe me."
"Maybe I would, if you'd just tell me."
"I said I can handle it," Dusty tried to snap with as much vigor as he could before deflating back down again, "... Just support me on this one, Skipper, okay?"
"I've been supporting you, Dusty, I've been supporting you in every way I know how, but this is getting ridiculous; he's going to kill you one of these times."
"No he won't... At least not anymore..."
"What do you mean?" Skipper asked, perplexed at that last statement, but Dusty's eyes fell shut and he didn't respond, "Dusty?"
"He shouldn't talk right now."
Skipper turned to Dottie, her face behind a welding mask as she went over her patchwork with a blow torch.
"Well what do you think, Dottie?"
"I think," her voice was muffled before she stopped what she was doing and tipped the visor up, "that maybe we should just step back from this one." Skipper seemed taken aback by this answer from her. "Whatever's been going on with Ripslinger, or the both of them; whatever Dusty means by that, we obviously don't need him to explain to us that it's just way out there. This is just going to have to be something that they are going to have to figure out on their own. Especially Dusty."
"Well, you may be right..." Skipper shifted a bit on his wheels in reluctant uncertainty, "I guess we'll just hold out hope that he comes to his senses before it's too late."
"You obviously don't know Dusty as well as I thought you did," Dottie said wistfully with a pained smile, "He'll never give up."
"That's what I'm worried about."
"Yeah, me too. Now come on. This is a twilight procedure and I don't want to have to keep giving him more drugs than he needs."
Now, Skipper was moaning and groaning as he went stumbling through the woods trying to find out where the hell those two had gotten to this time. He picked his way through, folding his wings up to let him through some of the smaller gaps in the trees, or else just pushing some of the smaller trees over. How the hell did Ripslinger get through here? Things were getting greener the further he went in, the ground cover getting thicker and more lively where the forest was close enough in to have its own micro-climate. This was going to end the same way it always did, Skipper reassured himself, no need to get worried. It's the same thing every time, right before the panic sets in they show up, Dusty all battered about and bleeding, but still alive at least. But all the while Skipper continued to gripe.
"If everybody's so worried about where they are when they do this, I don't know why it's only me that ever gets the idea to go look for them every damn time... It's not like I don't have anything better to do than go traipsing around in the woods... I hate bushes, I hate trees..."
And so on and so forth until he thought he could hear noises coming from inside of a rather large grove of saplings, brambles, and larger trees. Soft and then louder engine noise, and some scuffling. He recognized the chuffing and fluttering of Dusty's engine, and the deeper, harsher noise of Ripslinger's. There was a sudden louder scuffling and crashing and Skipper's worry came back ten-fold.
He crept forward, not exactly wanting to just spring in on them and possibly make matters worse. Through a gap in the hedgerow, he spotted the two planes up in the crooks of each others wings, pushing so hard that they were nearly lifted off their front landing gear at one point until Ripslinger brought his right landing gear up and pushed Dusty hard enough to dislodge him, taking the opportunity to come back down on his back and give him a few pinching bites.
Was it a fight? No, their movements were too loose. Even Ripslinger, who's default movements could be rather stiff and abrupt. Were they just sparring then? Is this what they've been doing this whole time? Skipper could understand a little why they might go somewhere a bit more private though; the only time he'd ever seen Dusty try to get him to spar with him had been an embarrassment. Where did all the clumsiness come from? From the few times they had actually fought, Skipper begrudgingly reckoned Ripslinger a good fighter, so why all the awkwardness? That's all sparring was was just fighting up to a certain point, playing, although he seemed to be doing a little better now as the two planes in the clearing paused for a moment, panting slightly, looking like each was waiting for the other to move first.
Skipper decided that he'd at least stick around to make sure that nothing got out of hand the way it seemed to, and he shuffled carefully as he settled in, but the movement and noise didn't quite escape Dusty's attention. He looked away for a moment toward the direction of the noise, and then Ripslinger suddenly thrust his nose forward with a fierce, barking rev of his engine, jaws agape in a mock charge.
Skipper's engine skipped a few revolutions at the ferocity of the noise and sudden movement, and nearly went to leap into the clearing before it was apparent that Ripslinger was still playing, the barest traces of a smile on his lips, despite how aggressive he sounded. Good Chrysler... Dusty was a little cowed as well, but it only lasted a second before the game resumed. Well, at least he still has that much sense, Skipper thought. Why did Ripslinger have to be so damn intense all the time? Come to think of it, every single noise that Skipper had ever heard the P-51 make had all been harsh, aggressive, and threatening, no matter the context. Any engine noise more positive than a neutral chuffing just didn't seem to be in his repertoire, and that made him very difficult to interact with, although Dusty was apparently getting quite used to it now.
The Corsair continued to observe with growing curiosity that quickly moved into confusion as the two plane's movements slowed, becoming languid as coordination for coordination's sake seemed to suddenly be thrown by the wayside. There was a lot of body-pressing now as they moved lazily, each stroking over the other's frames with their noses and wings, although Dusty's movements were a little more involved; Ripslinger strangely only seemed to be taking the smaller plane's lead.
What the heck was going on here? Skipper knew, however, with growing dread and discomfort, where this might be leading. He had been out of the game for a while now, but boy was he in it enough in his time to recognize what he was looking at now. Dusty moved off, coming around without any hesitation to plant a gentle kiss near the corner of Ripslinger's mouth, but he suddenly flinched up and away at the gesture, a sudden, startled anxiousness in his expression. He seemed to get a little upset then, and Dusty moved to nuzzle him. The green and black plane seemed to calm down, and Dusty tried again. Ripslinger sat still for him this time, but then turned into it, causing Dusty to kiss him on the mouth, and Skipper's breath hitched up in his throat when Dusty actually leaned up into him, deepening the kiss.
Well, it wasn't exactly his worst fear, but it now confirmed his suspicions that had been worrying the back of his mind since the first time the two of them showed back up with Dusty looking like he'd gotten in a fight with a backhoe, only with the added surprise that the orange and white racer had apparently gotten more used to Ripslinger's attentions than Skipper had hoped against. And it only got worse as Dusty made his way, caressing and licking down the rest of the checker-marked Mustang's body down toward his tail. Both planes were clearly worked up, as evidenced by their arousal dripping freely from even their closed ventral access panels by the time that Dusty had made it down to his target.
Is this really happening?! Skipper kept repeating in his head, though, like the proverbial train wreck, unable to take his eyes away as a few licks from Dusty had Ripslinger's panel opened, where he continued lapping steadily. The P-51's engine growled through a heated sigh, face screwed up in tense concentration as he held himself back, and it didn't take long for Dusty to notice.
"Well, you gonna make room for me or what?" he asked.
"Nah, I thought we'd split the difference. It's not like you ever minded before after all." Ripslinger answered, lowering himself down into his landing gear and tilting down slightly, "Go ahead. Show me what you've got."
Dusty, his own phallus fully extended since he'd started trying to get Ripslinger to show his, rode up onto his back, re-sheathing himself as he pushed up into the green and black plane's reproductive compartment with a few small thrusts, feeling a shiver of pleasure wash over his frame as his cock was enveloped within Ripslinger's silky walls.
"You say that like you gave me a choice," the orange and white plane grunted as he adjusted to the pressure.
If Skipper had had any less gumption, the two planes' coupling would have been interrupted by the rather audible crash of his over five tons of bulk hitting the ground from him fainting outright. This was the absolute last way he had predicted this scene playing out. Ripslinger, cruel, domineering, conniving monster that Skipper believed he was, willingly, no eagerly, allowing Dusty Crophopper of all planes to fuck him? This day was just turning from shock into shock. This couldn't be good for his oil pressure.
Dusty meanwhile, although he'd slid in well enough due to how aroused both planes were, was still for the moment atop the larger racer. Ripslinger's mouth had dropped open wide enough for one to be able to visualize the sharp, conical teeth further back in the jaw, letting out a steamy exhale as Dusty entered him. Well and truly stuffed, he reveled in the glorious feeling as both planes panted feverishly, each taking a moment to acclimate to immense snugness of their reproductive equipment fitted tightly together in the same cavity. Tentatively, Dusty began to move, appearing to just be testing out the waters, seeing which movements got the better response from the larger plane beneath him, but only really succeeding in eliciting a few sighs and nearly muted whimpers from himself. Ripslinger, however, only had so much patience for that sort of nonsense as he snorted from the many exhausts lining his nose.
"Quit fooling around and just fuck me!" he growled.
And then Dusty gave a harsh flutter from his engine and started hammering into him as hard as he could, using the fore of the P-51's left wing for leverage and bracing against his right flank with his landing gear. Normally he'd like to gradually work himself up to that kind of a pace to preserve his stamina; Ripslinger was the one that liked to start things off hard and fast more than half the time, but at the sound of his loud, throaty moan once the little racer really got going was more than encouraging.
"Oooohh yeah..." the checker-marked plane groaned, loving the feeling of Dusty squeezing him in his landing gear with a strength belying his stature. "Mmm good boy..."
Oh dear lord... Skipper was beside himself at this point at what he was to do. He didn't know whether he should bust in there and break it up, go over and stab a tree branch through his windshield, or else if he shouldn't be taking notes. The kid was really going at it! They hadn't quite got that far and the subject rarely seemed to come up, but it really didn't seem like there was all that much to teach him in this category. In fact he was almost a little insulted that he seemed to be getting all that and more from someone the likes of Ripslinger instead of a Bonded Companion like how these things were supposed to work. He thought at first that maybe he should just leave them to it, now that he'd finally figured out what they've really been up to all this time, but then what if things got out of control? It hadn't in a while, so far as he could tell, but still. Nope, he would stay right here. He had his duties after all...
Turning back to the task at hand, it seemed like Dusty was headed toward pretty dire straights as a moan sang up from his throat, his body arching a bit as his eyes rolled back before he quickly screwed his face back up in concentration, breathing hard through his intake. He'll never last at this rate.
Aw, come on, kid, Skipper found himself willing silently. This wasn't exactly how any Bonded Companion pictures accidentally stumbling in upon their younger charge in the middle of a rather intimate situation, at least not finding them plowing into their psychotic arch-enemy with all they've got, but if it comes to that, Skipper figured that he might as well just take it for what it's worth. Hang in there! You show 'im what you're made of!
And Dusty was trying with everything he had, but it seemed as he might be fighting a losing battle as moans and gasps that he'd previously been able to stifle down as grunts and hisses were making themselves heard. The hot, wet sensations of being nestled in the Mustang's depths, their members sliding and rubbing over each other with every thrust becoming too much to handle. Ripslinger shuddered underneath him with pleasurable glee at the noises coming from the smaller plane.
"Yeah, that's it..." he panted, "Let it out... Tell me know how much you love it..."
Skipper had to hold back an irked snort from his spot behind the hedges, but then stiffened in attention at another, different noise. An old, deeply-ingrained, primal sound, and it was currently rumbling up from Dusty's engine, apparently so sexually stimulated that he'd gone into a copulatory idle. The noise reverberated through the air, it's low-frequency vibrations meant to help stimulate and throw a female into ovulation, with the added effect of putting any males that happen to be in the vicinity to hear it into a high state of arousal. Skipper would have been in real trouble if he'd had any less nerve, and also if it weren't for the hang-up that his student was the one making all the noise. Boy though, things were still starting to feel awfully tight down toward his tail.
The same couldn't be said for Ripslinger, as the lovely vibrations from Dusty's engine did the trick and he gasped as an orgasm suddenly rushed up and surprised him. The orange and white racer could feel the larger plane spasming around him as the cavity all around their cocks became filled with hot seed, making things just that much more slick. Dusty leaned down, turning nearly on his side then and clamped his jaws onto the aft of Ripslinger's left wing, thrusting up into him as savagely as ever as his loud, muffled cries filled the air as he soon spent himself as well inside the green and black P-51. With nowhere to for it all to really go, their fluids began to pour back out and pool together in a creamy mess on the forest floor.
That's... my boy! ...Ugh... Skipper watched as Dusty languidly slid out and off of Ripslinger, more of their mixed fluids dripping out freely as both planes panted hard and deep as they started to come down from their afterglow, barely able to stand. Dusty was the first to move over to the stream that flowed through this part of the woods, feeling very tired and quite dehydrated now, taking a few awkward laps from it. Ripslinger soon followed suit, riding up on the smaller racer when he was done, and Skipper heard him say a few breathless words next to the little window behind his right eye, Dusty growling something in response, although Skipper thought he could hear some humor behind his tone.
The old Corsair turned and started carefully making his way back toward home, deep thought and anxiety etched into his features. He was angry, oh had he ever been, but he knew with frustration that there was no where really for it to go in this situation. He had almost wished he'd never gone looking for them. Maybe that's what Dottie meant when she suggested that they all just stay away, but he still despised the way that things had ended up turning out between the two planes.
Skipper had believed Dusty, in spite of himself, when he had said he wouldn't be killed, and he had even gone so far as to allow the foolish, hare-brained notion that Dusty might even redeem the volatile P-51 somehow. This was Dusty Crophopper after all, and Skipper knew all too well that he was living proof that the little plane had that effect on people. He certainly never expected that Ripslinger would have turned it around and corrupted him instead, and he was now mentally kicking himself for being so naive. He was also kicking himself over the possibility that maybe Dottie was right. What exactly were they to do about this kind of a situation anyway? But still, Skipper had the distinct feeling that whatever this thing was between Dusty and Ripslinger, it was way outside the bounds of any normal interaction rules or relationships among planes, was not healthy, and was bound to lead to bad places, as if it hadn't already. Skipper would have to consider all this newly discovered information, and how to, or not to, respond to it, very carefully.
"I need a drink. Big time..." he groaned, wriggling a bit in discomfort. And a cold shower...
Poor Skipper...