He couldn't choose, and he couldn't have both. He felt two different types of love for two different planes. They both balanced him out in their own way, made him feel complete. He needed one for the dark, and the other for the light.

"I hate to break it to you, Dusty, but I'm not up for another game of rebound. I'm getting way too old to be playing duck-duck-goose anymore."

"You can't keep going between us both, Dusty. I refuse to put myself in such a position."

"I'll see you 'round when you can make up your mind, okay?"

"Decide, or make no decision at all."

So, upon his inability to, 'make up his mind', as the Corsair had so eloquently put it, Dusty Crophopper never saw either one of them later. Yet, in between this period of not glancing, not speaking, not acknowledging, and certainly not kissing either planes, he still could not choose. Yes, oh yes, it was as complicatedly simple as that.

He was constantly on and off with both enticing males before their official incisions, but never at once. He'd reject a kiss to the lips by one, because he was fantasizing the other. His physical affections were never unfaithful, for it was his emotional affections that led to the lonely hole he was in now. No, oh no, it was as simply complicated as that.

Now, with the Corsair, it was well-matured, experienced abandon. Once the racer had managed to get him to come out of his shell, from then on it was adventure on the go; fun, freedom, bliss. Admiration. Wanting to be him; that slow, steady stalwartness in the face of anything. There were childish flirts, if you eavesdropped. Dusty's cheesy grins and the Corsair's gentle, amused smiles. Awkward silences and embarrassing accidents. His ability to be able to will the little plane to just slow down for a minute and really examine things. To take his time and again and again easily find the answers to his problems. A strong, broad wing over his back that made his engine want to melt in its comfort. A sidelong glance that made him blush. A kiss on his cheek goodnight. The throbbing down in his tail when the larger plane had affectionately gone nose to nose with him, locking him in those confident, steely-gray eyes. Soon enough, it became more than a close, doting friendship that was tap-dancing on the outskirts of puppy love.

Skipper had loved his throat, just once. Dusty had memorized how dark that corner of the after-party was, how strong the booze tasted on the larger plane's slippery tongue. How, eager and adept he was as he stroked over Dusty's frame with his wings. How hard he was against the orange and white plane's belly as he dry-humped him before they finally decided to take it somewhere more private.

Dusty still remembered how cold it was behind the hangar, how hot their bodies were. Through the music blasting through the walls, he recalled feeling rather prideful as Skipper's engine growled as he groaned, moaning his name fervently. The moment's ending had streamed so fast down Dusty's throat that his swallows couldn't keep up with the pace as he felt the tears bite at his eyes and the strain on his esophagus when he fought to regurgitate the burn scalding it. At the finale, his head spun from the effects of all the alcohol he himself had consumed until he fainted, crashing down on the asphalt with an equally drunk, and scared, Corsair trying to shake him awake.

Dusty avoided him for a little while after that. It had helped that Skipper hadn't remembered a thing. He had never really thought about those kinds of intimate things, at least not at the time. Yet there was some irony in how they started to become more exclusive a few months after, only to separate a few months later, without any erotica in between.

Now, with the Mustang, it was adrenaline; learning to expect the unexpected. A challenge. Once the younger plane had discovered that everything he ever thought he knew about the grand champion racer was all a Façade, from then on it was realistic, almost foolhardy fascination; wanting to know the real him. There were sarcastic flirts, if you squinted. His eyebrow-raised smirks and Dusty's insecure grins. Relaxing silences and daring races for fun. A brush between their frames that made the smaller plane shudder. A gaze down from the corner of an olive-colored eye that made his engine flutter. A one-time only close whisper goodnight, his landing gear turning to water when the Mustang's lips brushed his plating when he'd pulled away. Soon enough, it became more than an enlightening friendship that had been developing into love-sickness.

Ripslinger had loved his body, just once. It would take forever and a lifetime to forget how his teeth had pinched his plating in patient little love-bites that one night. How the orange and white racer's wheels dug into the floor as his graceful tongue met his satisfaction. How the larger plane's engine rumbled in pleasured smugness as Dusty shouted, tasting every letter of his name in his whimper. How his prop blades had stroked over his frame ever so gently to relax his body when it was over, only to begin scraping feverishly, leaving scratches in his paint and riling him back up again in a masochistic reaction that Dusty had never even known about himself. He just loved the way he touched him. A slender wing-tip brushing over his back, kisses down his white belly, suckles on his chin, mouth teasing along his.

Despite these two experiences, Dusty hadn't gone all the way with either planes. He loved the Corsair, from the way he laughs to the soothing, fortifying way in which he touched him. He loved his matured, but surprisingly mischievous nature and his slow, beautiful smiles, but every time he hugged the smaller plane under his wing against his strong frame, he'd daydream about embracing the Mustang's more streamlined, yet still powerful one, feeling his sensual whispers tickle his plating, and drowning in his intense gaze. He loved the Mustang, from the way he chuckles to the subtle, tantalizing way in which he touched him. He loved his unpredictable but surprisingly humorous nature, but every time he'd use his nose cone to tilt Dusty up and then kiss him with unrestrained passion, he'd fancy the Corsair's gentle, sweet pecks and slow nuzzles as he'd drown in his warm gaze.

The orange and white plane needed both to balance him. He couldn't choose, so he needed both. He'd been fantasizing about the both of them for this whole blasted period out of contact with either of them. Dusty arched slightly as he thrust and stroked himself harder against the sheets and padding of his sleeping mat. He needed both; the Mustang's love in his mouth, the Corsair's love deep within him. His control surfaces rose and tensed; A-almost there... He couldn't choose, so he needed both. The Corsair nipping and suckling his plating, the Mustang sucking him clean. His engine fluttered and blew feverishly as his breaths grew hoarse. He needed both; the Mustang's prop blades raking down his back, the Corsair's tongue dragging under his tail. A gasping cry drooled off his lips; Almost th-there... He couldn't choose, he needed both, so -

"We're choosing for you..." a gravelly voice rumbled.

Dusty's eyes flew open, and his frantic movements stuttered to a complete stop. Both planes were suddenly in his hangar. The Mustang and the Corsair were here, in his hangar, at the same time, and they both looked positively lecherous and they began to advance upon the much smaller plane.

"So why not have us both tonight?" Ripslinger purred.

Dusty stood up and backed away, feeling a little intimidated in spite of himself, front lowered in submission. Two planes twice his length and several times his weight were closing in on him, how else was he supposed to react, other than becoming impossibly more aroused? He crouched down as Ripslinger went forward ahead of Skipper and made contact first, stroking and nuzzling his body against the smaller plane's frame, engine emitting a hot, hissing rumble as he breathed him in. Before Dusty could worry about what the P-51 was going to do, Skipper was suddenly right in front of him, nose to nose as he prompted the former crop duster to stand before kissing him full on the lips. His apprehension quickly eroding away, the orange and white plane made a soft noise against the Corsair's mouth and shyly swiped his tongue along his lower lip, at which he gladly obliged and opened up for him.

But it was only a distraction. Now standing up fully, his still erect length, not having retracted back up into it's cavity despite the earlier surprise was in full view, and with an eager lick of his lips, swallowed up by Ripslinger. Dusty tore his mouth away from Skipper's with a gasp and a shout.

"R-Rip!" he squeaked.

Skipper reclaimed the little plane's mouth, and Dusty felt his lips smile against him as he gasped and made more of those short, sharp little cries into his mouth. The inside of Ripslinger's mouth was so hot! His tongue! He was gonna cum any second now! There was nowhere for him to go to try and get away from the glorious sensations and pressure around his cock; he had no more room to back up, and Skipper was at his front, beginning to take his ministrations with his mouth elsewhere, licking and kissing at his chin, but otherwise blocking his path forward. The feeling of Ripslinger's tongue curled around and hugging firmly as it slid up and down his shaft was unbearable, but it was when he started to make the sides of it undulate against him as well that he was truly done for.

At the warning a few breathless cries from Dusty and the pulsing on his tongue, the green and black plane sucked him in further, swallowing the flood of fluids in unhurried, languid gulps like a pro as they came. Dusty gasped and shuddered with every swallow, held up by Skipper's wing as he gave the little racer slow, soothing licks over his plating.

Once the older war bird had determined that orange and white plane could stand on his own, he drew back and away, switching places with Ripslinger, the two larger planes going around Dusty the opposite sides of each other. He hadn't altogether failed to notice how well they seemed to be coordinating themselves in the moment, as if to avoid any position that might put them in competition with each other, which was dangerous. Although their movements were still a bit stiff in their awareness of one another, they seemed to be too focused on the delicious little plane between them to want to interrupt their fun. A wingtip tickled and traced along Dusty's side as Ripslinger made his way up toward his front. He stopped, pressing his cheek against Dusty's, growling lowly in delighted pleasure.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Dusty, still panting a bit, nodded, only having the ability to murmur a soft, "mm-hmm", in response at the moment.

"Well then, let's return the favor, shall we?"

The orange and white racer's eyes followed as the Mustang came sauntering around to the front of him. With a gratified sigh, his ventral access panel opened, and he smirked smugly as Dusty openly watched his considerable length slide out into view in all it's glory. Cerulean eyes roved over the gun-metal gray of the metal and dark lavender of the rubbery nodes grouped together near the tip and base of his phallus. He stroked his nose cone along the underside of it part of the way down, feeling it's weight, but then another, steamy, hissing rumble rose up from the P-51's engine, as if to denote his strain at the build up of so much pressure since they'd gotten started.

Dusty pulled away to look at it fully again, swallowing nervously even though his eyes were hungry. Then he took the tip onto his tongue, taking a second to note the, as yet, subtle taste of the precum which had already begun to dribble steadily, before closing his lips around it. From there he began working his way down the rest of it, adjusting the angle once or twice as he went. Soon enough, he felt it pop into his throat, tears escaping from his tightly closed eyes as he fought his gag reflex, pushing further and further even as he felt the vibrations from Ripslinger's impressed growl of approval buzz through is entire body. Dusty pulled back, the checker-marked plane's dick sliding back out inch by inch, clear, sticky threads of saliva and thicker mucous from his esophagus stringing off of it as he went back and dragged his tongue lustily up the side of it.

Ripslinger snorted, an odd, wavering noise like his engine was turning over at the lewdness of the sight, giving a little thrust of encouragement, at which the eager little plane went back to sucking him off in earnest, trying to imitate what Ripslinger had done to him earlier although his own tongue wasn't quite as dexterous as the P-51's. Skipper, fully enjoying the display himself, got to thinking of the lovely noises that the younger plane had made earlier, and thought he'd like to hear more. He leaned down in his position at Dusty's tail. While his phallus had now retracted back up into the reproductive compartment, his ventral access panel was still wide open, slit still ready and waiting. The Corsair lazily ran his tongue over it, stopping and applying a tantalizing pressure at the center of it, and Dusty released a throaty moan around Ripslinger's cock at the contact.

The Mustang made a sudden, soft noise and then hissed through his teeth at the vibration as Skipper continued, tongue lapping, flicking, and dancing over and up into the tight folds of Dusty's entrance. Dusty's muffled cries and whines were music to both larger planes' ears, and also had one other added effect, much to Ripslinger's pleasure.

"Damn..." he grunted, "Instead of getting distracted he just gets even better! Little guy's really going to town!"

"Oh yeah?" Skipper grinned, his panel opening and finally releasing his own phallus, "Let's see what this does for you."

Gently, he heaved himself up and mounted the already otherwise occupied plane between them, and Dusty just about shrieked in surprise as he felt another immense, sturdy cock push its way torturously into him from behind. Shock quickly turned into rapture as he was soon grunting and moaning at every steady, but powerful thrust.

"Oh god..." Ripslinger panted breathlessly as the little plane only sucked him just that much more ravenously, "...F-fuck..."

Soon enough the hangar was filled with the moans, cries, groans, and lustful, ragged panting of all three males, all of them quickly growing drunk off of the reek of arousal in such a tiny space, and for his part poor Dusty was quickly becoming overwhelmed in the best way. The smell and sound of the two larger males, the closeness and heat of their bodies, the unbelievable feeling of just being so stuffed. These two planes were going to kill him! As Skipper began to pick up the pace, somehow managing to not sacrifice any power for speed, the little plane's muffled hums and cries began to grow more desperate as a powerful orgasm rushed up and went quaking through his body.

At this point Ripslinger had started thrusting into his mouth, leaning up to capture Skipper's lips in his own, the two planes moaning as their tongues met and slid over one another. Dusty soon collapsed, unable to hold himself up any longer, simply drowning in euphoria as the big planes thrust feverishly into him from both ends.

Ripslinger was next, breaking off with Skipper and groaning loudly as he shot his load down Dusty's throat, the little plane eagerly doing his best to be a trooper and swallow every last drop. Skipper wasn't far behind, his cowl flaps flaring as he grunted through gritted teeth and his engine's growling and came hard into the younger plane beneath him. The Mustang was first to withdraw, his dick falling sloppily from the former crop duster's mouth as he gagged and regurgitated the last bit of cum that, despite his best efforts, he was unable to gulp down. Skipper stayed embedded within him for a few moments longer, affectionately licking the orange and white plane's canopy as he rode out the last of the aftershocks.

Dusty was only able to lay where he was, panting heavily and soaked in his and the other two's fluids. The two big planes surveyed their handiwork not without a certain amount of smugness, but were kind enough to pull down another sleeping mat and get the little plane tucked in to some drier conditions before nuzzling and purring their good nights and left him to instantly drop off to sleep.

"He'll sleep good tonight." Skipper remarked as the two planes took their leave, Ripslinger chuckling as they went their separate ways.

Holy moly! That was one air-tight aircraft! eh? eh? *Booooooooo*

But seriously, I think this might just be the hottest thing I've ever written. I hope… Especially considering that there was a time in my stint in this fandom that if someone had pitched this to me for a request I would have responded by going "OH MY GOD! NOOOOOOOO…" but here we are. See what you people have done to me?! You see what I've become?! But I kid, and I hope you all enjoyed!

FYI, the title is a sort of play on the song, "Only One Can Win" by the Sylvers.