It was a beautiful, almost overwhelming feeling. Better, more real than what he thought he was getting out of their usual nightly trysts before, if you will. Ripslinger felt what was surely true stillness, undeniable tranquility in his core after their activities that steamy, passionate night. Dusty for his part felt very tired all the way through in the aftermath of it, but it was a good kind of tired. A deeply taxed, but obliging satisfaction emanating from the heart of him, communication kept up as the larger plane hugged the little racer to him as they slept.
And Ripslinger knew that after that night, after all his stubbornness and trying to resist, this tiny little crop duster had gotten to him. He'd given in, and found out what wonderful feelings and sensations were to be had in his attempt to apologize in the only way he really knew how. And he knew that he would never get his fill of it. Apparently, he wasn't alone in this sentiment.
Despite the obvious good that had come from the encounter, Ripslinger was still very apprehensive about what it all entailed. Giving in to his loneliness, even in his life-long, obsessive quest to purge those feelings of want, of mastering detachment, only for it to be glaringly obvious all the time that simply indulging one's baser, carnal needs and shunning any form of attachment in the sake of avoiding complication or heartache does not necessarily make one happy. While he wasn't actively avoiding him, he had actually left Dusty alone for the most part for the next couple of days, deep in thought as he waffled back and forth over how he wanted to treat this.
The orange and white plane had approached him, feeling the Mustang's upset and hesitation, and slid up against him, pressing their frames together. For once, Ripslinger didn't rebuff him. It was Dusty, who after feeling the beginnings of distress within the checker-marked plane's Soul, that had shyly initiated their next session, having actually been rather eager since the last time to try it again to see if they couldn't get the same results.
Since then they'd fallen back into their regular routine for such activities, only this time they had been infinitely less tedious and Dusty had never once found himself getting bored. Ripslinger was more than happy to introduce him to things he'd never even dreamed about before now, and boy did he know how to keep things interesting. He had even let Dusty get in some practice having his turn on top a few times to boot. Those had been fun. Pretty soon, they had started simply engaging for the fun and pleasure of it, whether or not Ripslinger actually needed relief from what had been, until then, the constant, frantic strain of his Soul being unable to properly cycle through the damage done to it. Although this particular afternoon's romp had actually warranted it this time, it was no less tantalizing that it had been any other time.
Ripslinger lay down in contented serenity, still basking in the afterglow while Dusty was over taking a few laps from the stream that ran through their now favorite part of the woods down below town. They had started stealing away out here more often in favor of just doing it in Dusty's hangar for fear of the certain possibility of someone hearing them, or at least hearing the smaller of the two horny planes. Funny, Ripslinger hadn't really taken him for much of a screamer. It sure did make for some nice, titillating encouragement though, and a boost to his recently shaken ego since this whole mess had started. The P-51 was beginning to feel better than he had in ages.
The only problem was that any sex they had had to be kept to a minimum length-wise; they couldn't have anyone noticing them gone for too long a time, and Dusty could sometimes be annoyingly stringent about it, although Ripslinger wasn't all too fond of getting caught either. Dusty bowed down, taking a good, long stretch, his control surfaces raising up before standing back upright again and shaking himself a bit, the last of the residual pleasure from their earlier exertions ebbing away.
"Welp, that was fun!" he chirped, and Ripslinger was already starting to bristle inside at the tone in his voice that gave way to his next, predictable statement. "Guess we should head on back now. Got anything in mind for the rest of the day?"
"Well I was thinking of a quick meal, a little sex, a nice bath, and then coming back out here for another good fuck under the stars. But since you're so god damn paranoid about being found out I was thinking of just doing all of it at once."
Dusty's flaps were flung up in a comical display as his eyes widened at the awkward arrangement. But they just... How would he even be able to concentrate?!
"W-what? I mean... I'm not..." he stammered incredulously, "I don't mind sleeping or eating, but don't you ever just... stop?"
Dusty was absolutely flabbergasted at Ripslinger's ability of getting a hard-on practically any time he wanted. The Mustang's sexual appetite was never satisfied for long. It wouldn't matter how hard or for how long he went at it before, an hour's rest was all he needed before he was ready to go just as hard and long again.
"Stop what?"
Judging by the expression that briefly crossed Ripslinger's face, he had no idea what the other plane was implying. Not at first, and then it clicked in his mind. He didn't mention taking a bath either, but between that and the sex he was fairly certain which was implied. The need to shower after shooting a few loads was a given.
"Oh, you mean the sex." Clicking his tongue and cheek together, he continued. "I'm not really sure on that one. I've been having sex since I was a little dude. This one chick, quite a bit older than me, got me to eat her taco one night. Ended up getting the nachos and cheese too." He chuckled deeply. "Haven't really been able to stop myself since. It's like my switch broke and it's stuck in the "on" position. She didn't like that very much..." There was a barely noticeable dip in his voice as his wistful expression faded slightly. "Funny. All that time spent worming her way into me. Doesn't matter... not much. But none of the others I've been with could handle me either. You understand at least a little bit, don't you?"
Dusty sat, stunned at what he was hearing, just trying to absorb it all and the fact that Ripslinger was actually talking about his past, which he, and indeed next to no others knew about. He was pretty sure there was a word for what Ripslinger was called but he couldn't quite place it at the moment. He smiled awkwardly at him though, unsure if it had meant to be assuring or sympathetic or not. He just reacted, wondering if whether or not he, too, was going to be able to keep up with him through this thing. Surely so, all things considered, especially since he'd had to endure a lot more than just sex before, and even then the sex wasn't all that pleasant, although now during some sessions he sometimes wasn't so sure. God, he loved those though.
"Well, I can't say I've done it as much as you..." And of course he hadn't, seeing as how most male aircraft are sexually mature at around sixteen years of age but normally won't start actually having sex until they're around twenty, and even with his recent celebrity he hadn't taken nearly half of the opportunities that had come his way, being as scatterbrained and distracted as he was. "Is that why you never date?"
"Yeah. Seems like just having me for one night is enough for a lifetime for some ladies, heh."
Dusty let out a mute chuckle, even though he knew it probably wasn't the whole reason, but then something from earlier caught Dusty's attention in a delayed reaction to the shock of how open and talkative the green and black plane was being at the moment.
"Wait. When you say "little dude", how old were you?"
"Twelve." Ripslinger replied with no hesitation or inflection in his voice, and Dusty's tanks dropped a bit at the answer.
"Wow. You were still a few years away from flying. How old was she?" the smaller plane asked again, even though he didn't think he really wanted to know any more.
"She was sixteen? Seventeen? Somewhere around there."
"Oh..." Dusty sank a little in his landing gear, but he tried very hard not to look pitying, knowing that Ripslinger wasn't fond of that. He may have failed a little bit, even though the P-51 seemed really nonchalant about the memory. "You don't think that she took advantage of you?"
Now at this, Ripslinger finally showed some emotion.
"What?" he said, suddenly appearing to become antsy and uncomfortable as he thought about the question. "Well... I don't know. Maybe... What does that have to do with anything?"
"Nothing," Dusty said gently, not pushing the issue any further.
Another thing he knew that Ripslinger was not fond of was looking anything but perfectly composed. He hated to look foolish or unsure. Feelings of uncertainty or anxiety could very quickly lead to anger. Dusty knew this very well, and acted accordingly, approaching the larger plane slowly but directly to press as much of his frame against him as he could.
The Mustang gave no indication that the action was neither welcome nor unwelcome, he just let him do it, as if it were more for Dusty's benefit than his own, but the former-crop duster could still sense the feelings of relieved contentment from Ripslinger's state of self despite his aloofness. A partial link of communication spoke of such restful peace, of gratitude in recognition at the proximity, and a tired but empathetic acknowledgment thrummed up from Dusty's end. He nuzzled gently against the larger plane, and not only did he also let him do that, but he responded, his engine rumbling softly as he turned just a bit and pressed into it. Dusty smiled.
"You know, I think I'm actually beginning to like this," he said at length.
"Of course."
Dusty ignored the green and black plane's smug response and continued.
"I mean, I'm willing to keep going at this point, but are you sure that this is something special? That it's just about me?" he questioned to an unsuspecting Ripslinger as he arched a brow skeptically before adding in the kicker. "What if I'm not in the mood?" he concluded, eyeing the Mustang with a "Hmm?"
And at that, the larger plane went springing away from him.
"You mean... we can't have any more sex?" and the way Ripslinger had said was as if he were being deprived of the very air he breathed. Confused? You bet he was. "I thought you wanted to have sex with me now!"
Or maybe the smaller plane just wanted him cured as fast as possible and didn't care how anymore. The very thought filled Ripslinger with an almost sickening feeling, and the idea that such a thing would even bother him that much made his control surfaces start to tense as he fought the urge to go and chuck the former-crop duster off the side of the cliff. How dare he turn this around on him like that! And yet the checker-marked plane was able to calm himself down enough to speak in a level tone.
"Then I'll... just... have to wait for you be ready..." he said the words slowly, as if it were some great revelation. "And yes, it has to be you. I'm not fucking around when I say that this is something way different and nothing that I've ever experienced with any of the others I've ever been with. And I have been with a lot."
"Okay, okay," Dusty soothed sincerely, "I believe you. And I didn't say we couldn't have any more sex. It's just that I've been getting more of that than I really know what to do with in such a short time."
"Don't thank me."
"I wasn't going to," Dusty dead-panned, "But my point still stands. You're just going to have to be patient while I catch up is all, you know?"
"Oh..." Ripslinger began to mumble stubbornly in reluctance, "Well, all right. But just so you know," he went on, "I can't wait forever."
Of course "forever" by his terms was anywhere between twelve and twenty-four hours. Dusty chuckled a bit, approaching the big P-51 and sliding his body up under his chin reassuringly, a gesture that was quickly becoming his trump card in his improving judgment of the larger plane's moods, and with better and better results again and again.
"I know, I know... Come on, Rip, it's time we headed back."
"Do we have to?" the Mustang whined, his engine rumbling up seductively as he threw his left landing gear over Dusty's back, hugging the little racer to him,
"Can't we just stay here and fuck some more?"
Dusty chuckled again, pushing up against the weight which had become such a pleasurable sensation in itself by now.
"You're hopeless..."
XXxx
Tom sat on an old wooden chair just outside of Dottie's hangar eating a bowl of cereal as the two planes came ambling back into town. He watched them intently as he chewed. It was nice to see them getting along so much better. Ripslinger actually seemed to be getting along better with everyone lately, come to think of it. He was less tense, less stand-offish with the others in their little group. He hadn't hardly harassed Clarice at all lately, he and Skipper were more relaxed around each other. The two big war birds had actually sparred with one another once or twice, and while their movements were a bit stiff and testing the first time, and despite giving everyone a good scare, they had actually had a pretty good time of it.
Both planes, especially Skipper, were used to sparring with Dusty and restraining themselves down to just a fraction of what would be considered normal; fighting-stock aircraft tended to be a bit rougher during play than other aircraft. Dusty, for his part had been thrilled, although a little cowed at the power and how violent their sparring looked. A plane his size would be squashed, and they were just playing. But no one got hurt. It never got out of hand at any point. It was extremely encouraging.
Tom for his part had also been adjusting quite well into his place in the world of the machines, and this odd, hodge-podge but awesome family that he was a part of now. And he was happy. He was in much better spirits than he'd been in a good while. Clarice had been an enormous help in teaching him the ways of the aircraft in the bunch in particular, and answering any questions he had that he was still a little apprehensive about asking them directly. She told him about body language, sparring, what noises meant what from their engines, and how they prefer to be touched.
That had taken Tom by surprise, having always sort of wanted to see what it was like but thought such an action, especially from a human, would be considered rude or demeaning. These were sentient creatures, just as smart as any human, not animals, but Clarice had assured him that aircraft are very social and physical by nature and actually loved being touched, petted, or hugged. Of course with the asterisk of knowing your planes first.
Dusty was easy of course. Since becoming friends with Clarice, that plane had become spoiled on how she seemed to intuitively know the best times to approach him and quickly found where all his good spots where, and would probably sit still for hours for scratches and rub downs. At first he almost seemed to expect to be petted if he ever met any new humans; he thought all humans were like Clarice, which could sometimes lead to some awkward situations. Tom had been a little awkward at first himself, but Dusty was also quite intuitive and was very tolerant and encouraging. Soon enough Tom was taking after Clarice's lead, emulating the aircraft's body-pressing behavior by leaning or laying his whole rather paltry body weight against his frame, which Dusty still loved anyway, and giving him nice scratches on his belly in the place between his wings, which the human had quickly found out was his favorite.
The other two planes in the group were a different story. Despite being awestruck with almost childlike wonder at the old Corsair, Tom was actually scared to death of Skipper at first. Despite his age, he still carried himself in such a way that made him seem even bigger than he already was and just that much more formidable. Tom was sure the old geezer could still beat planes half his age and younger into the ground. Of course Dusty and Clarice had sussed him out despite all his best efforts to hide his misgivings about the old war plane, insisting that he wasn't anything to be afraid of. Clarice had even demonstrated by reaching up under the Corsair's chin one day, tiny human fingers able to access the minute chinks in his armor to the effect of the huge plane eventually going from bowing down to help her reach better to laying down fully, expression blissful as his engine purred loudly to a shocked and near-mortified Tom.
And then there was Ripslinger. Ripslinger was one that Tom had noticed Clarice rarely ever interacted with, let alone attempt to try touch him in any way. She had openly stated to Tom once that it was because she was afraid of him. Afraid of his silence. Afraid of his aimlessness. Afraid of the emptiness in his eyes. She would never quite elaborate properly, only saying that she wasn't liking the vibes she was getting from him; that he was different.
Not that Tom was blaming her. He also held some reservations about the P-51, having thought he could understand a little where she was coming from. He had gotten those same vibes since the day they first met, and in a way that he couldn't quite place, those feelings only seemed to grow more acute after his fainting incident a few weeks ago. There was something wrong with this plane, and with those sentiments came also a sense of some underlying danger. But despite it, both plane and human just couldn't seem to stay away from each other.
Although there had been a short period of avoidance from both after that day, they were back to their usual routine of Ripslinger coming and watching him play the different musical instruments he owned. The green and black plane especially liked it when he practiced on the Marimba. It gave him the best view of the movement of his arms and hands, which he found endlessly fascinating. It never failed to cause the Mustang to tip his nose up in impressed surprise whenever he would seamlessly switch into playing with two sticks in each hand, double-sticking, to Tom's veiled delight as he continued to play like he hadn't noticed anything.
The past week had been particularly relaxed between the two as Tom struggled, although not without success, to read Ripslinger's subtle tells. It wasn't all fear toward his odd behavior but also a certain amount of sympathetic concern. He was sure planes weren't born like he was. The few planes he had met were all quite friendly. Something must have happened to him to make him this way, but he was completely in the dark. No one would even tell him why Ripslinger was in Propwash Junction to begin with, which annoyed Tom to no end, because he knew there was no way he was going to just come up and ask the checker-marked racer outright.
So to pass the time, which for all he knew could probably go on forever, knowing Ripslinger the little that he knew him, he concentrated on just trying to get close to him. He felt that he could use all the friends he could get right now, and Clarice was wholly in agreement, it just couldn't be her. The green and black plane just seemed to carry a certain amount of animosity toward her, that although had lessened much as of late, she wasn't willing to play with. But he seemed to tolerate Tom somewhat. And so he, using what Clarice had taught him, gradually learned when was best to approach him and how, and probably most importantly, when to just walk away. He'd learned the hard way never to come up to him from his left side, and although the incident didn't lead to any bodily harm, Tom was sure it took a few years off his life. And that's how it went. But it was paying off.
Ripslinger had actually let him give his flank a few pats once or twice, and had even let him sit next to him during an intense session of loafing. But you had to be on your toes still, as Ripslinger had or hadn't mean to remind him. It was always impossible to tell with him. Upon abruptly standing up from his position to go taxiing off to wherever, he had startled Tom, who had taken the movement the wrong way, jumping back slightly and starting to raise his hands up. He looked around sheepishly, hoping that nobody saw, but of course Clarice came walking by, flashing him a small, sympathetic but humored smile, as if to convey "Been there before." as she passed. A smile pulled up at one side of his mouth as he turned and looked back at the retreating form of the P-51.
Despite all the new changes and adjustments by all parties involved, some of the more ingrained traditions of the gang in Propwash Junction were still quite strictly adhered to. The most recent being their end of the season camp-out down by the river; a sort of last hurrah before summer took its leave. Everybody had been looking forward to it. Well that was, everybody except Ripslinger.
The Mustang had griped and bitched and moaned all the way from Propwash Junction to their favored spot on the river. Ripslinger had always been rather fastidious practically his whole life and was very much an "indoor" plane, so the idea of camping and sleeping outside did not sit well with him. He continued whining after they arrived and started setting up camp, even though this particular spot was just perfect for their purposes. The river was very wide and clear here with a sandy bottom, and remained shallow for a good ways out, but the earth and grass around it was flat and packed in well and surprisingly dry.
Tom was eager to explore the surrounding woods and get a good hike in, being more outdoorsy than most that didn't know him would take him for. The others accompanied him for as much as they were physically able, although Sparky was willing to be a little more adventurous as he trundled over the lose earth and sticks and pine cones. At least until a rather large log had been jarred loose enough after Tom had entertained everyone with a balancing act on it that it began to roll down the hill, picking up speed and leading to an Indiana Jones moment with the human and forklift laughing and scrambling back down the hill in front of it, to the shouts of caution and alarm from the others down below.
It was getting later in the afternoon now, and the temperature had risen to the point where Dusty declared that he was getting in the water, although Skipper had already beaten him to it, and was nearly submerged up to his eyes out toward the deeper part of the river. Clarice had borrowed and driven Hugh's old Chevy to drive out to the camp site, and now it sat with the doors open and each of the humans on either side behind them changing into their swimsuits. Clarice stepped out first in this little black and white two-piece, a pin-striped vintage number with ruffles around the trim that looked like she could have ordered it straight from Paris.
"Hey Miss Beach Queen!" Dusty called, "You look awesome!"
"Thanks!" Clarice smiled.
She was just about to undo the cover up around her waist when she noticed Ripslinger was staring at her, expressionless except for eyes that were wide in unblinking shock. She wondered for a moment, and as funny as it was to see such a plane completely taken aback like that, being the kind of girl she was quickly overwrote that as her expression soured down.
"The fuck are you starin' at?"
Ripslinger took a soft breath as if to speak, looking entirely uncomfortable as he looked her up and down, but for once in his life was at a complete loss for any kind of comeback. Then Tom came out from behind the truck wearing deep navy blue trunks with a white skull design in front of an ace of spades on the right leg that looked just a tad too big for him. The P-51 then stared back and forth between the two of them one or two times, looking even more weirded-out, before huffing with a snort of his exhausts and going over to lay down in the grass under a tree, sulking. Tom looked over at him, confused, while Clarice took the cover up off the rest of the way.
"What a baby," she muttered as she threw it onto the hood of the truck.
With that awkwardness out of the way, everybody turned their attentions to the river. The humans and, to a lesser extent, aircraft had a bit more leeway as far as being in the water, but the rest of the group could do little more than get their wheels wet. Especially Chug, who had to be careful of getting stuck due to his considerable weight compared to Dottie and Sparky. Both humans were excellent swimmers, especially Clarice, who's Summers were spent swimming in the Gulf before coming to the Vivens machina's side of the sky. She would dive like a duck, her perfect, painted little toes sinking beneath the surface, and then everyone secretly take bets with each other as to where she would end up finally surfacing.
Ripslinger watched as Skipper allowed both humans to take turns using his long nose to dive off of. Tom had just done a jack-knife into the water when Dusty had come up to him, dripping from just being in the river.
"You wanna explain what the heck that was earlier?"
"Well, I..." Ripslinger faltered before screwing up some annoyed bravado, "You're telling me that that doesn't bother you at all?"
"Why should it bother me?" Dusty asked, "That's just the way they are; they're just wearing less clothes. I mean, to them, me and you are naked right now, and you don't see them freaking out."
"I'm not freaking out!" said Ripslinger defensively.
"Well then what's the problem? Why don't you come in the water with us?" the smaller plane suggested. "Just get used to it. I was the same at first, but I actually really like it now. It's nothing to be weird about, you'll see."
"I'll pass."
"Why?"
"Because airplanes and water aren't supposed to go together."
"What's the matter, are you scared? It stays really shallow pretty far out and the water's real clear."
"I'm not fuckin' scared!"
"Then come on! You dumped me in the ocean, and I got over it."
Ripslinger shot him an acidic stare then.
"Alright, fine!" he relented irritably, "But I'm not gonna like it!"
"Oh, you're going to like it," Dusty assured as they both made their way to the river's edge, then he bolted back into the water, splashing Ripslinger a bit with muddy water that he'd kicked up. "It's fun to swim! Just don't go where the water's higher than your intakes because than you might really drown."
"Thank you Dusty," the P-51 dead-panned glumly as he tentatively put his front wheels in the water.
He ventured further out, the water just coming over the level of his front landing gear, but then his left wheel rolled over a particularly silty spot and slipped out from underneath him, sending him crashing down into the water with a considerable splash. He lay there, water nearly up to his intakes and eyes shut tight as he fought back his embarrassment as the rest of the group tried their hardest not to laugh. At least everyone except Clarice, who had busted up with that loud, obnoxious "Ha ha ha!" laugh of hers when surprised by something she thought was funny.
"You okay?" she laughed, wading up a litter closer than she normally would. "How's the taste?"
Ripslinger lifted himself back up out of the water and then sprayed water out from between his teeth, hitting the human girl and knocking her down.
"I don't know, you tell me," he said nonchalantly as Clarice struggled back up out from under the water, spluttering as she pulled soaked curtain that was her hair apart form her face.
"You're such a fucking prick!"
Now that things were even, swimming commenced once again, although Ripslinger didn't do much other than just sit where he was as the water lapped at his flanks, wings just barely above the surface. He observed with growing interest as Dusty chased Clarice, the two of them splashing in and out of deep and shallower water. But interest slowly grew back into barely contained mortification as, once back in deeper water, Clarice had come swimming around and up alongside the little racer's right side. Using his wings as leverage, she heaved herself up onto his his back, Dusty staying still as he allowed her to climb up. She pulled herself with her arms further up his back, sliding on her stomach until she pushed herself up and sat up astride the plane.
Then Dusty, rearing up a bit against the resistance of the water, began to move through it. And Clarice, keeping her body loose even as she gripped him, balanced herself almost expertly, as if she'd been doing it all her life as she rode him like she was on the back of some mythical sea-beast. Ripslinger's discomfort and disgust toward the scene was gradually eroded away into consideration. Neither human nor plane spoke a word to each other. Just smiled contentedly, completely at ease. As if both had done this every day of their lives. It made the checker-marked plane feel very strange, but the feeling was not necessarily uncomfortable or bad in any way. He just couldn't quite place it.
Tom had also been watching Clarice and Dusty, intrigued as they came to a stop. Clarice carefully laid down fully on his back, resting the side of her face against him as she reached down and rubbed and patted his left flank, Dusty closing his eyes in tranquil relish. The human boy then looked over at Ripslinger, who was also wearing a look of interest. He was tilting a bit in thoughtful contemplation when he was interrupted.
"Do you want to try?"
Ripslinger's eyes shifted down to the right, turning slightly as he looked down to see Tom. It was a familiar question from the human. And as many times as he'd been asked while he had intently watched him practice with one musical instrument or another, he'd never taken him up on any of them. He was afraid of this boy. He was afraid of all humans, rightfully so, though he'd rather keep that to himself. But especially of this boy, and what he had, and was trying to offer him, as had all the others in Dusty's little gang, but it meant something very different to the Mustang coming from the human. He looked back again at Dusty and Clarice. That plane was just setting himself up, befriending that girl. He didn't know much, but he knew that humans lived relatively short lives compared to any of the Vivens machina. On a related subject, he also knew, with a certain amount of discomfort at the memory, exactly how fragile they were. Why should he willingly subject himself to that? And yet...
He looked back down at Tom. Ripslinger's only association with being touched my human hands had been pain. But he had let the boy pat him a few times and that had felt alright; nothing bad had happened. Perhaps Dusty was right. That it wasn't really as bad and icky he was thinking, that it was nothing to feel awkward about. Maybe if he just let him sit on his wing. Surely there was no harm in that? He took a soft breath.
"Okay."
Tom smiled, coming up to the big P-51's right side, then paused, thinking how best to climb up. Probably the tail, as his wings were set a bit too far forward on the fuselage to reach his back from there. But then before he could move, Ripslinger spoke again.
"Come on. Up on my wing."
"Oh, okay." Tom said, skipping along the sandy bottom of the river toward the aft of the Mustang's wing.
Now it was Dusty and Clarice's turn to watch, the orange and white racer staring with wide-eyed intent while the girl smiled hopefully as her chin rested on her arms on top of Dusty's canopy, a leg dangling idly at his side.
Tom placed a hand against Ripslinger's flank to give the plane a sense of where he was, knowing that aircraft didn't have a way to be able to really look behind them, and it was always best to move not too quick but be very direct and unhesitating about it with this particular plane. He placed his hands on trailing edge of Ripslinger's right wing, and felt the flap tense under them as the Mustang pulled in a breath. Tom waited a bit, and then jumped, pushing himself up onto the wing. It wasn't going to bad, honestly, but when the human was able to get a leg up to give himself some leverage, he suddenly felt a considerable quake go through the P-51's entire body as he shuddered, letting out a weak, shaking cry of surprise and discomfort.
His body tilted and shied away from the tetter, sending Tom sliding off of his wing and into the water as the plane practically scampered away. Dusty slumped down in disappointment, Clarice sighing from her position on his canopy. Almost.
The sun was starting to head down more into the western part of the sky when Skipper sent both Dusty and Ripslinger to fetch wood for a bonfire later after nightfall. They picked their way around, wandering further and further from the campsite. Dusty for once said little, but Ripslinger moaned and groaned about how muddy his tires were and how the lake water made his plating feel weird and gross.
"We're only going to be out here for a day. You'll live."
Upon rounding a bend in the river, Ripslinger spied a likely looking dead tree, riding up on it and using his weight to push it over so that it could be broken up further. Most of the weight he'd lost had nearly been gained back. His flanks were no longer sunken in the way they had been, although he still had what Dottie would call a "ribby" appearance and had just a bit more to go before he was back at full weight again. It was nice to see him getting back to the healthy, virile appearance that a fully mature male Mustang should have. And his actions pushing the tree down were giving Dusty ideas.
He sidled up along side him as Ripslinger was working to break up the tree, seeming to be enjoying the tension released upon snapping the branches. The smaller plane's little engine rumbled as his breath tickled against the P-51's plating. The green and black racer smiled but yet tried to ignore him, until Dusty stroked his body more fervently against his frame, giving it a few licks.
"You're just asking for trouble if you're gonna keep that up." he warned.
"Of course. I should just wait until we get back to camp. I'm sure Skipper will be happy to supervise."
Ripslinger was silent. Dusty looked around casually at their surroundings.
"We're pretty far out of earshot about now aren't we?"
Ripslinger was still silent.
"What if we saw something? You know, had to go check it out. No one'll notice us coming back just a few minutes later."
And then a sinister grin spread across Ripslinger's face.
"I don't do anything to you that takes 'just a few minutes'"
At that he turned, Dusty backing up at the P-51's expression, looking shyly coy until he felt his tail gear go into the water behind him, but Ripslinger continued to push forward.
[[WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT]]
"Uh, Rip? You're kind of backing me into the lake."
"Yeah?"
"You know sand and mud and stuff's gonna get everywhere." the orange and white plane attempted to deflect, but Ripslinger's usual fastidiousness was apparently far from his mind at the moment.
"I'll deal," he said flatly, his cock springing free of its compartment as Dusty bit his lip, letting out a soft little groan at the sight.
He mounted the little racer, Dusty tilting down a bit before he was even prompted. He yelped when the larger plane entered him and quickly bit his lip again to try to silence himself.
"I doubt they can hear us from here, Dusty."
"Don't talk...," he moaned, wheels digging in as the water sloshed at his belly. "Not now... Just move..."
Ripslinger covered him and began thrusting in deep, almost frantic strokes, his wheels slipping on Dusty's wet wings as he struggled to keep his balance through it. And he continued making the noises that the big P-51 loved to hear. Every time he whimpered, or shouted, or begged, or tried to move, Ripslinger did exactly what he didn't know he wanted in his creepily intuitive fashion.
The two planes' movement was causing them to gradually slide back further and further into the lake, every crevice of them steadily filling with sand and silt. As Dusty started racing closer and closer to his edge, the sun was starting to set, and Ripslinger was driving into him like a jackhammer, face showing the strain of soon reaching his own peak as his Soul's relief and jubilation added to his ecstasy.
[[END EXPLICIT CONTENT]]
They both appeared back at camp an hour and a half later after they'd left, both planes looking like they'd been caught in a mudslide and trying desperately not to smile through the sticks and branches gripped in their teeth. Skipper had been waiting for them. If the Corsair had had a toe to tap, it would be tapping as he stared them down. He made Clarice and Tom go get the firewood after that.
Later, after the moon had made its appearance, Sparky had gotten the bonfire roaring. They all gathered around it with their sticks and their marshmallows. Tom was having himself a time. He loved camping and hadn't been in, well, a while, and considering the company he kept now, everything was just perfect. He was currently sat between Ripslinger and Clarice, Dusty on her other side chattering away to Chug through his teeth as he gripped his stick. Tom looked over just in time to see his marshmallow go up in flames.
"Uh, Dusty?"
"Got it," he said calmly as he jammed his stick into the dirt, blew out the flames, sucked the black skin off of the marshmallow, and then picked the stick back up and stuck it back into the fire.
"Dusty likes to cremate his marshmallows," Chug explained in a dead-pan tone.
Tom chuckled mutely as he tended to his own marshmallow. He had this system you see; he had to have them perfectly golden yellow. Once he had gotten it just the way he liked it he paused, looking up at Ripslinger to the right of him. Without saying anything, the human boy pointed the stick in the checker-marked plane's direction, who looked down at it for a few seconds. He leaned down close to the marshmallow, taking a few good snuffs of it, Tom listening to the force of the air rushing in. Then Ripslinger opened his mouth, a thick, strong, long-ish lavender-gray tongue reaching out, and Tom checked slightly as he watched it change shape, the sides along the first third of it flattening out before curling ever so delicately around the marshmallow, gripping it and pulling it into his mouth. Tom, fascinated, quickly did up another and offered it to the Mustang, and he watched openly as the action was repeated. Ripslinger noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing," the human said, "It's just... interesting."
"Hey, wanna see my trick?"
Ripslinger opened his mouth wide, extending his tongue somewhat, and Tom watched as the plane made the sides along nearly the entire length of his tongue go flat this time, then curled them over until they were touching before making them undulate. Dusty scoffed.
"That's not a trick," he said, "All aircraft can do that!"
And then he demonstrated, opening his own mouth wide and imitating what Ripslinger had just done.
"Yeah, but he doesn't know that," the green and black plane reasoned, amused at the humans' reactions.
Clarice had looked over at Dusty but then quickly looked away, letting out an uncomfortable laugh as she put up a hand at the side of her face to further shield her sight. Both humans had been quite abashed at a plane such as Dusty doing something considered quite a suggestive gesture by their own kind. Clarice, for her part, was hoping to God that Skipper didn't go and do it next. She'd probably keel over dead.
XXxx
Ripslinger slowly came out of a fog as he came to. His mind was scrambled. His sight swam horribly. He was nauseated. His hearing didn't want to work, sounding like he was water-logged. He knew this feeling quite well. He had been drugged. Heavily. He was also restrained, even though he barely had the energy to draw breath in his current state. There were people bustling about and talking. People in white coats. And upon seeing one or two in different, but familiar uniforms, he slowly started to wake up as dulled fear began to brew in his belly. They were Cutters. His breathing picked up as he made a pathetically weak attempt to rise. How? Then, as his tired, fuzzed up eyes scanned around as far as he could, they cleared enough for him to see what was behind the bars a little ways in front of him, and he was nearly knocked sober. No...
Dusty was there, some weird, muzzle-like contraption around his face, chained and bolted to the floor of the cage. He was terrified. Ripslinger could see it in his wild, tear filled eyes as the little plane shook, looking in near hysterics. If he was here, then where were the others? Had they all been captured too? The two planes caught each others eyes then. No... please...
Why was this happening? Again? He couldn't take it. They should have never rescued him. The Cutters tracked him down to take back the crowning jewel of their collection of test subjects and took all his friends too. Friends... At least he wouldn't be left behind. But he didn't want them to suffer and die! Not for him.
Ripslinger and Dusty continued to stare into each others eyes pleadingly, a horrible sense of dread and inevitability passing between them. But then Dusty's eyes moved to something that was on Ripslinger's left side before they widened in horror and squeezed shut, more tears escaping them. Two seconds later the sound of a saw went ringing out through the air, and he felt it go slicing right into his plating just above and behind his left wing, his agonized screams echoing all around through the endless corridors and bunkers.
XXxx
Ripslinger woke hard with a gasp and a start, nearly leaping to his landing gear. He was still at the campsite. It was nearly pitch black but for the moon and what was left of the bonfire after it had been doused down to a manageable smolder. He looked around wildly, breathing heavy and harsh. The terrestrial vehicles were crowded around in front of the robin's egg blue Chevy where the humans were sleeping, Clarice in the cab, Tom in the truck bed. He found Dusty sleeping, nestled down next to Skipper, the old Corsair snoring.
He let out a whining sigh as his engine moaned softly. His landing gear began to tremble. He shook himself, lightly, but it didn't go away, and was steadily getting worse. Ripslinger stood up fully, and quietly went ambling off wearily to try to find somewhere private to get through the shaking. It wouldn't last. They were hardly even an issue anymore. He didn't need to be bothering anyone with it tonight. Not when they were all so happy and sleeping so soundly. Well, they were all happy, but not all of them were asleep.
Tom lay on his back, hands behind his head in the bed of the old Chevy, staring up contentedly at the stars, picking out all the constellations he could find. The stars were unbelievably visible out here. Then he heard a gasp and a shuffling. He poked his head above the side of the truck bed, just seeing Ripslinger's tail disappearing into a bushier area away from the campsite.
Tom unzipped his sleeping bag and pulled it away from him, hopping out of the truck to follow. Ripslinger wasn't difficult to find in this case. His tires made tracks in the dirt, and his wings scraped and took chunks out of the surrounding foliage. He found him shortly, slunk down almost to where his belly touched the ground, shaking as his breath came in shallow, shaking efforts. Concern spread across Tom's face as he carefully came closer, and the P-51 finally went town the rest of the way.
"Rip?"
He seemed to shrink into himself, eyes shut tight, as he heard his name called. He tried to stand again, but gave up on it and sank back down to the ground, a hissing growl gurgling up from his engine. And still the human persisted.
"Rip? Are you okay? What's happening?"
Was this one of those awful fits that he'd heard about? Tom had never actually seen him in the middle of one, but knew he had them. What should he do? Was there anything he could do?
"Tom, please..."
Tom blinked into attention, waiting for Ripslinger to tell him how to help him.
"Go away..."
A touch of disappointed annoyance flitted across his face, but then his sympathy bled back through as the Mustang's engine rolled up in another stressed moan.
"You're hurting..." the human pressed gently, "I can't leave you alone."
"You hah... have to..." the big plane panted painfully, "I'm about to lose control."
"... No your not." Tom said firmly, although his voice was still soft.
He walked up on the green and black racer's right side, stopping once he got to the aft of his wing. And then after a moment's hesitation, he reached out, trailing softly with his fingers down the side of the P-51's face.
"I'm not safe... Not... safe..."
Ripslinger shuddered at the contact. Tom kept going, reaching up again, only this time he had pressed his almost whole hand gently against him as he stroked him. The tremors began to lessen as the checker-marked plane's attention was drawn to the fact that a human was touching him. The same species that had terrorized and tormented his dreams since being rescued, making it just that much harder for him to sleep at night. And it didn't hurt, even though Ripslinger's eyes were still shut as he grimaced slightly. Tom was just letting his hand rest against him for the moment until the shaking finally stopped.
"Thank you..." Ripslinger said softly, "Now please... Leave me... I'll be okay in a little bit."
Tom withdrew his hand, still reluctant to leave the Mustang's side. But he would respect his wishes now. He'd done his part, and would press him no further.
"Okay..."
Ripslinger still lay where he was, listening as Tom's footsteps faded away back toward camp. He released a quiet, strained sob as he tried to press himself even further into the dirt, as if trying to bury himself, eyes shut tight and teeth grinding as a shiny, inky black liquid oozed from between them.
