It was the morning after the most peaceful sleep that Ripslinger had gotten in a long time. Since before he could even remember. He was slowly waking up as the hangar began to grow bright from the  morning sun shining through the windows. Olive-colored eyes slowly opened part way, then something orange caught his attention on the peripheral of his vision and they widened slightly as they slid down and saw a little orange and white plane partially underneath him. 
	The P-51 couldn't exactly recall much of the events during the middle of the night. Certainly didn't remember ever gathering the smaller plane up against him in his landing gear in his sleep at some point. Ripslinger, carefully, eased himself off of Dusty, scooting over to lay down away from him, almost regretting the loss of warmth and the feeling of contact that had at one time been such a constant in his life until it had all had been so violently ripped away from him. But the little racer had still woken up, his cerulean eyes flitting open.
	“Good morning,” Dusty yawned, smiling over at the green and black Mustang, who looked apprehensive and even a little abashed, seeming to have trouble meeting his eyes. 
	The smaller plane got to his landing gear and stretched, yawning again before going to nuzzle the checker-marked Mustang, who shied away from him. He almost looked afraid. Dusty smiled entreatingly, and tried again, going a little slower this time, but got much the same result plus a half-hearted mock-charge with a harsh engine flutter in his face. Dusty sighed, a slightly irked expression coloring his features as he looked up at Ripslinger, who looked rather anxious and just as bewildered as the former crop duster felt. He figured that maybe he should just take the fact that he had actually let him sleep with him for half a night as victory enough, and just give him his space for now. It was quite the bit of progress anyway. 
	Whatever the P-51 had been dreaming about last night during that nightmare had apparently affected him pretty badly, as he continued to act even more stand-offish and distant the next day. This was beyond just him being robotic, it was pure, out-n-out melancholy. He wouldn't speak, he wouldn't even eat, spending most of his time off by himself seeming as if in deep thought, his expression downcast, and everyone had noticed the dramatic and disturbing shift in his behavior. Dusty watched at one point during the day from the door to his hangar as Ripslinger chewed through one his tractor tires, deeply concerned as he gnawed with his jaws squeezing strong and steady, a low, feverish rumbling emanating from the Mustang's engine. He almost looked like he was about to start crying. 
	“What in the hell happened last night?” Skipper had asked. 
	“... I don't know, Skipper,” Dusty replied softly, deeply worried, but still inclined to keep his distance for now.
	The orange and white racer had the distinct feeling that this was probably something he shouldn't be touching, plus Ripslinger would come to him eventually anyway. He had to. And so it was that night when Dusty found himself underneath the larger plane, as usual, but subject to a much rougher time of it this session around. The Mustang's thrusting was hard but irregular, spending more time pulling Dusty back into him as if just wanting to be as close and a part of him as he possibly could, but it was never enough. The little plane bit and gnawed holes in the sleeping mat, trying to muffle the screams ripping up from this throat, sure at that ever-familiar, burning ache throughout his insides and the entire rear half of him that something had to be tearing. Ripslinger's feelings of upset were evident as he groaned above the younger plane, letting out grunting pants as he drove himself in deeper and deeper in desperation, crushing himself further down into Dusty's body. And all the while, feelings of protest and pleading from that odd presence, intermingled to where it was hard to tell from which party they were coming from, were so strong and loud that even Ripslinger distantly thought that he could almost discern words.
	“It's not right... Not right...”

XXxx

	Dusty found himself standing on the same grounds as before, only things were less beautiful now as the place had seemed to have taken on a rather bleak mood. Dark clouds dimmed the atmosphere, making everything look cold, withered, and gray. Nothing moved. Everything was eerily still despite a lazy breeze swirling through the air. As Dusty looked around at the dreary surroundings, he noticed something different. The statue of the P-51 Mustang was standing where it was supposed to be as it hadn't in the first dream, etchings in the brass denoting familiar checker markings. The orange and white racer moved to go get a closer look, having always wanted to see it in person, but was stopped by the sound of a soft rustling and clinking. He went around to the other side of the garden holding the statue, where he thought the noise had come from and stopped dead, recoiling in shock at what he saw. 
	It was the young P-51 from before, bound and bolted to the ground by so many lengths of chain. Dusty stared in incredulous sympathy. It was obvious by the scarring around his wings, tail, and landing gear that he had struggled a great deal for a good while, but the wounds were old as if he'd eventually given up long ago, and he'd apparently cried so hard and for so long that his tears had stained and cut into the paint down his fuselage. 
	The little blue and red Mustang seemed to be almost comatose, having not moved since Dusty had found him, not even opening his troubled eyes as he was sagged down into his landing gear when the former crop duster came closer. He looked down at the young plane, sadness and pity taken over his features, wanting to cry at the suffering he must have undergone, thinking who would do such a thing to a child? He nuzzled little one, trying to offer some comfort. Only when Dusty started to lick his face did he slowly open his eyes, which were nothing but dull, sorrowful windows of trauma and despair as he looked up at him. And the orange and white racer's own eyes widened in horrified revelation, sucking in a sharp, quiet gasp as his fluids froze right in their lines as he now recognized who this plane was. 
	Oh my god... What was this? What did this mean? Overcome and forgetting that he was in a dream, Dusty began biting and tugging at the chains that wrapped around all over the young P-51's frame. The little plane remained motionless, not moving to start up struggling or to try and help break himself free, all fight and hope having gone from him long ago. 
	“They won't break...” 
	Dusty paused, turning away from the bound young plane, looking for the cold, echoing voice that just spoke as a bad chill shuddered over his frame. The air suddenly rippled and split, and then darkness flowed out. The enormous mass of a long, thin frame rolled heavily but smoothly on its landing gear across the grass, moving closer, ever so slowly, as if to convey that it meant no harm. It stopped several feet away, and Dusty found himself staring up in terror into the creature's rich, red eyes.
	 Orange-red pinstripes clashed so violently on the demon's flat, blackest black skin that they appeared to almost glow. It's very presence seemed to suck all what light there was in the environment away, radiating nothing but coldness and oblivion in spite of the constant hot, withering hissing and rattling of its engines. 
	“They won't break that way... ,” the thing spoke again, it's voice barely there, insubstantial as wind through a cave, and yet Dusty could still hear him clear as a bell.
	“Who are you?” Dusty finally got out, breathless with fear.
	For a brief instant everything was still, and then it moved again, slowly, toward the two much, much smaller planes. Dusty reversed back involuntarily, away from the beast, feeling utterly weak and tiny. Dusty dropped down in his landing gear, lowering his nose in submission. Then the darkness leaned down on its landing gear and reached out for him. The feather-light touch of a needle point under his jaw made his engine want to seize and he rose back up at the prompt; or rather, it drew him upward without effort. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak. This devil could tear him in two if it so desired, if not almost swallow him whole. It turned the orange and white plane's face to the side as if inspecting him and then let him go, turning it's piercing, yet dispassionate gaze to the chained Mustang, who had become unresponsive again. At this Dusty seem to find some of his courage, and backed up closer to the young plane as the dark one approached further, bristling as his control surfaces raised up in an effort to make himself look bigger, feeling ridiculous. 
	“What do you want?” he demanded. “Did you do this?”
	The monster's presence was insidious; a creeping, oily taint that yet gave no hints of its intentions, whether good or bad, and made the tiny racer desperately want to flee. It simply stared, barely there traces of somber amusement in its cold features at Dusty's display before it replied.
	“The only one who could have broken those chains is the one that put them there...” the rattling and hissing in its engines thrummed up stronger before subsiding as it continued, “It's too late...”
	Dusty's face fell in sadness at what the black creature meant, turning a little to look back at the inert P-51, then he steeled himself before looking back up at it. 
	“You're wrong,” he said to the shadow, his voice bravely defiant despite how hard it was to steady it, and the red eyes of the demon narrowed, but there was a tinge of sadness to them as it gazed down upon Dusty, the environment starting to melt away along with his slumber as he slowly woke up.

XXxx

	He'd woken up alone that morning and back in his own bed,  his frame aching and feeling more sore than he'd been almost since the whole thing had started. He gingerly rose from the sleeping mat, a tetter of worry piercing through the grogginess as he went to go look for Ripslinger. He wasn't anywhere around just outside, and he wasn't at the garage. Dusty trekked over to Propwash Junction's little airport and was treated to quite the surprising sight. As he neared the end of the runway, where Skipper's hangar was, there he was. 
	There they both were, Corsair and Mustang, sitting together. Dusty had never seen them that close together unless they were fighting. They weren't arguing, there wasn't even any tenseness in their frames as they sat with each other, silent as they both watched and listened to the town slowly waking up. Huh. Dusty didn't approach them, instead leaving them to themselves. 
	The day was more positive than the last. Ripslinger actually ate something, and was speaking, although only really when spoken to. There remained, however, a despondent air to him as he mostly kept to himself, not being a part of the group but at least wanting to keep them within sight as he went between observing them and dozing, his expression remaining troubled. 
	His attention was piqued as he watched in thoughtful consideration as Dusty and Skipper were rolling and tussling over the grass. The sight of such a small airplane sparring with another over twice his size and several times his weight was entertaining. It was a joke, really. Dusty would dart around the old Corsair, jumping on him and biting uselessly on Skipper's armor whenever the older plane would “miss” fending him off, then casually rebuff his attacks with little effort. The little racer's engine growling in response to the deeper, more substantial but playful rumbling of the larger plane's were so mismatched it was actually quite cute. 
	Then Skipper let Dusty win, pretending to collapse and allowing the former crop duster to jump up again, his little wheels against his side as he landed more nipping bites over his fuselage. Ripslinger looked on as Dusty seemed to grow concerned with how hard Skipper had been breathing, and went around to the front of him to see if he was okay. Then the old war plane suddenly sprang up from the ground with a forceful rev of his engine, Dusty rearing back on his tail gear and lifting off his front landing gear a bit in gleeful surprise. The game ended when the two went nose to nose for a moment, scraping their propeller blades against one another as they tipped their noses up and then pulled back, staring into each other's eyes. Dusty moved forward again, going up into the crook of the fore of Skipper's wing where it joined his body and they nuzzled cheek-to-cheek, their Souls blissfully happy and in perfect order with each other. 
	A smile passed fleetingly across Ripslinger's face, but then a sudden desperate, sorrowful ache throbbed up from the heart of him, his expression melting back into weariness as he slowly laid down fully, his eyes not leaving the two Bonded Companions. The sun was beginning to set as the P-51 pondered over his predicament that had been gradually growing in intensity and had come to a fever pitch two nights ago since he'd had that awful nightmare. 
	It was beyond anything he'd ever been able to experience at this point in his life. This was beyond trauma, hatred, friendship, or adoration. This was extra and foreign after having been left untouched and unused for so long. This was an addiction that was starting to encompass more than the quelling of constant, panicked feelings of pain and torment that fluttered deep within his being. More than any sort of sexual gratification. 
	And he wanted it daily. He wanted Dusty's voice daily. He wanted his company daily. He wanted him to speak to him about life, morals, and the world, daily. He wanted to know what he believed in. He wanted to listen to everything. He wanted Dusty to prepare him for dreams and good things. He wanted to protect him. To shield him from the cruel horrors that reality could deal and prevent Dusty from becoming what he himself was now. 
	And because of all this, he wanted out. Ripslinger desired to not form any emotional ties with anyone, for it is something that he had already resigned himself as being incapable of, and in addition something that they are unprepared for. And he had never been more afraid than he was now.
	But this cold, grudging, cruel, arrogant person so deeply rooted into him... is not him. He knew it to be so. Deep down he knew, but whatever he was before had been pushed down so far and for so long that it was beyond his ability to try to recall or retrieve it. Besides, how else was he to protect himself from further anguish and devastation that he'd already had to endure? Or those around him for that matter? This was why he would forever ponder over and over what it is that this little plane does to protect his own state of self while still being honest about who he is.
	No. He couldn't have this. He wasn't capable of having it after all. Once all of this was over and he was well again and back in the solitude and security of his own home at the top of RPX headquarters, perhaps he would delve into it a little more. Until then, he would try to pull himself together and fortify himself to become immune to Dusty. He shut his eyes, and attempted to conjure peace in silence. 
	Dusty meanwhile, his game with Skipper over, watched as the Corsair went moseying back to his hangar. The orange and white plane then turned to look back over at Ripslinger, who he had noticed had been watching their sparring match the entire time. He was laying down now, facing somewhat away from the field, his eyes open part-way with a sort of bitter sadness on his features. Dusty came to a stop just a few feet away from the Mustang, who looked up, raising the front of his body and turning toward the smaller plane. Dusty, smiling, then dipped his nose, bringing it back up quickly in a gesture meant to beckon the checker-marked racer to come with him, who looked back at him with a confused expression. The little racer then bowed down on his front landing gear, mouth opening in another encouraging smile, but when Ripslinger continued to be hesitant, he took his left wing in his mouth, gently pulling on it until the larger plane eventually stood up and began to follow him out onto the field. 
	They eventually came to a stop, Dusty bowing down again before darting forward and rearing up, landing against his left side for an instant before pushing off and scooting away again. Ripslinger didn't move, only just stood there looking utterly bewildered. Dusty came back around, this time going for his other side, and Ripslinger quickly turned to face him, stiff on his landing gear in apprehension. He flinched when the smaller plane feigned another charge, and nearly went into a bow at the same time as Dusty. Then Dusty veered off, making a circle around the green and black plane's body while he turned to keep a nervous bead on his movements, and when he shot back out in front of him, Ripslinger had actually chased him a little ways before skidding to a stop as Dusty suddenly wheeled back around to face him, bowing again. The P-51 was still stiff and unsure in his movements as Dusty caught him in a stare then. That same stare that had first captivated him two nights ago, clearly reading, “Come on... You can do it.” 
	You know how to do this, Dusty thought, holding the older plane in that auspicious gaze of his. I know you do. You're not lost. It's still in there somewhere.
	He reared up a little off his front landing gear, and Ripslinger reared up to meet him before they both sank back down again. Almost imperceptibly, he seemed to be loosening up. When Dusty tilted down into a bow again, Ripslinger turned as if to flee, but stopped, slightly bowed into his own landing gear as he watched the orange and white plane keenly. Then Dusty reared up again and the two planes tussled for a bit before he gave chase as Ripslinger went wheeling away. The chase went down and back aways across the field in the evening twilight before they lifted up off their landing gear into the crooks of the fore of their wings, biting and snapping playfully at each other before lowering back down. 
	They paused, both planes panting slightly as they faced one another. The stars were beginning to come out in the sky. Dusty was delighted at the expression of energized amusement on the Mustang's face. Not a full smile, but still positive and a good sign nonetheless. It filled the little plane with hope. He could have jumped up and licked and nuzzled him if he knew it wouldn't make Ripslinger uncomfortable and ruin the moment. So Dusty simply smiled up at him, the checker-marked racer looking back with a curious expression. He looked down then, contemplating something before moving off for his usual stargazing spot on the cliffs. Dusty let him go, staring after him for a bit before turning and heading back to his hangar. 

XXxx

	It was getting late. Ripslinger had yet to return. Dusty lay awake on his sleeping mat, the lights not yet turned out, pondering the day and all the other things that have happened since Ripslinger had been set free among them. His alternating aggressive and despondent behavior. His confused responses toward most forms of gestures and behaviors between aircraft. The dream that he had last night. How he was able to get Ripslinger to spar with him, for what felt almost like the Mustang never done such a thing in his whole life. But still. That spectral demon in the dream had to be wrong. 
	The little plane almost hadn't noticed Ripslinger making his entrance back into the hangar, at least not until he was looming over him. Dusty looked up questioningly, but was checked, his eyes widening and his mouth opening slightly at the look on Ripslinger's face. It was the most intense, sultry thing that Dusty had ever seen, and the checker-marked P-51's olive-colored eyes were darkened down as he licked his chops, lavender-gray tongue sweeping across sharp teeth at the smaller plane's wide-eyed intrigue and soft, shaking exhale. He leaned down, Dusty partially closing his eye as the green and black plane gave him a slow, gentle lick up the left side of his face, a blush beginning to creep onto former crop duster's features. 
	“Ripslinger...” he murmured as the larger plane moved forward and gave him another lick further down his fuselage, saliva glistened tongue leaving viscous, slightly sticky trails. 
	Ripslinger pressed the side of his nose into his flank for a moment, mindful of his propellers before coming around and sidling up behind Dusty, who immediately hunkered down almost instinctively, his body tense as his wheels gripped the mattress underneath him, eyes shut tight. The Mustang paused, something like remorse flitting across his face for an instant before he continued. He scraped his nose cone over Dusty's ventral access panel, eliciting a soft gasp and a slight raise in his tail where he was able to get under and deal another torturous lick to the quivering plates. The younger male moaned, the plates of his panel separating and sliding back, giving Ripslinger access to him at his leisure. Dusty hummed and panted heavily as the P-51 continued to lap at him, tongue slipping ever so slightly into the folds of his slit tantalizingly here and there until the orange and white plane's arousal started dripping in earnest. Ripslinger stopped, lifting away as he licked his lips of residual fluids, satisfied at the response he was getting and feeling unbearably tight down toward his tail now.
	Dusty panted hard, breathless and completely taken aback by this sudden, jarring change in behavior. Ripslinger mounted him then, hunkering down into him and squeezing the little plane's frame gently, giving it a nuzzle as a low rumble bubbled up from his engine. Dusty heard a snap and a scraping, then felt the tapered tip of the green and black racer's throbbing phallus against his entrance. Slowly, he began pushing himself in, sliding in easily, a hiss from his engine mingling in with the growling as it grew in intensity. He was being so gentle, so tender! Who even knew that a plane such as Ripslinger even had any of that in him? And yet he continued to make the wrong noises, the harsh, malignant sounds emanating from the big plane's engine throwing Dusty off as it always did in these situations. But then the little racer thought, when had he ever heard Ripslinger make a happy-sounding noise? Was he incapable? Did he not know how, just like he had forgotten how to play? The thought hit Dusty in a very bad way in the type of sadness and despair it insinuated, and in spite of himself let out a quiet sob and as a few tears escaped and rolled down his front. 
	This did not escape Ripslinger's attention, and he paused for a moment before moving to withdraw himself, albeit reluctantly. Dusty realized what was happening and he quickly tried to correct the misunderstanding, flicking his tail up against the P-51, who got the message and went back to his agonizingly slow entrance, until he was almost fully hilted. He paused again, waiting, until suddenly he thrust the rest of himself inside the smaller plane, causing him to suck in a sharp gasp. He pulled out a ways, then plunged back in again, and this time Dusty let out an exhaling cry of pleasure. 
	After those couple of testing thrusts, Ripslinger settled himself into a steady rhythm to start them off. Dusty's gasping whimpers along with his cock being massaged by his silky interior weren't long in causing a steady stream of precum to start to leak out, the combined fluids of both planes making sliding in and out of the orange and white plane just that much easier. 
	“God, yes...” the mustang groaned out a whisper, his mind beginning to swim so much that thinking straight was soon going to be a problem. 
	Ripslnger's thrusts slowly began to grow much harder than they had been after the initial penetration. Lewd sounds began to fill the air. The checker-marked plane's grunts and growls, the smaller racer's crying pants and moans at the juicy stabs into his body, and whatever soft curses the former had to say under his breath. The more often than not forced link between their cores during past activities was wide open now, both plane's Souls seeming to rejoice, such feelings of almost celebratory jubilation and gratifying relief so strong that it added to their rapture. And Ripslinger was beginning to lose control. 
	His fluid's pumping quickened. Dusty could feel that much through the pulsating dick wedged inside of him; could feel every throb, every twitch within his tender walls. Ripslinger's body had become very tense, eyes closed in concentration. He wanted to bite, chew, to rend something in response to the ironic stress that all these good feelings that he was just so unaccustomed to were causing him. He couldn't ruin this! Not this time! As distressing as they were, he didn't want the rediscovered feelings to stop. He wanted to be stressed. He wanted to re-adapt to them. 
	Without warning, he suddenly felt Dusty's frame jerk violently underneath him, and an even more livelier noise erupted from the little plane, almost a wail. His abrupt cry was enough to disrupt the green and black plane's thoughts and frantic pacing. He stalled, but didn't stop as he tried to figure out and recreate what caused that response. At first he had thought that Dusty had somehow reached his peak first when he had been distracted a moment ago, but since the sheets and cushions underneath them weren't drenched, it had to be something else. He felt himself slipping from the sleeping mat and adjusted accordingly, and when he did he got the same response and then some.
	“Aah! Ooh, fuck, Rip!” Dusty cried out in ecstasy, and the realization made Ripslinger flash those sharp rear teeth in an all-knowing grin followed by a foreboding pause in his thrusting.
	He adjusted his angle again, leaning in, and then unleashed hell directly on the spot that had caused such a stir a moment ago. It didn't take him long to work back up to the pace he was at before, and reach the point where breathing through his intake was more of a liability than he needed. The P-51 opened his mouth and licked his chops to find some of Dusty's fluids still there from earlier. Ripslinger's hot, humid, lustful pants joined the rest of the sounds in the hangar soon after, along with a few more flavorful words at just what he was feeling on his end. 
	Dusty was practically screaming as the P-51 held nothing back now, finding his weakness and pounding into it with no regrets. The orange and white plane was lifting his tail to meet his thrusts, huffing and moaning loudly. He couldn't think, all he could do was feel; and the pleasure was so immense that it was almost shameful. He didn't last much longer after that. Dusty's frame trembled nearly to the point of convulsions until like a snap he was subject to such euphoria that he had never experienced as yet in his young life, his mind clouded and eyes glazed over with lust as they rolled back.
	The inevitable for Ripslinger happened shortly after, the smaller plane's walls clamping around him almost painfully to where all he could think to do was shove his entire length into him one last time before he exploded. His face contorted, eyes shut tight, he let loose an almighty roar from his engine as he shot his load deep into the former crop duster, white smoke starting to pour from the many exhausts lining either side of his nose as his mouth opened wide. Before he knew it, Dusty could feel himself being filled to the brim with the other's hot, thick cum, oozing around the shaft embedded in him, overflowing and flushing his own seed out with it. Ripslinger took in a few more shaking breaths before that rubbery sensation in his landing gear started to set in. It took all his willpower to hold himself up; he didn't want to pull out just yet. 
	He hunkered down into Dusty, clinging to him, shivering and almost in shock as all the intense sensations and feelings began to ebb away, his entire frame boiling to the touch. He made a sound almost like a muttered whimper of something as he began to calm down. The connection stayed open with their prolonged contact, instead of suddenly severing itself upon release like it usually did. Dusty arched up into him, trying to offer what comfort he could while still being unable to speak from light-headed delirium, trying to steady his breathing and make the dark corners in his vision go away. 
	Later, the two planes lay quite close to one another on Ripslinger's sleeping mat, Dusty's having been completely soaked. They were still just riding out the last of the residual euphoria from their exertions. The Mustang was strangely calm right now. It was a rare sight. Ripslinger was hardly ever just calm, but right now he could have made Buddha himself look stiff as a board. Dusty leaned into the larger plane, and he let him. A scream of discovery and the unknown had been fast coming up the horizon and apparently had blind-sided them both, but now here they sat, different trains of thought running through either's heads, but the general question being the same; what now?