FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Security was often paramount on a United States Air Force installation, checkpoints and proof of identity and surveillance abound to watch every step one may make within its bounds. Yet hangar seven, with its thick steel doors and electrified fences, was designed to keep personnel in, as opposed to trespassers out. Hell, if you could sneak inside? Go ahead! The cleaning crew would mop up what was left of unauthorized visitors, contact next of kin if possible, and adjust feeding times accordingly.

Pilots were a different story.

Pilots assigned to hangar seven could come and go from the segmented, private bays at will. In fact, it was encouraged. The more time they spent with their unique craft the better, and the easier it was to get funding grants for extended research into an already rocky, yet successful venture. As long as God himself averted his eyes from the goings on within those sound-proofed walls, of course.

Hangar seven, otherwise known as the Bio-Engineering Air Corps, was the worst kept top secret joint experiment between the United States Air and Space Forces, combining symbiotic organisms with supporting mechanical framework that kept these new life forms alive and, most of all, useful. Early iterations had been violent, catastrophic beings of hunger and confusion and despair. Scientists found themselves, instead of Gods, meals. It was with the simple mutterings of a lowly airmen set to task of wiping down blood and dumping viscera into a bucket that the idea to bestow identity and self upon these bio-mechanical servitors was enacted.

No longer a mesh of metal and flesh, but an A1- Abrams.

No longer a seething mass of hunger and hate, but an H-130 Hercules.

No longer enraged, yet still confused. No longer driven by bloodlust, but now drooling fools.

The experiment needed more. These machines needed what artificial intelligence failed to provide. They needed ascension, they needed soul, they needed humanity. Thus, the pilots were set into play. Volunteers all, each valiant airmen allowed their minds to be linked, feeding their memories and morality into the hungry voids that comprised the bio-vessels minds. What was once a blank slate, now slowly twisted and churned into people. What was once confused, solidified into clarity. What was once mindless, now wished to learn.

And it was the pilots duty to provide.

Such was Lieutenant Roger Phillips honor, as the bonded pilot of Bio-Engineered F-35 Lightning II 'Amy', the 'Sky Streak'.

Roger nodded to the tired Hanger Seven guards as he flashed his badge, flight suit dark against the night as he jogged within the infamous hangar's confines and made way to bay thirteen, 'AMY' spray painted in bold, blocky letters across the hardy concrete. Each bay rose to the curved ceiling with hefty steel rolling doors, heftier locks, and wheels larger than he was tall. Familiar sights passed by as his breath fogged the cool air, Harvey, the F-22, Cage, an AH-64E Apache Guardian helicopter, all comrades. His eyes were for bay thirteen only, his bay.

Her bay.

A bio-reader barred him entry, his thumb unsealing the automatic gate that granted him entry to the soft rubber floors and walls painted a gentle sky blue. Amy's visage never failed to bring a smile to his face, larger than the average F-35, her plates were segmented with hardy gray muscle and off-white tendon, allowing her fuselage a modicum of movement and wings enough bend for the tips to rest on the ground. Two sleek digitigrade legs curved from open landing gear slots on her otherwise solid underbelly, titanium talons digging into a rubber enclosure as dreams ran rampant through her flesh and circuit mind.

In place of a canopy sat an inset of two fleshy eyes, elongated and protected by opaque polycarbonate plastic streaked through with veins of self repairing nano-veins, her nose parting to reveal boney fangs piercing through steel fuselage, the gateway to her gullet of flesh and pistons. Two fins reminiscent of tail stabilizers sat limp behind her faux-cockpit, metal ears that twitched with every tinny snore that bounced off the walls, her central fuselage rising and falling as the bio-vessel slept. Even her single, massive thruster, set between vectoring flaps, angled down, relaxed and disengaged. Amy was more dragon than plane, at least this close, and she was his as much as he was hers. Roger could feel the twinge in his neck where the neural link port sat against his skin, a metal connection to his mind that burned with a yearning to be complete.

Roger watched the F-35 sleep for longer than he cared to admit before sliding bare fingers along the solid metal of her nose cone, tips whispering his touch until he rested his palm upon the pointed tip. Electronics whirred, mechanics hissed, and slitted eyes rolled to pierce the airman with a gaze hungry for the bones of the foolish.

"Eeeasy, big girl. My girl, shhhhh."

"Skkkrrtthhhgghttthhtktktkttk… ngh… Roger. Pilot…" A gargle of digital sound, verbalization of zeros and ones, coalesced into a moan that tumbled into half sleeping mumbles. Nonetheless, muscles beneath her fuselage twisted, leaning her nose cone into the warm touch of her pilot. "You left."

"There's my big girl, pretty girl." Roger pressed his face to her cool metal, earning him a mechanical hum that he felt in his spine, the sound of flaps working and thrusting vectors swinging filling the bay. "Sorry, you know how it is. I had debriefs and training."

"Always training. Always debriefs. You belong with me. Pilots belong with their bonded."

"I know. I do."

"You're staying tonight. I won't let you leave."

"I already got permission. Command approved it."

"They know what's good for them, then." Another press, the stomp of metallic feet, and Roger found himself on his back. The pilot didn't mind, not a drop of fear in his heart as the multi-tens of thousands of pounds loomed over him. Hydraulics hissed, Amy gently lying the bottom jaw of her nose cone upon his chest. "Yes. Almost where you belong."

"Ha, almost. Fuck, you're heavy." F-35's boasted a take off weight of seventy-thousand pounds, and an empty, unarmed of nearly thirty-two thousand. Amy promised a generous heft, one she was careful gifting to her pilot, but one he received happily. Another rumble, air slipping through her engine and twisting internal turbines, sent his vision askew, Amy's purr so much stronger than any felines.

"Mmmmm… my pilot. My Roger… Mine."

"Yours."

"Yes," A possessive gleam sparkled in her eye, ports sliding free along her fuselage to let loose seeking tentacles of metal and wire and muscle, the tapered ends wrapping needy around the man's arms and legs and gently across his neck. The thump of his heart soothed her, the first sound she'd heard through the fog of confusion before she'd been bonded. Back when all had been hunger and thoughtless existence. His heartbeat, his engine, thrumming in time with hers. Every breath the bio-plane took twisted her jet intake along with the pulse of his arteries.

One and the same.

"Yours." She mimicked, the submission as intoxicating as the possession. Hers. His. His. Hers. Yes, twirling together until vein and wire and heart and engine melded into one, until separation between pilot and vessel vanished. "Board? I need you in your seat. Please."

"All you had to do was ask." Roger grinned when other men would cower, Amy's maw opening with a bone splitting crack. That smooth nose cone, so often a spear through the skies, opened to fangs of bone and piston and flesh, chomping down on her pilot with a wet smack. Globs of oil and lubricant sloshed Roger about in the gullet of his bonded bio-plane, the F-35 swallowing him as so much meat, lines of muscle pulling him along her throat and into the confines of her control center, situated just behind her faux canopy. The bulge of her throat crawled along the bio-planes neck, her bone fangs gnashing as eyes rolled in their protected sockets. Walls of steel and tendon and muscle hugged the airman, a seat lined of flesh and cushion locking him in and caressing his hands with controls so reminiscent of the mundane planes he'd once conquered the skies with.

No longer, none could compare… but tonight, Roger reclined with a sigh, cool air piping in from outside through a series of bone pipe work encased in titanium, a pillow of warmth under his head and the gentle caress of a tentacle upon his cheek.

"Now you're where you belong." Amy curled a wing beneath her, plates expanding on stretches of white meat until the tip brushed her neck. She could feel him, resting within her, safe and warm and perfect. Likewise, Roger felt her heartbeat so close behind his head. A marvel- a miracle of engineering. Organics and mechanics in harmony… His helmet dropped on a pair of shy tentacles, pressing into his chest with need, with a whimper that rolled through his bones. "Please, pilot… connect?"

"Ha! You are demanding tonight!"

"Don't tease!" A stomp of her clawed paw, jostling her landing gear port, jerked the man in his seat. "So mean to me."

"Okay, okay," Muscle memory guided Roger's hands, the helmet sliding over his head like a glove. The sharp pain of a needle, a tentacle, slithering into his neck-

A gasp, lights and colors, sensation and emotion. Roger could feel the air of the bay. The rubber beneath his talons. Amy could feel the warm, soft cushion of her control center. The refreshing air of her circulation unit and the hug of her neural helmet. "Gah! Hah… ffffuck, ngh. Yes…"

"Piloootttt…" Amy huffed, twisting her head, the fins behind her canopy limp, thrusting vectors wagging, and wings struggling to rise from the rubber floor. They were one. They were together. Every breath, every sensation, every beat of their hearts a lightning bolt of love straight to their shared brain. Closer to Heaven here than they ever could be soaring through the skies, the duo basked in their connection, their bond, souls singing and twining in ways none could understand. None, besides other bonded pilots. Humanity might be playing with forces beyond their control, beyond their right… but at the very least, they offered themselves in return. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love yooouuuu…"

"Easy, easy! Hah… hugh… easy, girl. Foooocus."

"Nggghhh- ah! Ooohhhh, R-Roger, gentle!" Roger grinned, riding a finger up the flight stick to his side with a grin bordering evil. A slow torturous journey. "Roger! Rooooger!" Amy's paw lifted, fins waving, thruster widening as if to launch herself into the sky. Roger let his finger rest at the zenith of her stick, wiggling the rod back and forth… baaaack… and forth. "F-Fuuuck, babe! I'm- you can't. Not in the bay!"

"Having trouble?" Not one to let his hands sit idle, the pilot grasped Amy's throttle like it owed her money. "Lemme yank your pretty flight cord."

"HNGK! Ro-GER! My engine isn't even on! Wait wait wait!" Her pilot didn't wait. With nowhere to send the acceleration signal, Amy found her very brain awash with sensation. The F-35's vision flashed white, leg's falling limp and fuselage crashing to the ground as fluids gushed from her fuel port. "N-No more… mercy… b-baby…" Roger, struggling to control the backlash of feedback, rubbed the musculature of his seat, bare hands pressing into the slight give as he caught his breath. Her… peaks… were always just enough to ride high off, the gentle return to earth one he enjoyed floating back down on.

"Theeeere we go. Eeeaaasy, big girl. My pretty girl."

"Y-Your pretty girl." Slurred. Satisfied. Panting.

"That's right. Focus on me."

"My pilot…"

"Mhm. Yours. All yours." As if swimming up through molasses, Amy clawed back her senses and pulled her titanium talons under her fuselage, ignoring the new gouges and humming a content trill. "Thank you. Fuck, I needed that."

"Same… I'm all yours tonight if you wanna catch your breath?"

"Um…" Planes couldn't blush, but… "Could… could you unlock the two-way camera loop?" Roger smiled, hands still rubbing his chair, her flight stick, her accelerator.

"Of course."

Helmet Mounted Display System.

External cameras linked to a pilot's helmet that swiveled in time wherever a pilot looked. In bio-planes, the system was incredibly important, giving the fully encased operator a view outside their half organic vessel. Yet, full control was often in the hands of the pilot. With a tweak, and a few safety measures disabled, the loop could be reversed, letting the plane turn the tables on their own pilot. Roger settled in, feeling the control of his own neck vanish with a tingle. Amy's giggle dispelled any panic that might have welled in his gut.

Slowly… Amy looked left, relishing in the sensation of Roger's neck turning in time with her own within her fuselage. Amy looked right, Roger following the motion without prompt. So rare it was that she had control. So rare it was that someone trusted her.

Only Roger.

Only her pilot.

And as the night waned into early morning, Roger and Amy fell deeper and deeper into a bond they would never let go.

As it should be. As it will be. As strange and unsettling as it looked from the outside, there were none happier than two lovers sequestered in a bay in the middle of nowhere.

Bio-plane and pilot, together as one.