Wowee Zowee!

On days like this, activity within the household Spitfire and Soarin shared moved at a dead snail's pace. It was such an antithesis to how life normally went for the two of them that the appeal was undeniable.

They were taking a quasi-nap on the sofa now—a "quasi-nap" because neither of them really lost consciousness, but they decided to embrace each other's warmth and get caught in a state of serene hypnosis while the record player over in the dining room spun a recently released Alicorn Jr. album. The chunky guitar solos and rapid-fire-yet-poppy basslines would have startled most ponies upon first listen, but such music would serve as pretty much nap-time tunes for several of the Wonderbolts. It was the kind of breakneck pace they almost always had going.

At the moment, though, life was good in a relaxing way, and if not for the fact that she hadn't been able to take a nap that lasted longer than fifteen minutes in over a decade now, Spitfire would have dozed off completely whilst snuggled between Soarin's chest and barrel and the sofa's cloudy surface.

Worst thing that could happen today was if she managed to forget where she had put her "big" present for Soarin, or if she somehow misplaced it. Whenever it came time for one of their birthdays, they each got a bunch of little gifts—chocolates, vinyl records, maybe a particular bottle of wine that, given their dedication to staying in shape, they would only drink from with great restraint—and then something special. The big one. The one that really counted.

Spitfire had entertained the idea of saving a feather from one of her wings as a token of engagement, giving it to her partner on his birthday to show that she wanted to one day get married in the way pegasi did, but she brushed it off like it was a sprinkling of dirt and never truly reconsidered the idea since then. Marriage meant having to transform their relationship into something it wasn't before; and if it didn't, then what was the point? And Spitfire and Soarin liked the way their relationship was already.

So no feathers. No we're-having-a-foal deal either.

Just gotta remember to get the thing when it's time, she thought. Something nagged at her mind when she thought this, but it took her a few seconds to get a hint as to what it was. The... thing...

Hold on a minute.

Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the realization. I didn't get him a "big" present, did I? Suddenly it was like she was back at the Academy, in her youth, having to survive all those death-defying stunts in order to prove herself; her heart began to speed up like you wouldn't believe. I forgot!

And it was at this moment that Spitfire knew... she fucked up.

How did I forget?! she screamed internally at herself. Spitfire, you dumb sack of crap! Have all these responsibilities and tribulations not taught you anything?! What the heck am I gonna do, huh? I can't disappoint him like this. Y'know this sort of thing only comes around once a year? I'll friggin' die if I mess up this badly.

The worst part was that, if she didn't find a solution soon, this would not be the first time she let Soarin down. Sure, a lot of ponies had since either forgiven or forgotten about the mistakes she'd made in the past, all those times she had grossly lied to her partner as a teammate, even betrayed him on at least one occasion, but her long-term memory still worked fine; she knew what she did.

"I'm gonna gooo..." she murmured uneasily.

Soarin rubbed his eyelids, waking from his trance, and gave Spitfire a quizzical look. "Huh?"

Spitfire rose from the embrace and stretched her legs. "I'm gonna check my closet. See if, uhh—" Think of something! "If I've got anything good to wear for when we go out!" She tried to make it look like it was nothing, but she couldn't; she ducked into the bedroom and pushed the sliding door to her closet wide open.

"But," Soarin started, "but we don't normally wear clothes, right? Outside of performing and stuff."

"I know!" She rifled through some junk that had gathered on the closet floor, thinking that maybe she had gotten the big present after all, and had only forgotten that she had it tucked away somewhere.

After a minute, though, and it was clear that there was no big present. Spitfire really did forget.

Flying feathers, she cursed. This sure was a pickle she found herself in—or however that saying went. She could compensate for the lack of a material gift with some birthday sex, but it would have to be really good. Like top-dollar, top-of-the-line, I-can't-believe-it's-not-butter stuff. Birthday sex, Spitfire knew well, could be highly satisfying if it catered to a kink or a fetish that normally wasn't paid attention to; she recalled, then, that one time she role-played as Rainbow Dash and asked Soarin out on a "date" of sorts. It was for Hearts and Hooves Day. Surprisingly enough, it was also Spitfire's idea.

But that wasn't even "birthday" sex: that was just a really good time.

What could I do, though? As Spitfire eyed her outfits, what few she had, she considered some of Soarin's other kinds that involved role-playing. She could dress up like an instructor, but that was what she was anyway, so it probably wouldn't be such a turn-on. A Wonderbolt who wasn't Rainbow or Fleetfoot? C'mon, Spitty, you can do better than that, she thought, mimicking Soarin's voice in her head.

As her train of thought sped across the landscape of her mind, Spitfire couldn't help but notice the music playing elsewhere in the house. That Alicorn Jr. record; it had those little modern touches in its production, true, but the band had been around for decades, and they still sounded very much like themselves. They were vintage. Classic. When her mind went back to those gold sounds, it also went back to imagining the pinup girls up the past.

Yeah, those young and curvy yet classy mares who posed for pictures and works of drawn art. The morale-boosters who, back when the Wonderbolts were still the new kids on the block, served as both eye candy and inspiration for many colts and fillies with raging hormones.

More often than not, Spitfire did not find the whole wearing-sexy-clothes fetish to be all that steamy, regardless of what member of which sex was wearing said clothes, but she did understand the allure of the pinup girls.

The bandana whose primary color always complimented that of the mane, the torn-open button-down shirt that provocatively revealed some chest and belly, the drops of perspiration scattered all along and down the mare's coat that said please-fuck-me-until-I-am-nothing-but-a-mess-of-sweat-and-cum, the sultry smile on the mare's lips that only reinforced this demand, the pair of panties that emphasized those thick and glistening thighs...

Needless to say, Soarin adored them. So much so that he tried to keep the posters he had collected over the years as close to mint condition as he could.

It was here that Spitfire got an idea.

An awful, awful, awful idea...

"Hey, Soarin," she called out. "Where'd you put those posters of yours?"

"The pinup ones?" Soarin was changing the record to Side B, as it had just finished. "What for?"

"Oh, just to have a quick look."

Unbeknownst to the stallion with the record player, Spitfire started to grin like a villain who was about to get away with everything.