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Spike found Buffy in their bedroom, sitting cross-legged on top of the coverlet with a perplexed look on her face.

“Love?” he asked, approaching her.

Her face lit up when the daydream lifted and her eyes focused on him. “Hey, you.”

“Hello, cutie. Somethin’ on your mind?”

“Oh,” she bit her lip at the reminder, “Yeah, I was thinking.”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “Do tell, then. You came up to change the bedding hours ago. Thought we had another laundry demon.”

Buffy laughed and patted the space beside her in an indication for him to sit. When he did, she said, “I changed Michael’s sheets. He, uh… had some things.”

Eyebrows drifting even further into his hairline, Spike questioned, “Things, huh? Must be serious.”

She playfully swatted his arm. “Don’t tease!”

Spike grinned and leaned in towards her ear, “Oh, but you love it when I tease,” he crooned, a smile in his voice.

Buffy couldn’t help but smile back but, gently, she used the hand on his arm to push him back a little. Spike took the hint.

“Okay, then,” he said. “What were these things?”

Buffy blushed. “You know… things.” She emphasized the word, punctuating it with an eyebrow raise of her own.

“Condoms?” asked Spike.

“Eww, no. Gross, Spike!”

He shrugged. “It’s not gross. Lad is growing up.”

“I know, I know, it’s just… ugh, I don’t need to think about that.”

Spike lay back on the bed, pillowing his arms behind his head. “No more suggestions then, check. Why don’t you spell out what’s got you spooked.”

Buffy sighed. “Magazines,” she said, adding, “With pictures,” when Spike didn’t react.

Spike sat up on his elbows. “Playboys, is it? What’s-a-matter with that?”

“Nothing. He caught me looking, though. I said I didn’t mind or whatever – that it was nothing to do with me – but he got all defensive anyway, saying how all guys look at it.”

“Well, yeah,” said Spike.

“But that’s the thing,” replied Buffy. “You don’t, do you? I mean, it’s just that I’ve never seen–”

Spike held up a finger to halt her, lifting himself fully off the bed before ducking down beside it, pulling something from underneath. There was a wicked grin on his face as he lifted a shoebox onto the bed that Buffy had been under the impression was used to store actual shoes. Though Spike really only had his boots, now she thought about it.

Her eyes widened as he popped the lid and the top few Polaroids spilled out, the blush returning to her cheeks.

“Spike,” she said, lifting them up for further inspection. “These are from our honeymoon. You still have them?”

“What, you thought I’d throw them out?”

She inclined her head saying, “Fair point,” before tilting it further to take in the weird angle her body was twisted into in the snap still sitting on the top of the box. “How many have you got?”

“Jus’ this box,” said Spike, “Plus another two in the garage.”

“Spike!” she said again, almost yelling as she dropped the photos in her hand as it flew to her mouth. “You can’t put them there, what if the kids find them?!”

Spike chuckled at the sound of one of the said kids sighing a particularly loud groan before shutting their door in response to Buffy’s exclamation of his name. The teenagers lived in an almost permanent state of embarrassment at their folks that he felt proud of, happy in the knowledge that they were each equipped with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

Sure, it was mortifying from their perspective now, but they needed to know what loving adults were like when in a healthy relationship if they were ever to strive for one themselves. Spike felt confident that his offspring would go on to scar many future generations to come, based on their example.

Buffy was still digging through the box, her cheeks growing increasingly deeper shades of scarlet. “Spike, seriously,” she said, her voice lowered again. “Lock these up. No more having them in semi-public places.”

Spike waggled his eyebrows as she found a set that went a good way to emphasizing the topic of public spaces.

“These,” he said, lifting a few to glance over himself, “Should be in a bloody museum. They’re gorgeous.” Suddenly, his dark lashes flicked up and his gaze caught Buffy’s before he added, in a heady tone, “You’re gorgeous.”

Buffy’s breath got fluttery in response.

He stood up, putting the box where he had been on the floor and leaving the ones that had escaped it splayed out on top of the pillows. Walking around to the base of the bed, he held a hand out to Buffy and pulled her up, to his chest.

They kissed and he pulled her even more flush against himself, his hands roaming over her body. When Buffy’s breath became fully labored, he leant away again, giving her enough space to recover and his hands enough room to start working the clothes off her heated flesh.

She gasped when her tits became exposed to the air briefly, only for one to be covered by his hand and the other captured between his lips a moment later.

“Spike,” she moaned, as another door closed somewhere.

Feeling considerate, he released her long enough to lock their own before removing his clothes and setting them up in a position where Buffy was leaning over the bed, him stood behind her, and the photos in her line of sight, lined up for her to look at while he–

“Oh, god!” she grunted, as he ran two fingers along her slick folds before slipping himself inside. Usually, she got so lost in the sensation that her eyes closed of their own accord but, in this case, she fought to keep them open, the images before her heightening the already intensive thrust of his movements.

Maybe he was right, she considered. They should set up a private gallery.