Oneshot. Tumblr!fic. Oh boy.

Butch DeLoria, self-proclaimed epitome of strength, was in front of her, stripped of everything, save for a worn pair of pants once resembling denim. The best part about this image, though? His hands tied to the headboard with the white tee formerly clothing him.

She tried not to smirk too hard.

"Quit fuckin' around, Im."

Imogen just smiled that goddamn shit-eating grin used exclusively to piss him off.

"Oh, you know damn well you have a hidden restraint-kink, Butch." She eyed the growth in his jeans, satisfied, "Besides, I don't believe I stated this was going to be about your pleasure. Though, if you're lucky..."

He tested his bindings yet again, attempting to free himself, though half-heartedly. The sight of the Wanderer circling the edge of the bed in nothing but one of those damn pre-war, men's button-ups (where the hell did she even get that thing?) was one too great.

But he kept that fact off his tongue.

After a few minutes, - or months - Imogen crawled into his lap, carefully, not allowing any of that heated, Vault-paled flesh contact with his ever-swelling length. Damn her.

"God, you have no idea just how much I longed to see you all flustered, tied to my bed, wanting-" She ran the tip of her tongue along a scar on his jaw, causing Butch to swallow a groan, "-me to touch you."

Imogen's hands, once curved around his chin, went to his hairline.

She smirked again, "And to do this."

And she proceeded to muss his perfectly coiffed, pomade-slick, I-spent-hours-on-that hair. Once Butch assessed the situation, he began to thrash, but that only made him bump up against the area she was so teasingly keeping away.

So he resorted to growl, "Don't fuckin' touch my hair!"

But Imogen just beamed at him, furrowed her eyebrows, pulled his head back at the scalp.

"I love your hair messy."

And when he felt her crush his mouth with her own, Butch began warming up to the idea of uncoiffed locks.