A/N: I believe that this satisfies my quota. Though I won't lie and say that this particular AU (as in Reedemed!Walter) has captured my fancy. I wanted to add more to this, plot-wise, but I think it's best to leave it as it's intended. I do have ideas for this AU though; perhaps another time. Kind of want to focus on la petit mort for now...

Would love to hear thoughts :) Alternatively, I love to hear ideas for Seras/Waltern fics...

quid pro quo
(III)

SERAS IS STARTING to learn many things; even if they'd just spent less than ten, no, fifteen minutes in this manner. One doesn't become a Draculina without becoming more intuitive and alert and quick; one of the things being that, thankfully, she can recover much faster than when she was human, or that she apparently may or may not have the libido of a closeted nymphomaniac —and actually, maybe she is— or that she really likes Walter's eyes. She tells him so, inadvertently in her post-orgasm, drunken state. When she realizes she's said such a thing, she blinks, coming to and tries to fix it, "Uh… I didn't mean that..."

He actually looks a little affronted, which, in his state —hair askew, somewhat sweaty with her damn fluids dripping from his chin and damnit why is he licking his lips?— makes it hard for Seras to actually take too seriously or give her the impression she's in any real trouble. "...so you don't like my eyes?" his fingers mouth, circling the area around it as if considering something, and he does it in such a casual and nonchalant manner that it really shouldn't draw her eyes to the movement, and she scolds herself for doing so. He doesn't notice her struggle and she likes to think that he genuinely doesn't; but knowing him, he's probably just doing it to mess with her.

"I just didn't mean to say it out loud," that's not any better, "I just… you wouldn't say that, or well you shouldn't say those kinds of things, I think..." she's just burying herself in her own bloody casket. The only basis she's going off of is her own embarrassment, soap operas, and a book —or thirty; she must sound plenty stupid. Biting the inside of her cheek, she runs a hand over face, suddenly all too aware of her open legs and sleek, pumping spot that's just out in the open, and, having never really been in this kind of situation before, makes her hyper-aware of where she is and who she's with. Not that she's feeling regret, but perhaps she moved way too fast? I mean, if I'm bloody saying stupid things like this—? She turns away, curling herself inward as her arms circle around her chest and her thighs close, suddenly wanting to cover herself.

—and suddenly? She feels just like a kid all over again, not unlike her death at the church, when Alucard hovered over her. What's with me? Why does this feel familiar? What's bothering her now?

She finds herself being caged in again, tenderly and not unkindly; Walter's broad shoulders encompassing her field of vision makes a slight hitch in her throat. She blinks up at him, his soft expression nearly rendering her a little speechless. He twirls a strand of her hair between dexterous fingers, "I told you, there's no need to hide yourself from me," he murmurs, and she wonder if knows more about her feelings than she does; the thought makes her gulp. His sly grin catches her a little off guard, but she has no more time to contemplate the matter, because he's resting his head on the crook of her neck, not unlike a kitten, and he's careful not to crush her beneath the weight, and her hands run through his hands on their own accord. "Call me old fashioned, but I think I prefer a compliment or two during intimacy," Intimacy, her mind echoes back, and it fills her with a nice warmth in her chest.

She scoffs, and lightly yanks his hair, "If you want a nosh off, just say so you bloody goat," she very well enjoys the stillness of his body as the undignified words. She is awarded another smack against her thigh, making her jump, now suddenly very aware how naked she is, "Oi! Bloody stop that unless you want me to start hitting your arse!"

She can feel his grin widen in the crook of her neck, "Maybe I want you to."

"Ah," she blinks, deadpan as she twirls locks of black hair between her fingers, "So the truth comes out, I see; Walter C. Dornez, Angel of Death, actually partakes and is an advocate in sadomasochism practices. Closeted throughout his life, perhaps?" she nods, as if coming to a consensus, "Yes, it all makes sense now. It would explain the wires for sure. Especially the chains you carried with you when you begun to fight Alucard. How about— OW! Enough with the bloody smacking!" He can tell she's trying not to laugh, but the genuine undignified tone in her tone makes him laugh himself. He kneads the sore spot, rubbing up and down in apology.

"I do hope this isn't how Alucard keeps you in line," though she can see the mirth in his eyes and the quirk of his lips which is very contagious, she can also sense just the slightest hint of… Jealousy? Uncertainty? Skepticism?— underneath the surface of his tone. She has to stop herself from cringing at the thought of her and Alucard.

She shudders and shakes her head vigorously, "If he ever smacked me I don't think I would honestly ever have my legs anymore." They share a chortle and she marvels at how fascinatingly easy this is…

"That's a relief then," she rolls her eyes at him even though he's not looking at her face.

Relief, she thinks, idly scratching lightly behind his ear before tugging again, he still needs to get some relief, "I was serious, you know."

He opens an eye to peer at her, "About the smacking?"

"I'm going to ignore that suspiciously hopeful glint in your eye, pervert—" 'need I remind you, you're the one that initiated this by literally tackling me like a ghoul,' he says, "… and redirect you to my previous statement; nosh off," She pats his broad shoulder, trying to indicate to him to get off as she starts to squirm, "It's now or never; you'll be good practice. Now come on, pull those pants down."

He ignores her straightforward demand, and rests a hand on her shoulder, slightly refraining her from wiggling any further. "Actually, if you don't mind, I feel like… trying something else. Something I haven't really experienced since I was—" he bites his lips, looking embarrassed and it makes her want to hold her tongue from laughing. He clears his throat, "If that's okay."

"Sounds kinky; I bet it involves the wires, doesn't it?"

"You're making it really hard for me not to smack you again." He receives a yank of his hair for his confession, but she nods.

It becomes clear what he wants once he guides her hand to the edge of his pants; something like fear passes through her, but it's overshadowed by sheer curiosity and exciting anticipation. She's not necessarily confident, but she'll always rise to a new challenge. The pants come off, and she tries not to marvel too much at the build of his strong legs and thighs. He's giving her power literally right in her grip, and Seras can't help but feel just a tiny bit smug. Her daring nature mutes first nervous jitters, and she idly traces the outline of his firm thighs before taking his very ready cock in her hand and huh, alright; so this is how it feels. He jerks just a tad at the sensation, and her eyes shine dangerously; it makes him amused and just a little bit nervous. "I know it's not the most exciting thing we could be doing; but I haven't really done this since I was—" he means to sound assertive, and to his embarrassment, it comes out more like a nervous crack. "Actually, I've never had this, specifically, done before."

Amazing how he can still sound so controlled despite the growing look on his face. The friction of the calloused tips of her slim finger pads against the tip feels too real, and he has to remind himself that this —them, this, now— is happening, and he's almost shocked. "That's alright; it's the simple things, right? You're rediscovering things… old things that I'm sure you've missed." She's talking but it's more incessant rambling, speaking without thinking as she tries to hone this new skill. He's been ready, so she doesn't necessarily see the transition; but it's still very fascinating to watch regardless, how his lashes flutter against the top of his cheeks, how his mouth is letting out small pants, puffs of hot breath. She strokes; up, down, up down, nothing complicated, and she just keeps repeating the motion, unsure. His cheeks are gaining color; but unlike him, she's doesn't pick things up too easily the first time. "You don't want… lotion or something? Are you… is this okay?" she murmurs; the skin being dry like this just can't be painless.

Her voice brings him back, just a bit, and he manages a shake of his head. Seras purses her lips not entirely convinced, and soon, she brings her hand to his, making sure he's gripping himself. "Show me. Show me what you do, show me how." He considers this for a moment, but he's switching the hands; his on top of hers.

He hears her breath hitch, and he brings his lips to her ear as he turns his way. "...alright, then."

His voice does things to her; amazing things and it gets her annoyed because what the bloody hell, he's the one that's supposed to flustered; I have his dick in my hand and damnit— She gets a pleasure having his hand wrapped around his; what makes her shift nervously is that he doesn't take his eyes off of her and god, who's the one being jacked off here?— Her own walls begin pumping, the only friction being her position on the sheets; she's not actively making an effort to get herself off. He makes an effort to gently squeeze her hand at the head, ascending the pressure a little more each time; he visibly reacts, and she can't help but mirror his reactions. With the glaze in his eyes, the tremble of his chin and the slight buck of his hips, she can't help but almost feel like she's intruding which is stupid because what the hell does she think they're doing— his sudden jerk makes her jump, but she finds her thigh being gripped raw by his hand, "Fuck," he gasps— and she's so distracted by this new, intimate and vulnerable side of Walter that it takes her a moment to realize the oozing stickiness coating her hand. Oh.

Her inner walls spasm and she realizes this is the first time she's climaxed without even touching herself. Her eyes flutter before they are wide, curious and fascinated. They're so close, forehead-to-forehead, eyes glazed, breaths mingling, and she thinks out of everything they've done, this has to be the most intimate. Not the handjob, but this… "I… I apologize,"

He's still in her hand, twitching and perhaps if she were more brave or sexy, maybe she'd lick her hand or something. But she doesn't have the guts. "What… sorry about what?"

"I..." he looks sheepish, as if waking up from a haze, "I… didn't even last two minutes."

Her lips quirk, and she can't help it, laughs. "That's what you're sorry about? Why would you be sorry about that? That's what practice is for. I don't care if you only last two seconds; I can't even last one when I keep having to look at you." And almost immediately she wants to sink deep in a hole because what the hell?! Can I get any more… cliché and stupid and fuck— But her embarrassment melts away, though, when he chuckles; a good and honest one that comes out from the chest because for some reason? She knows he's not being malicious; so she starts laughing too.

And when they stop laughing, they start to talk of all things, despite her intentions to continue exploring this; they talk about everything, nothing, the weather, the manor, but even the most mundane topics somehow end up being the best.

Eventually, they end up sitting across each other on the mattress. Seras is wearing his shirt, which more appropriately serves as a dress on her, and he's pulled his pants back up. His hands are tangled with a makeshift tied yarn, the intricate pattern held nice and firm between his fingers.

"… and this is called Apache Door," he maneuvers the cigar in his mouth to the left side of his mouth with his lips, eyes intent on building the last remaining twists.

Seras tilts her head, eyes narrowed on the pattern, "And what can you do with this one?"

"Several things; depending if I flick my wrist clockwise or counter clockwise, I can get various appendages. It also depends what appendages I get in here. Watch this; put your fingers right… here," he tilts the large pattern and lifts the small finger to specific corners.

"I… don't think I want to. What if you cut my fingers off?"

"You can make more," he shrugs, but his grin at her sputtering betrays any semblance of apathy. "It's yarn; it's harmless. The most that can happen I'll cut off your circulation." She glares at him. "Would you just place your damn fingers in already, blasted woman."

"Alright! Bloody hell, but if you cut anything off I will slap you!"

"Dully noted."

She hesitantly places her fingers in, and lets him maneuver them; he makes it so that she snaps her fingers, albeit rather slowly, just to show her which movements of his fingers and wrists control specific aspects of the yarn. Soon, he has her waving, and even making a hand puppet mimicking a dog. "Wow," she says appreciatively, "I can't even do a proper hand puppet myself," her eyes are glued to the threads, looking in wonder. "Doesn't it get confusing to keep track of all the movement though? Controlling so much with simultaneous movement at the same time?"

"If you have the patience and attention to detail, you pick up rather quick." He undoes the pattern, getting work to another one. "This one," he holds it in front of her, and he smiles appreciatively, "...is a heart. Alternatively also called Eyes and Mouth, though I was never quite sure why..."

"Oh! I see it! You can definitely choke someone bloody good this one if the string were any wider..." she gently traces the edge of the 'heart', curious on how he could hold is near taut. "How do you hold the thread so steady? When it's bigger, I mean; it's enough to get cut off heads," she shudders when she thinks back to their fight with Jan Valentine's little ghoul army.

"That's easy; you just loop it with your wrists. Though, it really depends on the material of the thread itself. When I was younger, I just used regular sewing thread, from a spool; surprisingly steady. Though when you deal the undead and supernatural, it doesn't cut it. I switched over to steel; I had it especially made for combat; the thinner, the better. But anything too thick or thin wounds your palms and wrists if you don't manipulate it well," he undoes the pattern, taking a drag of the cigar and exhaling through the nose. "It also depends on what your goal is; steel is good for ghouls, as is regular metal for humans, but I've stuck with blessed monofilament material since I was fifteen."

Seras knits the yarn on her own fingers delicately, looking at it like it's a puzzle. "When you were fifteen, eh? So, around the Mesozoic Era?"

"Very funny."

She smirks, proud of her little jibe, and begins to idly loop the yarn. "I know exactly one string figure, I learned it as a kid when I was leafing through a book about it, of all things," she shakes her head, as if in disbelief that there was a whole craft about making entertainment and games with just thread.

"You know, little girl, the art of knot tying has been around for eons. It's used as much as spoken language; present in nearly all cultures," he tilts his head, curious at the figure she's making, "There's even a study dedicated to it; it's called knot theory. It's actually mathematics." He snubs the cigarette on the ash tray he has next to his thigh.

"Knot theory? Sounds like it's complex as hell," her eyes are narrowed in frustration, tongue tip just peeking through her lips, "A-ha! Got it! Feast your eyes, old man, on..." She holds up the figure between her fingers, looking for all the world absolutely proud. "Witch's Broom! Pretty damn impressive, eh? Actually, I think it's also called Chicken Leg if I'm not mistaken. Though I'm not sure what you can do with this one..."

He refrains from telling her it's a basic figure, though she probably knows it, and as it is, there's limited uses for it. Suddenly, the sudden lightbulb gleam in his face unnerves her, "I can show you something else," he scoots closer, eager as a child would be to show their peers a new toy. He hunches slightly, enough that he's more at eye level, and undoes her figure, "Okay, follow me carefully on this and do exactly as I say..." he gives her very detailed and explicit instructions, loop it through your thumbs, pull the diagonal strand, loop this, until she ends up with something just a little complex looking than the three stranded Chicken Leg.

After a second, realization dawns on what is currently entangled in her fingers; "It's… it's a dog!" She holds it, as if fascinated by the prospect of such a thing; who knew you could make so much with mere string!

"It gets even better; pull this hand," he motions her the movement.

She almost sputters, "It's bloody running! It's a running dog!"

Walter doesn't know what's funnier; the fact that she's absolutely thrilled like a child would be with a balloon animal, the fact that she keeps pulling it over and over to make it run, or just the sheer fact that he's never realized before how Seras is easily entertained. He decides it's all of it. He tries to hide his mirth behind his palm, resting the elbow on his knee and he wonders, for about the hundredth time this night how he's in this situation, with her of all people. He thinks of the possible consequences to all this; he thinks of Sir Integra, Alucard, her; he thinks of all their previous interactions, from when she was first introduced to Hellsing and wonders when exactly they fell; he thinks of tonight, of how she initiated this, more like rammed him; he thinks of the possibilities, does she want this to be a regular occurrence? Is this only for tonight?; he thinks of what that possibly means and—

And then, he comes to an important realization; He doesn't give a damn. Not anymore.

Seras barely has time to evade his sudden body weight that tackles her, though not uncomfortably, but she doesn't protest; her hands roam to his well bare and solid back, just a little more sure, a little more familiar. He's kissing her neck, and a hand is already reaching beneath the shirt —his shirt— and trying to explore every inch of her. She does the same, trying to encompass as much skin as she can and it almost startles her how easy this really is, like a switch; familiar and not at all alien. She sighs more from the sensation of having him on her, rather than the hot wetness from his mouth, as delicious as it is; it's him that interests her more. They don't necessarily strip, because although the clothes are mere obstacles they're not complete hindrances; they're more interested in having the other, perhaps each for selfish reasons. A moan rumbles from her throat, and she can feel the vibrations through his back that translate his own.

It's an unspoken and wordless conversation; just movement and rolling and agonizingly slow grinding. The fabric from the sheets and clothes make sound, all weaving together and blending with other sound around them, like the occasional creaks of the wooden floors, the rain outside. The grinding turns more vigorous, more needy, more paced; and not long after, there's only flesh and light sheen of sweat. Seras cannot pinpoint at which moment she loses herself because she's lost herself the moment she initiated everything —perhaps even before then, and doesn't even mind the infamously rumored virginity loss, because all she can process is how full he makes her feel and god— they buck, unaligned and clumsy, but then their hips settle into a wonderful rhythm. Maybe he curses, and maybe she actually cries out; it's all muted, all blurred in a blissful haze not long after. They repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. He descends first, and then her. Then she descends, and then him. Then together. And again, again and again. Slick and slide, buck and jerk, until they give out completely.

They remain steady, after a while —how long they've done this and how much time has passed remains unknown to them— him on her, fingers drawing lazy circles on a wet back, both heads surrounded by a curtain of his jet hair. His warm breaths hit her neck, and her swollen lips drip a thin streak of crimson. She is almost succumbs to sleep, it's weight beckoning her to give in, until his voice, heavy and sated, raises goosebumps, "Why?"

A question that seems so out of the blue, but full of context in the current situation; she just knows what he means. Her eyes flicker to his, unafraid and sure, "I want you," it's so simple for her, "Do you want the same?" and the message is clear to him with those eyes of hers; I'll be yours, if you'll have me.

His voice is hoarse and quiet, "...do you?" Do you seriously want me? Are you sure? Are you completely sure? Or do you just want that I'm young and more capable now? Because even wondering about it makes him a little bitter.

She blinks and narrows her eyes, about to ask what that means… but then it clicks. "I want you," she says again, "All of you. Do you want me?" her tone is firm, though not unkind; but she will not pine for anyone. He can have her if he wants her; but she will play no games.

And she knows he knows that.

"All of you," he says, hand to her waist and her cheek; "Come what may. I think I'd like that."

She sags in relief, a very heavy weight off her shoulders; "Alright, good," she pecks the corner of his mouth, "I should have just tackled you a lot sooner, then, huh? —OW! WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT SMACKING ME—?!"

He kisses her, just to get her to shut up. And for once in a very long time, he knows everything will be just fine.