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Idol Hands	By : Clocktower Category: -Misc Anime > Crossovers Views: 2327 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not hold the copyright for the Hellsing, Harry Potter, Bayonetta, or Tomb Raider fandoms. I do not profit from this story.

Chapter List
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What was it about ghost ships and bad weather, Seras Victoria wondered, hearing thunder over the rumble of the armored vehicle's diesel engine as it rolled into the port. It was raining, too. She could smell it over the painted steel and engine grease as the vehicle slowed to pass through a checkpoint. Any moment now she'd be stepping out into the storm.
At her feet was a long, metal box. In the box, lying as if it were a corpse asleep in a coffin, was Seras' Harkonnen cannon. It was a weapon built to ruin tanks, but it also worked rather well on ghouls, vampires, werewolves, and other corporeal abominations. Seras hoped the gun wouldn't be needed, that whatever was wrong aboard the Derleth wasn't her sort of problem.
Please, just let it be a gas leak or something, she thought, as the vehicle came to a full stop. The driver thumped the wall behind him, letting Seras know this was where she was being let off. She pulled the lever that dropped the rear hatch and ran out. The rain wasn't as heavy as she'd expected, but everything was wetter beside the sea.
“You must be the special agent,” said a man who likely thought himself hidden in the shadows. Seras' eyes saw him clearly; tall, thin, his watery blue eyes and beak-like nose reminded her of a man she'd once known, and while his tightly cropped blond hair offset the resemblance, she was put off by him all the same.
“I am. Has anyone else boarded the ship since it docked?”
The man squinted, as if he wasn't yet convinced of her identity. “If by 'anyone else' you mean in addition to the team that first went in, no. We've kept the area secure and awaited your arrival as instructed,” said the man.
The Derleth loomed over them, a mid-sized cargo ship reported overdue a few weeks prior, presumed lost until that very morning when it had appeared in the harbor and docked itself, its crew ignoring all the proper protocols and refusing to answer any attempts to communicate. The first people to board it were the port authorities; none came back and all attempts to communicate with them failed. Next was the special response team, fearing terrorists. When they vanished, it was thought the ship as contaminated somehow, but then movement was seen on the deck. Only then did someone think to contact the Hellsing Agency.
“I take it you've kept the ship under direct observation?” said Seras.
“Yes, of course. Low-light and heat-sensing cameras have been trained on the vessel ever since the last incident, we've also deployed several rather sophisticated listening devices. Nothing unusual has been detected.”
Which itself was unusual, thought Seras, opening the Harkonnen's case and assembling the weapon. Complete, it was taller than she was.
“Are you planning to scuttle the ship?” said the man.
“Hopefully it won't come to that,” said Seras, praying that whatever lurked aboard the Derleth was some sort of ghost and that some other secret supernatural-hunting agency or family would be contacted to deal with it.

Ducking under the yellow police tape that had been strung across the gangplank she silently scolded herself for being so lazy. There had been a time not so long ago when she relished battling monsters, despite technically being one herself. She'd had a purpose, a noble one, and she'd been good at it. None of that had changed, but somewhere along the way she'd begun to feel the cost of having a purpose, the weight of its debt.
“Hold on, now,” cried the man, whose face still reminded Seras of that man she'd once known. “You're really going in there alone?”
“If I'm not back in ninety minutes, tell your superior to contact mine,” said Seras.
Her stomach clenched and her chest tightened as she crossed the gangplank over the gently sloshing seawater. Once she gained the deck, however, the feeling passed. Vampires couldn't cross running water, so the legends held, but Seras had learned that the superstitions governing her undead life were fickle things, likely dependent on how much faith she had in them.
She gave the ship's upper deck a cursory walk-through. As expected, nothing jumped out at her or came running, nor were there any overt signs something was wrong. Once she was inside, her eyes instantly adjusted to the pitch dark as she pulled out her cell phone.
“It's me. I'm on board,” Seras said when the call connected.
“Good. What's it look like?”
She wanted to tell Integra that the man on the dock looked like Walter, but didn't. She wanted to tell her that this ship reminded her of the HMS Eagle, but didn't.
“So far, it looks like a ghost ship. I'm told no one's been aboard since the response team went in, and their watch hasn't turned up anything, either. What about your end?”
She thought she heard Integra chuckle. Never a good sign. “I'm fairly certain the Derleth is at least what it claims to be, a freighter carrying non-hazardous materials from the gulf, so don't be afraid to fire your cannon,” said Integra. “It might also be smuggling ancient artifacts from various parts of the middle east.”
Seras pressed her forehead against the barrel of her Harkonnen, felt the chill of its steel against her room-temperature skin. “What kind of ancient artifacts? Mesopotamian? Babylonian? Assyrian?” she said.
“Does it matter? Find out whatever godforsaken thing is causing all this mess and shoot it. If you can't manage that, take control of the vessel and steer it out to sea. I'll send a chopper to evacuate you, then we'll scuttle the damned thing. The beaches will full of knock-off handbags for a few weeks and we can all get on with our lives.”
“Roger that,” said Seras, not bothering to hide the resentment in her voice. Integra wouldn't bother upbraiding her for it, anyhow.
Taking a deep, needless, breath, Seras put her memories and resentments aside and bent her mind towards the task at hand, walking down into the bowels of the ship where her instincts told her the problem was likely to be found.
She kept to the stairwell until she could go no lower, then followed a long corridor past several pump rooms, the engine room, and where trash was kept. She sniffed the air, eager for the metallic tang of spilled blood, but all she got was salt, motor oil, and rotting trash.
And then she felt it.
It was like walking into a spider's web, one woven out of slimy, sucker-coated tentacles that tugged at her, pulling her in a certain direction, writhing madly when she stopped or resisted. She touched her phone, considered calling Integra, decided not to, knowing it wouldn't change her orders.
“Just shoot the damn thing, Seras, that's all you have to do,” she told herself.
The door at the end of the long hall led to someone's quarters. She felt pulled in that direction, felt certain she'd soon find whatever was causing this mess and blast it. The door was locked, but she was strong enough to pull it open. Inside was a comfortable, filthy suite, not unlike the one at a college dormitory she'd recently been assigned to clear out. Succubi, it seemed, could create ghouls similar to those of vampires except with different appetites. It was an interesting memory to say the least, but Seras suspected she'd prefer doing that one again over whatever this was.
The unseen tentacles were pulling at her hard, guiding her through the L-shaped suite. Around the corner was where someone had spent a lot of time watching television, if the frozen meal containers and empty soda cans left lying around were any indication. Seras had little interest in all that, given what had come to replace the television on its stand.
It was a statue, ten inches high, carved from some dark-colored stone that seemed to shine with a greenish tinge, even in the absence of light. Seras though it a leafless tree, one with scores of thin branches reaching upward, supported by a thick, bent trunk
Into her head like a bullet came a thought; shoot it.
She slid the couch out of her way with her foot, went to inspect the statue. Up close Seras could see it depicted no tree, the branches being closer to tentacles, the trunk a grotesque column bearing eyes, mouths, nostrils, and stranger features.
Shoot it. Shoot it now. Smash it and run.
The unseen tentacles no longer pulled her along, rather they slithered all over her body, making her tingle and cringe. She felt them worm their way up her neck, through her scalp and over her face, seeping through skin and bone to encase her brain, making her thoughts humid and slow.
Shoot it. Smash it. Run.
The sound of her Harkonnen cannon hitting the floor reached her ears, but not her mind. The invisible tentacles squirmed down her body like hot water from a shower, following each of her veins and nerves to their very ends, down to the tips of her fingers, her toes, her breasts. A soft moan escaped her throat as her nipples stiffened. It felt like someone's warm, wet tongue was traveling down her naval, into her slit. She was wet.
What the hell was happening?
She dropped to her knees as her womanhood was invaded and softly set ablaze. The invisible tentacles, like slimy eels, traveled down her long legs while a nest of them burned and writhed in her sex.
Shoot. Smash.
She unbuttoned her over-shirt, ripped open the tee she wore under it, letting her breasts dangle, restrained only by an undersized black bra.
Shoot.
She ripped apart the bra, squeezed her tits until she felt pain. It made it easier for the unseen tendrils to touch her, to fill her up. Hiking up her skirt, she tore the crotch from her panties, plunged her fingers into dripping flesh. It was like pouring gas on a fire, she was engulfed. Knowing exactly where to push, she hit the spot hard, surprised herself by crying out.
Smash.
She raised her eyes to the statue. Her orgasm was so sudden she screamed, helpless to stop the ecstatic fire rushing through her body, following the slimy threads that permeated her mind and soul. She worked her fingers in deeper, trying to squeeze out every last drop of pleasure, but there seemed to be no limit. The harder she pressed the harder she came. Soon, she couldn't manage any motion more complicated than a tight squeeze, yet still the ecstasy flowed.
Her mouth watered. “Please,” she said, her voice thick. “Please.”
Harder her fingers worked, desperately searching for the bottom of the well inside her, the one that had been taken over and deepened immeasurably by the slimy, dark thing that enveloped her. She threw her head back and screamed, both hands now working to find the bottom of her pleasure, to pinch it off and let her exist again.
Stopping was unthinkable. She knew the ache that would follow and knew she couldn't handle it, that it would consume her and she'd never be able to stop feeding it. “Please,” she groaned, falling over onto her back, working her hips in time with her hands, unable to stop coming. “Please, enough, enough!”
The thing that held her mind, body, and soul then relented, just long enough to allow her a revelation, that she belonged to it now, that it would fill her deepest valleys, riverbeds, and tunnels, remaking them according to its own desire. That there would never again be such a thing as “enough.”
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Idol Hands