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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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Hiding in the hedges outside the Hellsing Manor, Hermione Granger looked herself over carefully in the mirror she'd conjured thinking her maid uniform looked fairly modern and convincing, even if it felt like a costume. With a flick of her wand, she vanished the mirror, leaving a faint hollow in the hedge which she did her best to conceal, not that she thought anyone was likely to notice, given the shabby state of the hedges.
It was time. No more waiting. Hermione only hoped Sir Integra Hellsing was an easier person to please than people made her out to be, not because she feared for her job as a maid, but for her career as a spy for the Ministry of Magic.
With her wand strapped to her thigh beneath her skirt, Hermione walked briskly down the gravel path to the front door of the stately and imposing Hellsing Manor. The sun was on its way down; an odd time to be meeting a new employer, but Hermione had been told to expect oddness from the Hellsings. At the door, she used the brass knocker as she'd been instructed to do. The door opened instantly, as if Sir Integra Hellsing had been waiting behind it.
Bronze skin, long yellow hair, dressed in an olive-drab paramilitary suit, Integra Hellsing would have made for a striking visual even without the eye patch. Hermione bowed in greeting, her eyes lingering over Integra's slender figure. "Good day, ma'am. Hermione Granger, at your service."
Integra smiled in a way that made Hermione certain she'd just broken some obscure rule of etiquette known to none outside the nobility. "Come, I'll show you to your quarters," said Integra, conspicuously not bothering to introduce herself. "I understand there's been a bit of a mix-up with your things, but they should arrive in the morning."
That was fine with Hermione. So long as she had her wand, she held everything she needed. Or so she thought, until the instant she put a foot over the manor's threshold and nearly went stumbling backward out of the house.
"Are you alright?" said Integra.
"Just tripped a bit is all," said Hermione, recovering her wits if not all of her nerves. The air in the house had felt impossibly thick the moment Hermione stepped through the door, almost tangible, but then the sensation vanished, leaving her with impression that whatever she'd felt hadn't disappeared at all, but had retreated instead.
Integra was glaring at her. A mad image flashed inside Hermione's mind, of Integra standing behind her with a riding crop, correcting her. The thought made her toes curl.
"Be careful, it's an old house," said Integra, her expression softening as she led the way into the kitchen. "I trust you can find your way around this room on your own? I've been eating MREs since my previous butler left my service and I'm getting rather tired of them."
"I think I can manage," said Hermione, who'd planned on using sorcery to fill in the blanks on her housekeeping resume. Another image came before her eyes, of her being chained to a dungeon wall, of Integra holding a long, red candle dripping hot wax. "Will you be taking a meal this evening?"
"It's late, so no. And don't worry about breakfast, I'm never up for it," said Integra.
More images. Hermione nude, chained by a collar around her neck to the foot of a large post bed. The carpet was soft against her skin, easy on the welts. She watched Integra on the bed, coupling with something she couldn't quite picture.
Integra took her though the entire house, showing off every bedroom, sitting room, hallway, and gallery. Each room brought some new vignette to assail Hermione's mind, each one more lewd and degrading than the last. She wanted to stop and linger on them, but the tour kept on until finally they came to Integra's office, a huge room with a massive window overlooking an unkempt orchard. Integra bid Hermione to sit in a chair across from her desk. Instead, Hermione almost kneeled, catching herself at the last second so it looked like a stumble.
"Are you sure you're alright?" said Integra.
"Yes, ma'am, sorry. New shoes, you see, still breaking them in."
Integra's eyebrow went up and Hermione felt certain she was about to be whipped. It was mad thought to have, one that made her toes curl and her underwear moisten. It took some effort to peel her eyes away from Integra, to get a good look around the room. There wasn't much to it, some paintings, a few maps, a bookcase, all of it tucked away in a perpetual shade of evening.
"Right," said Integra, plucking a tiny brown cigar from a silver case and sticking it between her lips. "There's a few things you should know about this place before the sun sets."
"Oh?" said Hermione, genuinely curious about how Sir Integra Hellsing planned to spin her family's mission to a civilian.
"Do you believe in... the supernatural?"
The dungeon again, Hermione naked and chained, her chest and stomach covered in red wax. She swore she wasn't a witch as the rack tightened. "The supernatural? No, ma'am, I suppose I don't," said Hermione, trying to sound as though admitting to a failure since she didn't know what answer Integra wanted to hear.
Integra produced a silver lighter from her pocket, lit her cigar. The smoke hit Hermione's nose and she stiffened at the sudden though of Integra putting the cigar out on her nipple. She had enjoyed a kinky thought or two in her private time, even a few featuring women, but these were something else, more intense, visceral. Her toes curled tight, she needed a change in panties.
"I suppose that's for the best," said Integra. "As I mentioned before, this is an old house. Like any old house, it has its quirks. Past housekeepers have reported seeing things... ghosts, I suppose. I don't believe in any of it myself, but I'll admit the place can give off certain, shall we say, impressions."
"Impressions?" said Hermione, clearly picturing herself standing nude in the middle of the room, blindfolded while Integra circled her, inspecting her as if she were a slab of beef.
"Yes, impressions. They're just that, impressions."
Hermione, who'd known damn well there was something supernatural in the house, was now even more disturbed by it. "Of course, ma'am. I've worked in a few manors like this one before, you're right, they all have their quirks."
This seemed to satisfy Integra, who took a long drag from her cigar as she took some papers from her desk. Hermione felt something tight around her neck, something made from leather. She rubbed her throat as Integra slid the papers across her desk and bid Hermione to read and sign them. They were nondisclosure agreements, each stricter and scarier than the last, enforceable by multiple courts across the globe. Hermione fought the urge to claw at her neck, repeatedly telling herself the feeling wasn't real, it was being put there by something.
When the papers were all signed and slid back over to Integra, the leather strap around Hermione's throat released. She gasped for the air she didn't need.
"Are you sure you're alright?" said Integra, stuffing the papers back in their drawer.
"Fine, ma'am, sorry. A bit tired, I suppose."
"I'll show you to your quarters, then," said Integra.
Hermione felt nude following Integra through the gloomy halls to the other side of the compound where Victorian wallpaper gave way to gray stone. Nude and being led along by a chain attached to her nipples.
She prayed there would be a shower in her room, one that blasted ice cold water.
Whatever Hermione had felt at the front door was waiting for her in her quarters. As before, it withdrew, but more deliberately this time, as if it had wanted her to know it was nearby. It had wanted her to feel it.
The room was small, stuffy. Someone had lived in it for a long time, but it was clear no one had called it home for several months, maybe longer. There was a bed, a stuffed chair, bookshelves, a television.
"There are two more things you should be aware of," said Integra, standing in the doorway, blowing her cigar smoke into the hall. Hermione imagined the warm smoke hitting her in the face, filling her lungs. "One, my other servant, Seras Victoria, keeps odd hours. She's responsible for security around here, so you'll likely see her patrolling the halls if you're up at night. You're not required to speak to her, and you can count on her to investigate any noises you might hear. Second, at the end of this hallway is the stairwell to the basement. You don't need to clean down there, and the staircase isn't safe."
Hermione nodded, smiling. "Right, ma'am. Not to worry, I don't wander much after dark."
"All for the best," said Integra. "Well, good evening. I'll see you in the morning."
Some of the smoke from Integra's cigar lingered on in the room. Hermione breathed it in, felt it enter her veins through her lungs and cling to her brain. When she finally blinked and shook her head clear, she found herself on her knees, skirt hiked above her waist, her fingers deep inside her pussy. She gasped and straightened herself out, feeling violated even though it was her own slick fingers she brought to her lips and sucked clean.
She hiked up her skirt again, drew her wand. Waiving it around her head she murmured an incantation, one she hoped would at least provide some respite from the mental bombardment she was under. She waited, noticed no difference in her thoughts or feelings.
Wand out, she used a spell to summon a book from the nearby shelf. "The Carnacki Files." Hermione had been expecting something about vampires, but she supposed the Hellsings didn't confine their pest removal work to bloodsuckers. She concentrated on the book with the same intensity she'd always mustered in her school days, soon found herself reading about a stone floor with lips. Her ward seemed to have worked, though not completely. She was thinking of the basement and what sorts of medieval torture devices were kept down there. Perhaps a rack, one she could be stretched over and whipped, licked.
She set the book aside and cast another warding spell on herself. It almost failed, so consumed was she by the image of herself standing in the middle of a room, naked, bound head to foot in silken ropes, trying to stand in one place while all around her seethed a mass of black tentacles.
This wouldn't do, she thought. She had to make her move tonight, no, this very instant. With her wand hidden up her sleeve, she went into the hallway and started for the basement, doubting the stairs were the real danger. The basement door was around the corner, ancient oak planks held together by black iron straps. She was assailed by vivid images of herself sitting naked across a steel cavaletto, her juices dripping down the sides as she ground against it in ecstasy and pain.
What in the name of Merlin was Hellsing keeping in the basement?
The oak-iron door was locked. A simple spell opened it, a simpler one made the tip of Hermione's wand glow, giving her just enough light to make her way down the creaking wooden steps. The basement, she soon realized, was more in line with her recent visions than a proper basement. Hermione followed a stone corridor away from the stairs, using the bizarre thoughts popping into her head as a guide. The more vivid, sexual, and degrading, the images, the closer she figured she was getting to their source.
Her common sense told her to flee, to summon backup from the Ministry, to tell them there was powerful dark magic at work in the Hellsing Manor that needed to be neutralized, but the visions, terrible as they were, pulled her further into the gloom. She stalked past unlit cells, sound-proof rooms with drains in the floor, walls lined with torture devices designed in the middle ages and manufactured recently with stainless steel, all the while thinking about what it would be like to be bound in the middle of one of those rooms, left helpless against being ravaged by creatures drooling in the shadows.
Thoughts that should have sent her running instead called her further down, to the room where the thing sat, waiting. The air was impossibly heavy, like gelatin. It was hard to draw breath. Her wand-light was dimmer here, but it showed her the source of it all well enough, an obsidian sculpture resting on wooden altar at the back of the circular room. She walked across the ceremonial red carpet towards it, trying to puzzle out what it was supposed to be. A tree, perhaps, one with scores of twisting branches. No, not branches. Not a tree. Something built for the sole purposed of reaching out, of spreading. A slime mold gone sentient and mad.
She didn't remember kneeling in front of it, didn't remember tearing open the front of her shirt, of pulling up her skirt to reach her wet pussy. She couldn't remember ever being this slick, this much in need. It was like rubbing a lump of rubber for all she could feel. She fingered herself harder, nothing she did provided any relief.
"Please," she heard herself whispering.
Her wards were broken, her mind unprotected from the torrent of alien images washing over her, their fountainhead only a few feet away. She saw herself bound with leather cords, her feet pulling against a noose around her neck while something squirmed happily between her legs. She rubbed herself harder with her fingers, probed deeper, searching for any bit of flesh with nerve endings.
"Please," she moaned, begging the black, twisted idol she knew was doing this. Begging it not to stop, but to let her be satisfied.
A tentacle came for her out of the shadows, caressing her buttocks before burrowing into her, making her squeal. She felt it sliding deep inside her, winding its way through her guts, pushing past sphincters not meant for that direction of passage. It wound its way around her stomach, coming up into her throat and out her mouth.
She returned to reality gagging, still kneeling before the idol with wet fingers and a dripping pussy. No monstrous tendril threaded her innards. "Please, just end it," she said, not caring what the dark object did to her so long as it brought an end to the numb torment between her legs.
"Weren't you told to stay out of here?" came a woman's voice from directly behind her.
Hermione turned, her legs splayed apart as she looked up at what had to be Seras Victoria. Tall, leggy, with a mess of straw-blond hair, she was Hermione's age, at least physically. The red tint of her eyes held Hermione's gaping stare.
"W-what's... happening," said Hermione.
"I'm not sure," said Seras, her voice far away. "Sir Integra won't be happy to hear about this."
Her mind too fogged to truly think, Hermione said the first thing on her tongue. "Please, you don't have to tell her."
"Well, maybe," said Seras. "Stand up."
Hermione got to her feet, trying to block Seras' view of her still-glowing wand.
"What's that?" said Seras, pointing.
"Nothing. A flashlight," Hermione said, dumbly watching Seras pick up her wand and examine it, looking for an off-switch.
"I don't think you're a maid at all," said Seras, trying to wipe the light off the wand tip with her fingers.
On her knees still, Hermione tried to conceal the fact she was still touching herself, though it was to no avail. The air, so thick, like a warm, wet blanket. This had to be a dream, one of the weird ones.
The door opened, closer than Hermione remembered it being, and in came the smell of stale cigar smoke and gunpowder. "What is the meaning of this?" Integra said.
Seras' body immediately stiffened and she raised her free hand in salute. "Sir Integra, I've captured a spy. I think."
Integra snapped her fingers and held out her hand for the wand, which Seras turned over, still glowing. Hermione thought her wand was about to be broken in two, but then Integra seemed to completely lose interest in it.
"How rude of you, Seras; interrupting our new maid during her private time," said Integra.
Seras flushed red. "S-sir? That's clearly a wand..."
"Hush. Let's allow her to finish."
A long silence followed, during which Hermione remembered her shirt was open, her lower half exposed. The air, so heavy and thick, had made her feel clothed, but now it was doing the opposite, exposing her on a molecular level. It was a sick, delicious feeling.
A knowing, lewd smile wiped the wonderment from Seras' face, as if she suddenly remembered she and Integra were both in on some conspiracy. "Right, how rude of me. Carry on, then."
"Hermione," said Integra. "Well? We haven't got all night."
Convinced this was certainly a dream or another vivid hallucination, Hermione pressed her fingers into her pussy, trying in vain to trigger any sense of pleasure or release. A sad, futile effort, especially now that she had an audience.
"Come on now, put some effort into it," said Integra. "You went against my explicit instructions to be here and do this, best make it worthwhile."
Hermione sat back, spread her legs so her watchers could see her wet fingers working uselessly between the clefts of her womanhood. She focused on the stone floor in front of her, glancing up every other moment to heighten the sense of humiliation and shame she felt. Why was she doing this? Why was this happening? The artifact behind her, no doubt. She could sense its presence growing, looming over the back of her, tall as a tree.
"Seras, it looks like our new housekeeper is having some trouble managing her affairs," said Integra.
"Looks that way, ma'am," said Seras.
"Sort her out, won't you?"
Hermione stopped masturbating. Her heart hammering, she looked up at Seras, terrified. She scooted back a few centimeters as the woman stepped closer. Hermione's toes curled when Seras got down on her hands and knees and crawled between her legs. Gently, she took Hermione's hand and brought her wet fingers to her mouth.
The woman's tongue felt strange. Granted, Hermione hadn't experienced her digits being fondled by many people's tongues before, but she didn't think they were supposed to be this long, this agile, or this powerful. She quivered as Seras let them go and dropped her attention to the wet, pinkness laid out before her. Seras lapped Hermione like a dog at first, just to taste her. The difference between the woman's tongue and her own fingers was immediate. A fire had been lit below her navel and she couldn't stop it from burning hotter. She nearly came the moment Seras' tongue rolled around her clitoris.
"Finish her quickly, Seras," said Integra.
"She won't last much longer, ma'am" Seras said before tickling Hermione's slit with the tip of her lengthy tongue.
Every muscle in Hermione's body was on fire, as if it had all been dry tinder before, now touched by a blowtorch. Seras tongue slid deep inside her, swelling, stretching her out, electrifying and scorching her nerves all at once, turning her brain to ash. She couldn't remember where she was. The floor of her room? She wasn't a dirty little maid being punished, she was a dirty little spy for the Ministry being punished, interrogated, degraded. She'd tell her captors anything, anything her master wanted to know, just as long as the fire never stopped burning.
When the smoke cleared from her mind, she was lying flat on the stone floor, half-naked, glistening with sweat. Seras sat between her knees, licking her wet lips like a cat that had finished a meal. "I think she passed out," said Seras.
"She certainly did," said Integra. "Quick work, too."
"Too easy," said Seras, wiping her chin on the back of her forearm. "I want to do it again."
Hermione propped herself up on her elbows, feeling as if she'd been gnawed in half. "Please, I can explain," she said.
"Oh, you will. In the morning, perhaps. Seras, have your fill of her then get back on patrol. If you do it correctly, there won't be any need to leave her under guard," said Integra.
"Yes, ma'am," said Seras, grinning from ear to ear. Her irises had turned blood-red and her long, powerful tongue was dancing behind her pointed teeth.
"Vampire," said Hermione.
"Hmm. Maybe more than that, now," said Seras, glancing at the idol looming behind Hermione, before going back to feed.
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Idol Hands