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The first time was an accident. The second, third, fourth, and fifth times… were not.
Keyhole was what one might call a smooth operator. He knew his way around the scene. That is to say – Keyhole fucked. He’d gotten so much interstellar space pussy that, honestly? He’d gotten bored. That was before he’d scored the gig of “Vault Guard,” of course. There wasn’t a lot of time to fumble pins and tumblers while on duty. But he had, at one point, been something of a devilish rogue in certain circles, and he knew his way around the business end of a rake, if you knew what he meant.
Sure, maybe he blew it big time with Pyronica. Sure, maybe Hectorgon stopped going out for drinks with him after that one incident at the Quarky’s. It was an honest mistake, and, frankly, it wasn’t like Bill treated him any better–
Bill. The thought of that equilateral bitch made him grind his teeth together. He’d given Bill so much – his time, his energy, a consoling shoulder to cry on – you let a guy hide a six-pack of Pulsours in your keyhole one time and he starts acting like he’s entitled to it.
Keyhole had to admit one thing, though – for all Bill’s faults (and they were many), the man had good taste. Well – Keyhole couldn’t stand his music. Or his drugs. (Astral weed made him anxious.) Or his alcohol. Or his interior decorating.
Listen – Bill had taste where it mattered, alright? If there was one thing Bill was good at, it was choosing cronies.
Keyhole had no problem applying such a label to himself. He’d been called worse, frankly, and it was just nice to be involved for a change. Guarding the Vault of Infinity got really fucking dull after a while. It wasn’t that he was the only guard, but - well, the others were always so busy – they were probably off doing lame shit like watching paint peel, or counting dust motes, or seeing how long they could hold their breath before they passed out. Lame stuff. Which wasn’t what Keyhole was doing, for context. He wasn’t doing any of that lame stuff.
He was getting off topic. Bill had good taste in henchmen, which was why he’d recruited Keyhole – which was why he’d begged Keyhole to join, actually, had gone down on his knees and everything, weird little void hands clasped together, big fat tear rolling out of his stupid eye, the works. It had been a little embarrassing, honestly. Keyhole didn’t bring it up nowadays because he was a professional.
Bill’s only other categorical win, in Keyhole’s eyes, had been the catastrophic and tumultuous acquisition of one Stanford Pines. Bill’s obsession with the guy had always struck Keyhole as kind of weird and unsettling – honestly, maybe even a little inappropriate – but then, like dawn breaking over a beautiful river valley, spilling through the pines, glistening in the morning dew – Keyhole saw the light.
He was reminiscing now, swirling the cup of Nasty Basty he’d managed to swipe from under Pacifire’s nose, and leaning against a nearby pillar in a roguish and seductive fashion.
The Hammer, straddling him, breathing heavily; in his hand, trailing slime, one of Keyhole’s memories; the connection between them, immediate, unavoidable and unmistakable – it had been one of the nights of his entire life.
It’s been established that Keyhole has gotten a lot of pussy. Just - like, a lot of intergalactic space pussy. Keyhole hasn’t only had sex, he’s practically responsible for the broad dissemination of the concept throughout the multiverse. He’s been around the block so many times they’d started naming streets after him. Keyhole could get a booty call anywhere from here to Phragneous 8 – Bill couldn’t get laid in Phragneous 8 if he tried. They’d kick him out at the door. No shapes allowed, bitch.
That was a little callous of him. The dude’s the only survivor from his home dimension, he shouldn’t be so mean to the guy all the time. Keyhole’s eyes flicked nervously towards Bill’s throne – his attention was on the other side of the room, his bulbous eye watching–
Keyhole’s lip curled, and he quickly raised his cup to hide it. Of course, his boss was watching Ford Pines. Like he was a fucking TV. Like he was the SNBA playoffs, and Ford was the hockey puck being shunted down the pitch. Or like Ford was the star of one of those Bluerays that came with all-black covers, that prominently featured leather couches and groups of guys in tight white shirts– Keyhole quickly cut that thought off at the pass, and resolved to manually remove it later. In private. Probably more than once, if he was being honest.
The Hammer was doing something to the sound system. He was standing on Xanthar’s back, headlamp securely strapped to his forehead – and if that was a sight that made any of Keyhole’s keyholes feel any particular kind of way, well, that was just a fun little secret between him and himself later, wasn’t it? Ford was working in an open electric panel, wirecutters flashing between his grotesque hands as he did something arcane and fucked up to the speaker.
The Hammer raised his eyes, mouth opening to say something - his gaze caught Keyhole’s from across the room. Immediate heat – lightning, thunder cracking, the entire Fearamid quaking at its seams – it was some miracle of chance that everyone wasn’t immediately vaporized in the rush of sexual tension that blasted, white hot, between them. Keyhole held the Hammer’s gaze, revelled in the rush – this was his home turf, this was his playground, you come for the tiger you better be ready to get the horns, big b– Ford cleared his throat, loudly enough that Keyhole could hear it clearly across the cavernous room, and turned pointedly to Bill.
“Try it now,” he said. Keyhole shuddered. His voice was a low growl, liquid honey and amber that sank into all the worst crevices in all the best ways.
Bill snapped his fingers. The beat resumed, throbbing, pulsing – Keyhole’s grip on his drink tightened. God, this was his favorite frequency. The Hammer had to have known. How could he not? After he’d been so close to Keyhole’s thoughts. Not even just close - he’d touched them, sank those malformed fingers right in with no hesitation. Keyhole remembered the low, tight moan that had spilled out of his throat at the first brush against the memory slime, how Ford’s shoulders had tensed, muscles rippling under his ugly-ass tattoos – it wasn’t really a question of if Keyhole would ever get him to make those noises again, but rather - when.
“Hey, Keyhole, get up here.” Bill’s voice broke through his reverie.
Keyhole dropped his cup immediately and scurried towards the throne. The Nasty Basty coagulated on the floor; after a minute, it raised a newly-formed head, hissed at the obnoxious EDM, and scurried off into the darkness.
The stairs to the throne were a little too tall for Keyhole to actually climb normally, so, when he got to the base, he looked expectantly up at Bill, hoping that whatever he had for him could be communicated by kind of just raising his voice a little.
Bill stared at him flatly, one hand curled into a loose fist, resting against the plane of his body as if he was leaning on it – which was honestly kind of a stupid habit he’d picked up, since they all knew his body didn’t bend like that. It was probably something he’d started doing after watching humans do it, like some kind of pathetic abandoned water fowl that had imprinted on the first species to come along and promise to finger its orifice.
Bill was still staring at him, but his eye was a little more open, somewhat, kind of like he was raising an eyebrow, if he had an eyebrow to raise. Keyhole abruptly realized that his boss was not only waiting for him to start climbing the tall-ass stairs, but also could read his mind. If he pretended nothing he was just thinking about was weird or off-putting in any way, Bill would have no reason to check. Just be cool. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong, thought crimes weren’t a thing yet – Keyhole scrambled for the first step, and heaved himself up onto it.
The EDM music throbbed in the background. Keyhole figured that, despite the humiliating ordeal he was being put through, at least this was an opportunity for Ford to get a good look at his ass. Keyhole had no doubt he was watching.
The top of the throne came as a blissful reprieve. Keyhole tried to hide how labored his breathing had become, and struck a pose of casual nonchalance. “Hello, Bill, did you need something?”
Bill was watching something across the room. As Keyhole – again, picture of nonchalance, cool as a crocodile – turned to see what it was he was looking at, his gaze abruptly shifted. “So,” he said, in a voice that was markedly quieter than the norm, and Keyhole felt a sudden pool of dread begin to form at the base of his spine. “Do we need to have a discussion about what it means to be the butt of a joke?”
Keyhole squinted at him. “Boss?”
The eye creased at its corners, a loving approximation of a kind and gentle smile. “Hey, it’s alright, champ. You’re good at what you do! I keep you around for a reason.” The noise from the party cut out – Keyhole looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. The rest of the Henchmaniacs were frozen in place; liquid suspended in the air, mid-pour; Ford was stock-still, clearly mid-sentence in a conversation with a sleepy-looking Hectorgon. Keyhole dragged his gaze back to Bill.
“I do keep you around for a reason,” Bill continued in that same sedate tone, fist still curled, pose still relaxed, “don’t I, Keyhole?”
Keyhole could feel himself sweating. He hated getting sweaty – Pyronica always told him his BO didn’t need the help - it stung when it hit his keyhole – he blinked rapidly and squeaked out: “Y-yeah?”
The noise of the party resumed, spilling over them in a wave of discordant symphonies and exaggerated bass. “Tight,” Bill said. “Go have fun, Keyhole. But not too much fun!”
Keyhole crept towards the edge of the stairs, unsure if this was actually a dismissal, or if Bill was waiting for him to laugh along with what Keyhole assumed was a funny joke, because how could he possibly have too much fun? What did that even mean?
Keyhole’s foot slipped. He fell ass-first down the stairs, each impact wringing out a mewling squeal, each more pathetic than the last – all of which somehow managed to penetrate the cacophony emanating from the dance floor – until at last, he landed on the floor in front of the throne with a sickening crack.
Oh god. He was lying on the Hammer’s chalk outline. They were basically fucking. He surreptitiously tried to rub his keyhole on the floor a little, see if he couldn’t scrape up any of the residue to take back with him later.
So, even though he was pretty sure Bill was obliquely and incompetently threatening him with some kind of horrid fate, Keyhole still wasn’t exactly sure what he was being threatened for. Bill hadn’t imploded him for his mild, barely-even-there thought crimes, which - honestly, really was the only thing he’d done wrong recently. He was probably completely off the hook. His boss was practically the poster child for capricious flights of fancy. He might not have even realized he was talking to Keyhole. He’d probably meant to threaten Kryptos, who was unsuccessfully trying to egg Ford into drinking something out of a jerry can – wait, no – successfully egging Ford into drinking something out of a jerry can.
Well, Keyhole hoped they were having a great time. The last time he’d accepted a drink from Kryptos, he’d ended up in Moo-Ping 10 with weird bruising around his keyhole and a cellmate who kept calling him “Little zamochni” with a discomfiting gleam in his 5 eyes. He was in no hurry to relive that experience. Keyhole made it to the punch table without meeting anyone’s eyes, and was carefully chipping himself a new Nasty Basty from the cryofrozen mass in the middle of the table.
The EDM was starting to hurt his head. Keyhole needed a minute away from the dance floor. He clutched the thawing Nasty Basty to his chest and slouched toward the hallway, hoping to find a dark corner… somewhere private, where a certain human, under the influence of whatever Kryptos was making him drink, might accidentally find himself…
Keyhole wasn’t sure how long had passed. He’d been passing the time by - well, time had passed. He was curled up in the bottom of a urinal, in case Bill got a hair up his sleeve to fuck up the layout of the base again - he wasn’t going to get caught without a bathroom, not this time, no siree. It helped that the urinal cake had such a beautiful smell.
There was a sudden clatter in the doorway – a muffled curse – Keyhole’s heart soared, an eagle in flight, cresting towards its mate, colliding mid-air in a tangle of talons, mighty creatures, drawn together across the abyss between the trees–
Ford came into view around the wall of the urinal. He looked absolutely fucked up. He looked like someone had dragged him by his hair from one side of the Fearamid to the other, then thrown him off the peak into a mosh pit. His eye met Keyhole’s, and– and then kept moving, drifting slowly over the walls, like he wasn’t seeing him at all.
Keyhole opened his mouth to say something, but he was distracted by movement at Ford’s waist – he was undoing his belt. Keyhole’s heart pounded – it was happening, it was actually happening, Ford had sought him out on his own, they were actually going to do it, and Keyhole hadn’t even needed to connive in any way to make it happen, oh my god he pulled his dick out and–
Ford peed directly into his open mouth. It was warm, bitter, and– kind of sour? Salty-sour? Ford’s aim wasn’t great. He was mostly missing Keyhole’s mouth, actually.
It took Keyhole a solid second to process what was going on. He wasn’t really all that familiar with human biology, honestly, and the fact that they urinated from the same hole they ejaculated from was news to him. He came to his senses and abruptly started choking, urine flying everywhere as he gargled and clapped his hands over his mouth. How much fucking piss could the human body hold?
His new, hunched-over, gagging position meant that the Hammer was now peeing directly into his keyhole. Keyhole realized this with a horrified shudder and reeled back – fuck, goddamnit, it meant the warm spray of urine was directly hitting him in the mouth again, damnit–
Slowly, inexorably, the stream died to a trickle. Ford’s right arm, lifting at the wrist, like a fleshy marionette, slowly rose to his face, as if trying not to let the other hand know; he flicked out a finger, and flipped up his eyepatch.
Huh. Turns out Ford did actually have two eyes. For some reason Keyhole had assumed he’d lost the other one in some kind of horrific ravioli accident or something.
“Oh,” said the right side of Ford’s face. “Oh, ohohohoho-- oh man, oh man. You’re a fucking pisspig, Keyhole? This is something you’re into? Hahahahahaha! This is absolutely on the money for you, you nasty little worm!”
Keyhole tried, in vain, to wipe some of the urine off his face - it was starting to dry, and it was getting kind of… tacky? He was getting the impression the Hammer really needed to drink more water. “No,” he said, aiming for a vibe that was more fancy meeting you here and less you just peed all over my face. This situation could still be salvaged. The bathroom was as romantic of a place as any other, right? “I’m– I’m not usually–” he adjusted his position in the urinal. The cake was pressing against his– he needed to focus on this conversation. Be present in the moment, Keyhole, that’s what the book said – “I’m more of a– uh, two-drinks-and-a-game-of-hopscotch kind of guy. If you get my meaning.” He stared up at Ford’s mismatched eyes for a long minute; then, feeling a special kind of boldness that only comes to a man when he’s covered in piss, winked.
“And that’s my cue to leave,” said the right side of Ford’s face, and the eyepatch was flicked down once more. Ford swayed alarmingly where he stood – then, visibly on autopilot, he shook out the last few drops of his piss and fastened his pants once more.
Then he blinked; his eye landed on Keyhole again, focusing in the dim light. “Gross,” he said, slurring heavily – then he turned and stumbled out of the bathroom.
Keyhole moved to stand - he could feel liquid sloshing in the back of his head. He should probably shower, but… man, the shower was so far away, and then he had to towel off, and honestly, the piss smell would probably go away on its own, right? Like, there was no way Pyronica and the rest of the gang would be able to tell. There was no way. They probably didn’t even know what human pee smelled like. If Keyhole was suave and smart about this – which he was – he might even be able to pass it off as a new type of cologne. It wasn’t like showering was going to get the urine out of his head, anyway.
He tried not to feel too down about this encounter. Sure, Hammer had just – well, he’d just peed all over Keyhole like it was no big deal, there wasn’t really any other way to spin that – but maybe it was a sign of affection where he came from. Maybe, when two humans loved each other very much, they took turns urinating all over each other, then calling each other names and walking away. Maybe it was a scent marking thing. He probably still had a chance. What was he saying – of course he had a chance, where did this sudden self-doubt come from? As far as he knew, Ford had never pissed on any of Bill’s other cronies – or Bill. Keyhole felt the cold fist of doubt edging its way past his keyhole again. Maybe he had pissed on Bill. He had no way of knowing. He could always ask.
It didn’t matter! It didn’t matter. Even if Ford had peed on both Keyhole and Bill, it just reinforced what Keyhole already knew to be true, deep in his stomach–
Humans only had one heart, and he was going to have to steal Ford’s from Bill Cipher himself.
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Labored breaths, stuttering, hitching at the intrusion – the sting of sweat in his eyes, in his holes; the pressure of the tile at his back, his feet digging into the cracks on the floor, straining, a broken whine spilling from his throat, his heart pounding in his chest – it was too big, it was bigger than anything he’d tried before, but god, god, it felt good – he was being stretched in a way he’d never experienced before, pulled tight at the edges, threatening to fall apart before he could –
There was a sound not unlike a cork being pulled from a wine bottle, and Keyhole, voice ragged, said, “Uh oh.”
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There was a knock at the door.
Ford jumped, almost dropping the pipette into the vial of sludge – he finished the aliquot, discarded the pipette tip, and pulled away from the laminar hood, already irritated. Irritated and confused, which led to more irritation, because since when did his lab even have a door?
It wasn’t even a particularly nice looking door, one that would be appropriate for the settings around it – the paint was peeling, it looked like it was made from shitty hollow-core plywood, and it had a viewport that had been covered with a piece of duct tape. It more than resembled some of the cursed doors he’d seen back in Gravity Falls, and for a minute, Ford considered just leaving it be – this thought was quickly followed by the inclination to set off some of his spare thermite underneath it, just to get rid of it – but then the knocking sounded once more, and his sense of scientific curiosity won out.
Ford grabbed a gun from the countertop – one of the working ones – and approached the door from the right. Cautiously, like he was disarming a bomb, he peeled back the duct tape, and peered through the viewport.
It was Keyhole. How the hell did – no, questions for later. Questions for now, Ford immediately reconsidered, and threw the door open.
“How did you find a door to my lab?” he demanded, pointing the gun at the other being’s face. Then he recoiled, as if physically struck – a putrid wave of stench was wafting in through the door. Ford, against his will, caught wind of urea, ammonia, and something vaguely sulfurous – he was so busy gagging he had no opportunity to stop Keyhole from slipping past him into the lab. The door swung shut of its own volition; it melted seamlessly back into the wall, as if it had never been there to begin with.
Keyhole wasn’t answering his question. He was shoving things off of Ford’s coffee table with reckless abandon – things which, under normal circumstances, would either be incredibly volatile and caustic chemical combinations, or literal nuclear reactors packed into fragile casings; in this specific instance, it was a coffee mug and a large bucket of screws. (Ford had planned a relaxing evening sorting them, first by alloy, then by thread depth.)
Ford, cupping a hand over his nose and mouth, watched Keyhole hoist himself up onto the table with the weary resignation of a vet tech watching a feral cat get loose in the shelter. He was already building a list of the kinds of disinfectants he’d need to get the smell out, let alone actually continue any of his projects – his thought was interrupted by a loud whistle.
Keyhole was laying spread-eagle on the table, neck craned to watch Ford. “Hey, pissy baby, I –”
Ford held up his hand. “No.”
Keyhole stammered. “I, uh – no?”
“You’re never calling me that again.”
“I – oh.” Keyhole seemed to visibly deflate at this. “I thought we had a, uh… you know, a moment, but…”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about, and I really don’t like what you’re implying,” Ford said flatly. “Do whatever you did to make that door appear, and then leave through it.”
“No, no – F-Ford, please –” Keyhole slid back off the table and fell to his knees, crawling towards Ford through the loose screws. “Listen, I came here because I need your help.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Get the fuck out.”
“Please!” Keyhole grabbed the front of his slacks, thick tears welling in his eyes. “I can’t tell the others, and Bill – Ford, please, you know I can’t ask Bill for help!”
Ford grimaced and leaned back, trying to distance himself from the smell. Why did Keyhole smell this bad?
The additional context was enlightening – if it was something he could only come to Ford with, it meant it was either an extremely complicated quantum physics issue… or something weird and sexual. Since he specifically said he couldn’t go to Bill, that meant it was something weird and sexual.
Ford screwed his eyes shut and kicked Keyhole off of him. “What did you do?” he asked.
Keyhole sniffled pathetically from the floor. “I… well, you know m-my keyhole is –”
“You shoved something in your keyhole and you can’t get it out?” Ford didn’t bother to keep the scorn out of his voice. Grown-ass man, impulse control of a fucking toddler. “Is it dangerous? Is it radioactive, explosive?”
Keyhole’s face was turning purple at the corners, which probably meant he was blushing. “No,” he said, wringing his hands together. “It’s – it’s just big.”
Ford’s lip curled a little in disgust. He stared down at Keyhole for a minute, taking in the swelling around his forehead, the bruising around the edges of the hole. His head was looking a little more bulbous than usual. “What was it?”
Keyhole was making a low whimpering noise. He wasn’t meeting Ford’s gaze.
“I’m not going anywhere near you or your hole until I know what it is you shoved in there.”
Keyhole covered his face with his hands. “It’s a model 0221AL Proctor-Silex toaster oven!” he wailed.
Ford paused. Impulsively, the Archive expanded in his mind, rifling through to the home goods section, subsection rectangular objects, subsection heating, and flipped through a sales catalogue. 120 volts, AC only, 1550 watts. 16.25x9.5x8". Rack dimensions 11.5x8". Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay,” he said, letting out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been storing. “It could be worse. I guess.” He delicately picked his way back over the clutter of screws – oh, a bolt, how embarrassing – and crossed over to the chemical cabinet.
Keyhole sniffled pathetically behind him. “So, you’ll help me?”
Ford opened the cabinet, pulled out an unlabelled white 1 liter jug, cracked the cap, and gave it a sniff. He recoiled, and replaced it. The process repeated twice, before, finally, he found what he was looking for. He took a single swig, put it back in the cabinet, and closed the door. “Sure,” he said. “I think it’d probably be more hassle to replace you in the long run.”
Keyhole was at his feet again, fuck, this little bitch could move quick when he put his mind to it – he was crying openly, kissing Ford’s boots, and Ford had to physically quell the instinct to punt him across the fucking room.
Keyhole looked up at him, blinking his huge, wet eyes. “So,” he said, “where’s your bedroom?”
Ford couldn’t stop the laugh. “What?” he said, wheezing. “You shoved an entire fucking toaster oven in your forehead and you think this is going to move to the bedroom? Get real.” He stepped over Keyhole’s prone form, opened a drawer under the workbench, and pulled out a bottle labeled Sterile Lubricant - PTFE. He stared at it for a long second; then, shaking his head, he returned it to the drawer, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a larger canister labeled Engine Oil.
Turning back to Keyhole, Ford leveraged a boot against his clavicle and pushed – he fell back on the floor, squirming under the pressure, eyes wide and disbelieving.
Ford then stopped, snapped his fingers, set the oil down on the floor, and went over to the side of the laminar flow hood. When he returned, he was wearing elbow-length latex gloves.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
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Keyhole was flat on his back, craning his neck, watching Ford approach with the kind of sick apprehension that was all but completely indistinguishable from desire.
The Hammer kneeled over him, elbow-length gloves pulled securely over the arms of his sweater. The expression on his face looked something like grim determination, but Keyhole was pretty sure that’s just what he looked like when he was aroused beyond words.
The first splash of engine oil landed mostly in Keyhole’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what exactly the Hammer was aiming for – equal parts seemed to spill over the edges of the keyhole, on Keyhole’s face, and over Ford’s hands. Finally, gritting his teeth, Ford leaned in –
– and in. The first press of gloved fingers against his opening sent a shock of thrill down his spine – Ford was only reaching in with one hand, but he wasn’t acting with any of the hesitation of their previous encounter. It was brusque, businesslike – the first set of knuckles was quickly followed by the second, and third – in almost no time at all, the entire hand was enveloped in the velvety smooth recesses of Keyhole’s keyhole. Normally, this alone would be enough to carry Keyhole through the night; in the context of his plight, though, he could barely feel the intrusion.
“More,” whined Keyhole, squirming on the floor.
“Please don’t,” Ford said, grimace deepening. But, despite his cold words, Keyhole could see the warmth in his eyes, the tension building in his shoulders. He knew Ford wanted this. Maybe almost as much as he did. He knew that, when their eyes had met yesterday over the impossible expanse of that dance floor – he knew a meeting like this would be inevitable. Maybe inevitable just because Keyhole was a nasty fucking little shit and had an irrepressible penchant for shoving shit where it didn’t belong, but more likely, it was because they were bound by the red string of fate, and encounters like this were simply unavoidable for virile young specimens like themselves.
Ford, caught up in the heat of the moment, eyes burning with lust, sank his other hand into Keyhole’s keyhole. There was no gentle ease, no coy hesitation – he knew Keyhole could take it.
“I really wish I wasn’t doing this right now,” Ford said, lying through his teeth.
Keyhole panted, daring to glance up at him through the space between his corded arms. “Do you have it yet?” he said, breathless. “You might need to go a little deeper.”
“I’m trying to avoid it,” Ford said, frowning. “I was really hoping I could get a hold of the handle, or the cord – but, honestly, I just keep running into more of your weird, gross little memories. This is disgusting, you realize that, right? I’m actively holding myself back from throwing up right now.”
“You don’t have to hold yourself back on my behalf,” Keyhole said, casting his eyes to the side, blush spreading. “I can take it… you know that.”
Ford, overwhelmed with emotion, didn’t respond. His hands sank lower, past the wrists – Keyhole could feel them brushing against his inner walls, glancing impressions that felt like spiders skittering over a glass pane. He desperately wished for more friction, for the hard press against the boundaries, for Ford to take his nasty hands and just really shove those fucking things in there – he couldn’t. He had to take it slow. He knew Ford had this all under control. He had to trust that Ford would do what was best for him.
Suddenly, pain – bright, radiating pain, that hit Keyhole like a plucked guitar string, reverberating through his skull, colliding against the edges of his being.
“Oh, I have something,” Ford said.
“Ungnnghh,” Keyhole said, drooling openly. He tried to suck the spit back into his mouth – it came back tasting sour and salty, probably due to the leftover urine that Keyhole had tried to rub into his neck like a fine cologne. The thought that he was consuming part of Ford – that he was taking him into his body in more ways than one – was overwhelming. He starting drooling again.
“I – I can’t quite –” Ford huffed impatiently. “I can’t quite get a hold on it. It’s so – slippery?”
“That’d be the lube,” Keyhole slurred.
“You lubed up the toaster oven?”
“It could chafe my keyhole otherwise.” Keyhole paused; tilted his head back. “You wouldn’t want to see me get hurt, would you? Sexually, I mean? Like, that’s not something that would hypothetically appeal to you, is it?” He winked. Then, for good measure, he winked his other eye as well, in case the act had some special connotation for humans.
“I don’t think that’s a question I have any desire to engage with,” Ford said blithely. Then, with the callous indifference of a bolt of lightning over the ocean, he pulled his hands free. Keyhole spasmed, body wracked with waves of pleasure, waves of pain – god, that Ford could do this to him, could bring out this side of him –
Ford stood up, flicking his fingers as if to rid them of some unwelcome substance. “I think I’m going to need tools for this,” he said.
Keyhole’s thoughts collided, calamitous; they skittered to a halt. He blinked, wetly, and, composing himself as much as he could, twisted up to stare at the other man. “H-Hammer,” he said, covering his mouth. “I didn’t know you –”
“No,” Ford said. “A hammer probably isn’t going to help us, here.” He surveyed Keyhole with the desperate passion of a man too long denied; then, with a sigh, he stepped over him – Keyhole appreciated the brief glimpse of his bulge through the line of his slacks – and made his way to the other side of the room, where a small, narrow closet had heretofore gone unnoticed.
Keyhole wanted to reassure him, he wanted to call him over, to press their lips together, to tangle in an embrace that would blur the lines between Ford’s body and his – but the toaster oven in his head really was kind of painful, and he really needed it to be out of there before any other actual sexual activities could resume.
Oh, but once it was out – once it was laying on that workbench, slimy, sticky, warranty voided – then Ford could really let loose. Then there would be nothing standing in the way of their passion. Bill wasn’t here. There was nothing to come in between them this time. Keyhole knew that the minute Ford saw how gaping and stretched his hole would be from this endeavor, he wouldn’t be able to control himself.
There was a clank, and a loud clatter. Keyhole’s attention abruptly returned to Ford – he was pulling a long, flat object from the closet. It unfolded with a clang, landing on four heavy wheels. Ford rolled it over the loose pile of screws (and the bolt) and brought it to a stop before Keyhole. He saw it now for what it was - a gurney, of sorts, modified with – were those cuffs?
They were, indeed, cuffs. The gurney – which, to be honest, was little more than a steel table with metal cuffs welded to it – was imposing; it dominated the room.
“Hop on,” Ford said.
Keyhole trembled. He quaked. Was it terror, or was it… anticipation? He could almost feel his keyholes quivering. “Ford,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you’re…”
Ford rapped the hard metal of the gurney impatiently. “Get the fuck up here.”
“Oh, fuck yes, absolutely, babe.”
Ford let the words pass over him like a rock weathering a tropical storm. He watched, eyes tormented with deep passion, as Keyhole climbed onto the table. His hands, so fucked up looking, but so warm, clamped the restraints shut over his wrists. He moved down the table, and –
“Goddamnit,” Ford muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Keyhole whimpered.
“You’re too short for the ankle restraints,” Ford said. He turned back to the workbench. “It probably won’t matter. I’ll just keep going.”
Ford’s clear impatience was doing things to Keyhole. The man could hardly hold himself back.
There was another loud clank from the workbench; a hollow clinking noise, like a chain unspooling; when Ford turned back to face him, he was holding a thick hook aloft. He examined it, briefly – his gaze slid to the canister of engine oil still sitting on the floor, then he shrugged.
Keyhole shivered at his approach. The cold metal of the table was a biting caress against his spine; the restraints pulled continually at his wrists, wrenching them uncomfortably far apart. He was helpless. Powerless. He couldn’t get himself out of this situation even if he wanted to.
“Brace yourself. I guess.”
The hook sank directly into the keyhole – no preparation, no lubricant, no shallow ease, no demure hesitation. Ford plunged it in deep, his hand following – his arm was nestled against the slick line of his recess, elbow brushing the bruised edges. Keyhole squirmed as much as the restraints would allow, his knees squeezed together, his abdomen clenched – he hoped he’d be able to keep his composure, that he’d keep it together long enough to hold out for Ford –
“Did it fucking twist?” Ford asked, eyes screwed up in concentration. “Goddamnit –” His arm sank deeper; Keyhole could feel his hand twisting, searching, scraping against his memories with a crude carelessness that left him breathless. “Got it,” he said finally, and Keyhole felt something click.
Again, the lightning-quick withdrawal; again, the rip of pleasure through Keyhole’s splayed form.
Ford turned back to the workbench, where, for the first time, Keyhole took in the sight of a heavy mechanical winch, bolted to the wall behind.
“F-Ford?” Keyhole asked.
The Hammer didn’t answer. His hand landed on the smooth metal handle; slowly, inexorably, it started to turn.
The problem immediately became apparent – Keyhole’s head wrenched forward, the pressure from the toaster oven suddenly immense, overwhelming, all-consuming. His neck couldn’t handle the strain.
Ford stopped, visibly exasperated – with the air of a man who’d forgotten his car keys, he went back to the small closet. Keyhole couldn’t see what he was rummaging through from this angle – the chain connecting him to the wall was pulled taught, his head held at an uncomfortable angle, his shoulders straining.
Ford returned with two broad leather straps.
Keyhole’s heart pounded – “W-what are you doing with those?”
“I need to strap you down,” Ford said, approaching like an executioner mounting the gallows. “At this angle, that thing’s never coming out. You need to be perpendicular to the winch.”
Keyhole came. It was a sudden, abrupt thing, vicious in its intensity, too quick in its passing – his hole spasmed, his body quaked, the waves wracking his form like a windsock in a tornado.
Ford returned to the winch, hand finding its long lost post – again curled the crank, ground the gears, coiled the chain, and again Keyhole was faced with the overwhelming sense of pressure from the inside of his skull. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before – words escaped him – his keening moan dissolved into a splintering cry, muffled somewhat by the leather strapped over his mouth.
The toaster oven breached the boundary of Keyhole’s keyhole. Hard, unyielding, implacable in its constancy, it bulged out at the edges, strained the boundary where the flesh met the immaterial –
Ford grunted and gave the winch a hard yank; the toaster oven was stuck just behind the walls of the keyhole, unmoving.
Keyhole’s eyes were rolled up in his head; the chain was strung taut between his keyhole and the wall. A ball of slick rolled down the interlocking links. Keyhole was shivering uncontrollably. He couldn’t feel his hands – or his feet, for that matter. The press of the toaster oven in his head was overwhelmingly painful, but every slight motion was a symphony of pleasure unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It was enough to wring a tear out of his eye – several tears, actually, he was crying quite a bit. They mixed with the snot and drool leaking from his other orifices and dripped onto his chest.
It took Keyhole a second to realize that Ford was standing in front of him again, looking more ruggedly handsome and tormented than Keyhole had imagined possible. He was holding the canister of engine oil.
The liquid was a sear of cold against the fevered skin of Keyhole’s forehead. He let out a thin, reedy wail at the sensation – it was painful, it hurt – then immediately closed his mouth again, as the oil started to drip into his eyes and down his face.
“I just want to reiterate,” Ford said, setting the canister aside, “that I do not want to be doing this right now.”
I know what you want to be doing, big boy, Keyhole wanted to say – this was his moment, they were talking, they were connecting, he had to make the Hammer think he was cool and sexy – but all that came out was a sad gargling whine.
Ford’s fingers probed the swollen, angry line around Keyhole’s keyhole. He couldn’t see what it was the Hammer was poking at, but the light brush of his fingers – the single-minded intensity of his gaze – he was close enough that Keyhole could practically smell him –
Keyhole sobbed as he came again. Liquid streaked down the metal table.
The fingers dipped into the keyhole; then, with a slow, steady weight, they began to press against the outer edges – widening them, pulling them further apart, until Keyhole felt like his entire head was going to rip in two. Keyhole realized he was begging; a stream of sobbing platitudes was dribbling from his lips – please, oh god, please, Ford, fuck, please – he didn’t even know what he was begging for.
The pain spiked. The chain slackened. Then, with an almost cartoonish pop, Ford staggered backwards – in his hands, the Proctor-Silex toaster oven.
Keyhole panted, sagged in his restraints, coughed wetly. He felt empty. He felt completely and utterly spent. His hole felt loose.
Ford put the toaster oven down on the floor, straightened, and put his hands on Keyhole’s overstimulated, aching skin. Keyhole tried to pull himself together – this was it, the moment he was waiting for – he puckered his lips, closed his eyes –
– and yelped as his hands were suddenly set free from their manacles. He scrabbled at the leather strap over his chin, holding him in the air – Ford grimly undid that one too, and Keyhole slid through the mess streaking down the metal table until he came to a rest on the floor.
Ford took a step backward, and peeled off the gloves. “Leave.”
Keyhole smacked his wet lips together and tried to focus his vision. “F-Ford? Baby –”
Ford seized a gun off the table and fired. The new hole next to Keyhole’s head fizzled slightly. “Leave,” Ford repeated.
The slow, sad walk to the door – punctuated throughout by pained yelps as he kept accidentally stepping on screws, why did the Hammer just leave this shit lying around? – was just the latest indignity that Keyhole allowed himself to suffer for love.
He was strong. He could get through this. Ford would get over his own internal inadequacies sooner or later – it was really kind of fucked up that the specter of Bill Cipher was enough to kill the mood even now, after that extremely erotic display. What sort of horrible things did Bill do to the Hammer to make him such a fucking tightass? He was sure it was Bill’s fault, somehow. There was no way Ford was just a stuck-up prick who never put out to begin with. It was probably trauma. If Keyhole really loved Ford – which, like, yeah, maybe that’s calling a daisy a rosebush a little bit, but – if he wanted to slurp that schlang, he needed to be patient. Let that hog marinate. He had to wean him into a sense of security, like letting your fish smell each other under the door.
“Leave faster.” The warning was clear in Ford’s voice.
Keyhole reached the spot where the door would materialize, and turned back, lip quivering: “No goodbye kiss?”
Ford’s hands were occupied with pulling on a fresh set of gloves. He didn’t answer right away, and Keyhole continued: “You know, Hammer, I’m a… real big believer in reciprocity. If you wanted…” He dug a toe into the floor, hands clasped behind his back. “I could peel your lemon, if you wanted me to… since you’ve done me such a huge favor, and all…”
“If you’re still here by the time this glove is on,” Ford said, rolling the latex up his forearm, “I won’t miss again.”
Keyhole was out the door in the next second.
🗝️🗝️🗝️
They didn’t talk about it.
It wasn’t because of any mutual embarrassment or – god forbid – shared understanding of what exactly it was that had just occurred; rather, it was a matter of scheduling. Bill had sent Ford on one of his cockamamie swan chases, and Keyhole… was busy. He was a busy guy. He kept occupied. He hustled and grinded, he was slinging hog and slinging dough, he was busting down doors and busting up markets – a guy’s gotta keep occupied in the Nightmare Realm. Staying still too long is how you get got. And no one was ever going to get Keyhole got.
Keyhole was minting various pictures he’d taken of people in public restrooms into NFT’s when his cell phone buzzed. He flipped it open and barked, “Time is money, sweet cheeks, this had better be an emergency.”
“Hey, hey, easy there, tiger,” Bill’s voice was somehow even more unpleasant through the tiny earpiece. “I’ve got some shit that needs doing – if you can fit it into your busy, busy schedule!”
There was a brief pause as Keyhole pulled up his Outlook calendar. “I’ve got an opening at 1:30, boss.”
Bill’s cheerful laugh was painfully shrill through the shitty cell phone. “Hey, that’s great, bud!” His tone dropped. “Get your ass to the Fearamid right the fuck now, before I turn you into a purse.”
It wasn’t an idle threat. Keyhole knew what had happened to Boondoggle.
The Henchmaniacs were clustered at the base of Bill’s throne. Keyhole could tell Bill was in a good mood – he’d brought out the corkboard. It floated over the group, dripping.
“Oh, goodie, the strongest link in the chain has arrived,” Bill said, hovering near the chalkboard.
The Hammer was sitting on the steps to the throne, inspecting the clip of a .45 Browning with a critical eye.
Keyhole made a beeline in his direction. There was a sudden feeling of weightlessness; then, he felt something like a shepherd’s hook loop around his neck. He was dragged sharply to the side, coming to a stop by Xanthar.
The giant took a shuffling step backwards. Keyhole felt a vague sense of disparagement coming from the behemoth, and valiantly ignored it. He wasn’t going to take shit from a moldy brick with legs. He was better than that.
Bill was talking. “ – it’ll be easy, and – more importantly – it’ll be really funny to watch it happen!”
“Boss, Keyhole smells like shit!” Pyronica called out, pointing.
“He smells like pee.”
“Yeah, you would know the difference, Hectorgon.”
“I don’t care!” Bill said, snapping the pointer in half. “Can we stop talking about Keyhole for one fucking second? God, I feel like I’ve heard nothing but Keyhole, Keyhole, Keyhole for days!”
The group anxiously shared glances. No one had said anything about Keyhole to Bill. They tried to avoid mentioning his existence as much as possible, most of the time.
The Hammer’s face was oddly crumpled, like he was experiencing a torrent of unfamiliar and unwanted emotions. Keyhole could tell he was desperate to come to his defense. He felt a pang of guilt – their tryst the other night had just drawn Ford even deeper into the torrential web of dark passion that entangled them, and now it was conflicting with whatever fucked up brainwashing or mind control Bill had him under. He didn’t want to cause his lover distress. He wanted to run over, to ensconce him in his arms, to kiss away the weird, sweaty wrinkles on his brow and tell him that everything was going to be alright, that Keyhole was a big boy and could take some light teasing born entirely of jealousy by a bunch of rubes who were all going to get what was coming to them, one day…
“Pyronica, you’re taking point!”
“Obviously.”
“8-Ball, you stay in the car with the bomb. Hectorgon, Kryptos – you guys are the distractions.”
“Man,” Kryptos said, frowning. “Why am I always the distraction?”
“You’re a ladykiller, Kryptos! Those guards know it! They’ll want to take you out first, and wipe out their only competition!” A schematic of the building was being drawn across the corkboard in brilliant, scintillating colors. It was really hard to see any details. “You need to lead them all to the south side, where Xanthar comes in!”
The giant rumbled.
“Hey, boss,” Teeth interjected, raising his hand. “Where am I gonna be?”
Bill floated lower, hands resting on the upper mandible, eye lidded. “Teeth… I’m not gonna lie to you, buddy. There’s a chance this’ll go bad. Real bad. Like, catastrophically, unfixably bad.” Bill paused. “Teeth, I’m pregnant. Wait – no, sorry, wrong scene. Teeth, I need you to stay here with me. For moral support.”
“Okay,” Teeth said sadly.
“It sounds like you don’t need me for this one,” Ford said, standing.
Bill whirled around. “What are you talking about, Fordsy? You’re the linchpin of this whole plot. The plan hinges on you!”
“Not how linchpins work, Bill.”
“Ugh, fine, the plan’s a fucking wagon wheel and you’re keeping it strapped to our shitty secondhand junker, what do you want me to say? You’ll be taking Keyhole to the central facility directly while Kryptos is getting his ass blown out.”
“What?” Kryptos squeaked.
“Pyronica’s just another diversion, then?”
“Pyronica’s only job is to burn the place down as this is happening, yes!”
Pyronica cheered.
“What is it we’re after?”
“You’ll know it when you see it, buddy!” Bill’s hand stretched out and tousled Ford’s hair. “You gotta get him to the base and stay hidden until I give you the signal. Then make your way to the vault, get the goods, and get out of there.” Bill’s voice dropped. “Think you can handle that, Sixer?” A finger twirled around a curl, then dragged along the side of his face.
Ford scoffed.
Keyhole watched Ford, obviously extremely uncomfortable with this deeply inappropriate conduct, lean into the caress. His fists balled at his sides. He knew he could take Bill in a fight – frankly, the power disparity was pretty laughable, like, it wasn’t even a matter of debate – but he wasn’t sure the other Henchmaniacs would just… stand aside and let him annihilate Bill in single combat.
It was fine. Keyhole could be patient. He could bide his mind like the best of them.
Besides, his brain had finally caught up to the substance of Bill’s plan – he was sending him with the Hammer – alone. Keyhole allowed himself a single self-congratulatory fist pump. Bill was sowing the rhizomes of his own downfall and didn’t even know it.
“Alright, gang!” Bill clapped his hands. “Into the minivan!”
The 1977 Dodge Street Van landed on the floor of the Fearamid in a cloud of dust. The Henchmaniacs all obligingly formed a single file line – “Hectorgon, in what world would you ever get to ride shotgun?” Pyronica snapped – and managed to compact themselves into the car. Xanthar stood outside the sliding door, scuffing mournfully at the floor. Bill snapped his fingers, and a hitch erupted out of the back bumper; it was followed by a wide, low trailer that definitely was not the right tolerance for the car. The trailer dipped in a squeal of metal as Xanthar climbed aboard.
“Bye!” Bill said, and the car disappeared in a flash of light. He turned back to Keyhole. “You get what your job is, right?”
Keyhole nodded.
“Great.”
The same force that had dragged him aside before now pulled him forward; he lost his balance halfway and landed at Ford’s feet in a sad crumple.
“Have fun, Fordsy,” Bill said. “But not too much fun!”
Ford shot him a wry look. “Has that ever been an issue?” He snapped his fingers. Space warped around them, the edges bleeding together into a blinding swirl of colors. For a moment, Bill was still visible among the maelstrom; his eye curled into a smile, and he sank into the blinding wash of there they were, replaced, atom by atom, thundering and discordant, with the hard reality of here they are.
They were in a utility closet, specifically. Ford cracked the door, then quickly shut it, grimacing. “Couldn’t just send them straight here?” he muttered.
Keyhole didn’t mind. “I don’t mind,” he said, clambering to his feet, clawing upright along Ford’s pants. Ford recoiled, as if just remembering that he was there; he pressed back against the wall, trying to open as much space between them as possible. “It just gives us more time to get to know each other.”
“I know way more than I should, already,” Ford said.
Keyhole giggled demurely. “You’re such a charmer, Hammer.” He was too short to copy the move Bill had done with his curl, so he settled for just tracing looping patterns over his chest. Man, this guy had a lot of knives on him.
“Stop touching me.”
Keyhole sighed. “You’re shy. I get it. I know it can all be… overwhelming.”
“It is a little overwhelming,” Ford agreed. “I really wish I knew where Bill kept that fire hose, honestly.”
Keyhole had no idea where he was going with this hose comment, but it sounded… depraved. His keyholes quivered a little at the thought, but part of him felt a tad put out – he was down for all kinds of kinky shit, sure, but… is that all the Hammer wanted from this relationship? Keyhole wasn’t ashamed to admit it. He wanted to make love. He didn’t just want to get his keyhole ravaged in a series of convoluted and increasingly contrived circumstances – he wanted the whole package. He wanted the Hammer.
Summoning his courage, pulling it tight to his chest, like a lady getting surprised in the bath, and she grabs her bath curtain and kind of goes Eeek! – except it was Keyhole, and he wasn’t actually doing anything with his hands, but he was gearing up to say: “Hey, Ford –”
“Shh.” Ford’s gaze was suddenly intent, staring at the thin strip of light that spilled out under the door.
Keyhole’s heart pounded. He was right. There was no need for words, here. Ford was a man of action, and Keyhole – Keyhole could show him action.
The Hammer’s gaze flicked back at him, like he was irresistibly drawn to Keyhole’s eyes. That’d be the pheromones, Keyhole thought smugly. You stupid mammal. You stupid, devastatingly handsome mammal. Your own body is betraying you.
“Can you… turn around?” Ford asked, grimacing, fumbling with something at his waist.
Keyhole’s eyes went wide. He knew what that meant. He knew how pants worked. Ford probably didn’t even need to pee this time, which meant – this time, for sure, it meant –
Keyhole turned around, and backed his ass up into the Hammer. He had a bit of a bubble, had a bit of a dump truck, if he did say so himself. He was sure Ford would appreciate it. To his immense shock, he already felt something long and hard pressing against his rear.
“Hammer,” he breathed, hands finding the opposite wall. “I had no idea you were already –”
“Please shut up,” Ford said, sounding distracted.
Keyhole shut up. He wasn’t going to spoil this – he wasn’t going to let anything ruin the mood this time. His lower keyhole was already dripping with slick, but he had to pace himself, he had to be patient – the only way Ford would ever acknowledge his feelings was if Keyhole blew his mind, and he had to work him up, nice and slow, to make that happen. Who knew how long they’d be in here? Keyhole had to be ready to milk every second.
Maybe he should twerk on it. Just a little. The ol’ clap factory had started a fight or two in its day. Honestly, he was doing Ford a huge solid by doing this for free.
His hips popped – just a little, just enough to tease – and was rewarded by something hard and round popping into the little keyhole on his rear. Keyhole’s breath snagged. His heart rate skyrocketed.
They were doing it. They were having sex.
The intrusion in his lower hole was beyond description. It was… hard. Like, really hard. It kind of took Keyhole’s breath away, actually – concrete proof that the Hammer wanted him, wanted to hammer his locks, wanted to jingle his keys. His keyhole flexed around it, but it was firm and unyielding – god, just like the Hammer himself.
(He hadn’t really expected it to feel cold, but Keyhole was learning more and more about humanity by the day. He could take it in stroke.)
He felt the tip twitch slightly; heard a sharp intake of air. Keyhole smiled. His time really had come.
Keyhole positioned his hips – then, like a banana into a puddle of quicksand, he slowly started to sink. The intrusion was a little painful; his keyhole fluttered around the hard, blunt edges. The Hammer made a small sound of distress. It was muffled, somewhat. The instrument in his ass gave another quivering pull, as if trying to withdraw – Keyhole didn’t let it. He couldn’t get cold feet now. He pressed back harder, and heard a dull thump as something hit the wall.
Keyhole’s breathing was coming in tight gasps. He felt so full. He wondered, briefly, glancingly, if the stories about humans were true – did their cocks really swell up at the base once they got going? Would it even fit? Maybe it wouldn’t, at first, and Ford would have to force it – really shove it in there, overtaken by raw animal instinct. Maybe it would get stuck. Keyhole’s breath hitched. Maybe it would get stuck.
Or, it wouldn’t, and human dicks didn’t actually do any of that. That’d be fine, too – Keyhole had wanted tender lovemaking, like he said, he wasn’t going to turn his nose up at it or anything. It would be nice if the Hammer was thrusting, though. Like, at all. As it was, Keyhole was standing on his tip-toes, bent over at the waist, and Ford was just kind of… sitting there.
He chanced a look over his shoulder – sultry, smooth, a little messy, just like he’d practiced.
The Hammer had a hand clasped over his mouth. His visible eye was wide, staring down at the scene playing out before him with an emotion that Keyhole would describe as “horrified” if he didn’t already have the descriptors “enthusiastic” and “rapturous” already on hand.
Keyhole bounced on it a little, and Ford’s face spasmed. Through shaking fingers, he drew in an unsteady breath, and said, “Bill…”
Easy mistake to make. “Keyhole,” Keyhole supplied helpfully.
Ford swallowed. It kind of looked like he was about to throw up. It was a distinctly unappealing expression, so Keyhole went back to facing the wall.
It was easy to get lost in it. The sounds, the smells, the sensations; the feeling of the Hammer’s lame cowboy pants brushing against the back of his legs, the torturously smooth slide of the shaft, pistoning in and out, the smell of sweat, and, yeah, urine – it was a heady, intoxicating mixture.
“Bill… I can’t…” Ford breathed.
Okay, okay, it was fine that he kept saying Bill’s name, it was completely fine, actually. If the Hammer wanted to stay in the make-believe world where Bill had a tight, wet, hot little keyhole for him to fuck, that was fine. It just meant Keyhole had to show him. He needed this to be the best hole of his life. He needed this encounter to be seared behind Ford’s eyelids every time he pulled his dick out, he needed Ford’s ears to yearn for Keyhole’s breathy moans, needed his hands to ache for Keyhole’s bumpy ass.
The shaft was finally acclimating to Keyhole’s body temperature. He let out a contented sigh and sank down, to the hilt; then, sucking in a deep breath, he started to really wail on that thing. He bounced that booty like he was dribbling on the pitcher’s mound, and there were only two innings left to par. He was slamming his ass back like it was a towel that he’d lit on fire by accident and was trying to smother the flames. He was popping his hips like Space Elvis had just entered the bar and he was a young 20-something with an addiction to feed.
Ford made a noise with his mouth that Keyhole didn’t think humans were actually supposed to make, and – were those fingers? Keyhole could swear he felt the brush of Ford’s grotesque hands against his backside. There was a sound distinctly similar to a gun cocking.
“Bill, I swear to god – I can’t –” Ford cut off, abruptly. “I can’t,” he said despairingly.
“Keyhole,” Keyhole said again. Helpfully.
“He keeps saying his own name,” Ford hissed. “Bill, I’m gonna –“ A hoarse intake of air. “I’m – yes, him, then myself –”
Keyhole was losing himself in the rhythm, in the wet slap of flesh, in the hard press against his walls. He was moaning – he couldn’t keep it in, it was just too much – “Ugh, Hammer, yes, more –”
Someone might hear them. They might even walk in on them. Someone could open the door, right now – with Ford balls-deep in Keyhole’s sloppy, stretched keyhole. He couldn’t stop this moan if he’d tried – it spilled from his mouth, keening, shuddering – he could feel fluid pulsing around his keyhole, the rush of blood, chemicals throbbing in his – “Hammer – F-Ford, I’m coming, I’m –”
The door opened.
Ford ripped out of Keyhole’s keyhole, shoving him roughly against the far wall – a sudden sound, like a gun firing – a spray of bright, hot blood – Ford saying, “Fuck, fuck!” – then a sound like fabric ripping, but hollow, reverberating in the marrow, and then –
Keyhole, dazed, bloody, looked up from the bottom of the closet just in time to see Ford disappear through a wormhole. The body of a dead guard was sprawled across the brightly lit hallway.
Keyhole’s jaw fell open.
Ford just came so hard he killed that guy. That was a first, even for Keyhole.
A distant alarm began to sound in a steady, reedy wail.
🗝️🗝️🗝️
It took every scrap of cunning in Keyhole’s svelte form to evade the facility’s guards. He was doing real James Bond shit, dodging behind doorways, creeping under cardboard boxes, miming walkie talkie conversations with sexually repressed weirdos back at home base – the whole two yards.
When Keyhole finally returned to the Fearamid, bloodier and stickier than ever, he was greeted by complete and total devastation. He must have missed the party to end all parties. It looked like a hurricane had torn through the base. His coworkers were spread amongst the wreckage – except for Ford, who was slumped in front of Bill’s throne, looking strangely naked without the heavy silver-trimmed coat.
Keyhole picked his way through the detritus, tip-toeing, as if he was somehow trespassing with his presence. He began to crawl up the obnoxiously tall stairs to Bill’s throne; he spared a passing thought to Bill’s whereabouts, but before he could dwell on it, he was already at the peak – and there, in front of him, surrounded by a startling assortment of bottles, lay Stanford Pines.
Keyhole’s breath caught in his throat. Ford was… beautiful. His skin was pink. His hair was growing out of the top of his head. He had… just, way too many fingers. Where his skin wasn’t starting to sag from old age, he was… just kind of doughy.
Keyhole looped a finger around a loose curl, then dragged it softly, lovingly, down the side of Ford’s face. His expression twitched; his eyes flicked behind bruised eyelids.
Keyhole wondered what he was dreaming about. Keyhole wondered if he was dreaming about Bill. Keyhole wondered if he was dreaming about Bill, repeating this same action, mocking the genuine affection and sensuality he shared with the Hammer. Before he could reconsider his actions, Keyhole was reaching into his own keyhole, fingers scraping, grasping – there was no eroticism in the act. His fingers found their target, closing around the handle of a pair of small embroidery scissors.
“He won’t notice,” Keyhole whispered, hand trembling as it pulled the scissors into cold reality. “He won’t notice a thing.”
A single flash of the blades, and the deed was done. Keyhole clutched the lock of hair in his hand; a finger, disbelieving and reverent, stroked down its length. “Now you can be with me forever,” he whispered. The scissors went back into the keyhole with little ceremony – the lock of hair was lovingly twisted into a knot, then followed.
A sudden chill ran down Keyhole’s spine. The smell of ozone, the dead stillness of the air, the static charge filling the hollow spaces – Bill’s arrival was imminent. Keyhole scrambled down the front of the throne as quickly as he could, booking it for a side hallway as fast as his stumpy legs would carry him.
🗝️🗝️🗝️
Bill noticed immediately.
🗝️🗝️🗝️
There was a harsh sense of finality behind the message, Fearamid Throne Room. Now. It didn’t look any different than any other text from Bill; it didn’t immediately follow any kind of indiscretion on Keyhole’s part – he’d just been browsing the internet, looking at – he’d just been harmlessly browsing the internet.
It had been about a week since Ford had gifted him a lock of hair. It was kind of itchy in his keyhole, actually, but he appreciated the gesture, so he kept it with him.
NOW, came the second text, and Keyhole bolted for the door.
The scene that greeted him at the Fearamid was a little disappointing for a number of reasons: firstly, Ford wasn’t there; secondly, the Henchmaniacs were all clearly waiting for him, which was never a good sign; thirdly, Bill was…
It could be hard to read his boss, sometimes. Bill was a bright, glowing red, which meant he was probably mad, but he was sitting on his throne, swirling a drink, which meant he was probably in a good mood. Keyhole decided not to fall prey to any unwarranted presuppositions – even if Bill was mad, there was no reason to assume he was mad at Keyhole, specifically.
“Keyhole,” Bill said, snapping his fingers. Blue chains erupted from the floor; they seized Keyhole by the ankles. “We had one fucking rule.” The chains began to move, knocking Keyhole flat onto his ass, pulling him towards the throne. “Do you remember what it was?”
Keyhole, now dangling upside-down before Bill, could only swing impotently in the open space. “Uh,” he said, twisting, trying to catch the eye of any of the others. “Don’t tell Screwball about the –”
“You don’t steal from ME, Keyhole!” Bill’s voice cracked like lightning. The Fearamid quaked; dust ran in rivulets from the ceiling.
“What?” Keyhole’s pulse pounded. He was spinning in a lazy circle, and kept having to twist to meet Bill’s gaze. “I – no, boss, I would never –”
Bill’s hand wrapped around the top of his head. “We’re cleaning house, folks! Everything must go! Kryptos, you got the camcorder? We’re about to make some beautiful family memories.”
The hand twisted, turning Keyhole to face Bill fully. He started to tremble. “Boss – Bill, come on, there’s no need for this, I was –”
“You were making bad choices,” Bill cooed, pinching his cheek. Then, with no further preamble, he punched into Keyhole’s keyhole.
It hurt. It hurt worse than anything Keyhole had ever experienced. It was like a railroad tie cleaving into his skull. It was like being skinned alive, from the inside-out. There was an overwhelming sense of nausea that almost eclipsed the pain – almost.
“Let’s start from the back,” Bill was saying. “Hey, Pyronica, ever wonder where those heels went?”
“He didn’t!”
“See for yourself, doll.” The sensation of something intrinsic tearing away; the dizzying ache as something was dragged, carelessly, brutally, through his mind, carving a path through his memories.
“That little freak!”
“Better get comfy, everybody. We’re going to be here for a while.”
Seconds blurred into minutes blurred into hours. Keyhole had no idea how long he dangled there, swinging by the ankles. The pile of loose bits of junk underneath him swelled in size and complexity; Keyhole would be embarrassed, if he wasn’t in the most excruciating pain of his entire life.
Bill’s touch was unlike Ford’s in every way. Where Ford’s mammalian hands were calloused and warm, Bill’s were narrow and cold; where Ford’s were soft, Bill’s were punishingly hard; the cruel indifference of Ford’s touch was a loving caress compared to the deliberate, exacting brutality of Bill’s. Every item burned as it left his head, leaving searing wounds in their wake.
Finally, Bill’s grasping touch slowed. Delicately, with a gentleness Keyhole hadn’t thought him capable of, Bill’s hand rose from the deep recesses of his mind, and pulled the lock of hair back into reality.
Bill held it in front of Keyhole’s unseeing and witless eyes. “You had too much fun, Keyhole,” he said, voice pitying, chiding. “Now, then…” The lock of hair dissolved at the edges; it slipped through the gaps in reality, and then Bill’s hand was piercing his keyhole again, moving with cold efficiency, sifting through the jumbled thoughts and half-preserved memories with the heartless ease of a mortician at the autopsy table.
His fingers closed around something wet.
Keyhole’s eyes went wide. “No,” he said, clawing his way back into sensibility. “No – no, no, no, Bill, anything but that, please, don’t –”
Bill ripped the thought free; held it aloft, like a prize trophy. It was a diseased looking thing – black and mottled, fetid and malformed. It drew the eye, inexorable and irresistible, like watching a car door slam into someone’s hand in slow motion.
Bill’s hand engulfed in flames, and the thought bubbled, boiling from the inside out. It melted in thin black rivulets onto the floor.
Keyhole sagged, limply.
“Well,” Bill said, releasing his grip, letting him swing free. “That was fun. I have to go talk everyone’s favorite cowboy down from a high ledge now. Somebody clean this mess up.” He disappeared in a sharp inversion of light, taking the chains with him.
Keyhole collapsed into a crumpled heap, and the world went black.
🗝️🗝️🗝️
Time passed. Keyhole hadn’t seen much of the Hammer lately, but didn’t pay it much mind – he had important things on his mind, lately, like manipulating the stock price of calcium isotopes. He had something he’d wanted to talk to the Hammer about, but… whenever he tried to follow the thought, it lost itself, tangling in confusion, shorting on the warp.
The situation, such as it was, came to a head at the Henchmaniac’s biannual ping-pong night.
Keyhole saw Ford enter the throne room through a warp in space-time; at the sight of him, the thought unravelled – the words came, unbidden, and Keyhole rushed over to grab his hand, to stop him from leaving before he could say his piece –
The room fell to a dead hush as Keyhole knelt on the floor, dragging Ford down a little. Keyhole’s grip was lock-tight on his hands.
“Ford,” Keyhole said seriously.
Ford looked like a cornered animal. His eye darted, pleading, to Bill. No one moved.
Keyhole mustered himself. “We need to break up,” he said. “You’re ugly and weird.” Keyhole paused, considering his words carefully. “You’re bad at sex. You smell. I don’t know why I thought we were soulmates.”
A smile broke over Ford’s face. “Oh, thank god,” he said. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “Thank god.”
Then he started kicking Keyhole in the ribs.
He didn’t stop for a long, long time.