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The long pink hallway is too narrow to be comfortable. The wallpaper makes the walls look like they're made of accordion folds and the floor is so shiny it looks wet. He looks down at himself, and he's in the uniform--not the new one, but the old one, and the pressure across his nose and cheeks tells him he's even in the mask. He reaches over his shoulder and finds the top edge of the heater shield. That's good, at least.
There's a door to his left. Six-paneled, cathedral top, with intricate gilded decorations hung above it and to each side. He tries the knob and it opens. He doubts he's lucky enough for this to be a way out, but he pushes through, anyway.
This new room is pink, too. Very pink. Various shades of pink, accented with browns and peaches, and all the colors are doing something to his gut. It's a weird shape, narrow where he's standing, wider at the halfway point, narrow again at the opposite end. The door he came through seems to be the only entrance. The floor is as shiny as it was in the hall, pink and brown tile in a mosaic pattern he can't make out. There's even furniture, pushed against the walls so that they follow the line of them, and it's all pink and brown and peach, velvet and crushed velvet and other fabrics that look slick and soft in the weird light.
He's not alone. Commander Rogers and Captain America, other versions of himself from other timelines, are standing near one of the couches looking like they're waiting for something.
"What the hell?"
"You know why we're here," Commander says.
The dark blue uniform he's wearing looks even more painted-on than usual. Steve is pretty sure if he wanted, he could count the ridges of muscle in the Commander's abdomen. He squints at both of them. The low-down twisting inside him is pretty familiar, but it's all wrong for the context. No, this can't be why they're here. Unless...
Is this some kind of whammy? He frowns. Dot wouldn't have brought him here, not for this. And she must not be nearby; he can't smell her.
But as he's checking his senses for her, for anything familiar, it starts to dawn on him why all the pink is getting to him.
He can't smell Dot, but he knows what he is smelling. The whole place is subtly, lightly scented with it.
"No," he says, firmly, to them and to whoever is listening in.
Captain America scoffs. Steve is pretty sure he's the one that belongs to Dot's reality, the one with all the glitter. He thinks he recognizes the uniform. Cap's wearing the one from the war with all the straps. He's bare-headed, like the Commander, but he's got his headgear by the chinstrap and it dangles against his thigh. They've both got their thumbs tucked into their belts, their fingers resting right on their flies, and he doesn't like the way they're tapping those fingers, both of them. Does he do that? Draw the eyes of strangers places they don't need to be? He hopes he doesn't.
He also doesn't like those telltale bulges under their uniforms. Maybe they've both just got really sturdy cups.
"No," he says again, and damn it he means it.
This has to be a whammy. This has to be some kind of sick whammy courtesy of some freak with a sadistic streak. He wonders if Dot has a mirror 'verse evil twin. He wonders if the robot king responsible for McDick and Tinybot has someone on staff capable of this kind of magic. Hell, maybe he just pissed off Reed Richards the last time they were in the same room together, who the hell knows?
Steve looks between Commander and Cap and sets his jaw. "We have to get out of here."
Commander lifts a hand to the neck of his suit and starts unsealing it. "Why would we do that?"
"Don't pretend you never thought about it," Cap says, knowing, smug little smile on his magazine-cover face. He tosses his headgear to the couch and starts pulling off his loves. His smirk turns downright dirty when he adds, "Especially right after you changed."
"We all thought the same thing the first time we looked in the mirror," Commander adds.
Cap tosses his gloves so they land inside his headgear and opens the catches at the throat of his top. Commander's got his suit open clear down past his navel. They're both looking at him like they expect him to start undressing, too.
"No."
Cap shrugs out of his top, then peels off the tight blue shirt underneath. Commander opens his belt and finishes opening his suit, clear down to the inside of one of his thighs. Cap gets his own belt and pants open. Steve sees flat, hard bellies and swelling cocks.
He backs into the door behind him and gropes for the knob. "I'm not doing this." But the door is locked now; he's locked in. With them.
When he finds out who did this and why, he's going to punch them so hard their grandkids will shit teeth.
"You can be on top," Cap offers. He's holding his pants up with one hand. There's not enough hair on him in places it should be.
Steve glares at him and jerks his head at his crotch. "What happened to you?"
Cap looks down, frowning for just a moment. "Oh." He looks back up and shrugs. "Sugaring. You know how it is. Better for everyone if things are neater."
"Sugaring?" There's even a girly word for it?
"Yeah. It's honey and--"
Honey. He shudders and shakes his head. "Never mind. I'm familiar."
Cap raises an eyebrow. "Really? You?"
"It wasn't on purpose."
He does not want to think about "manscaping."
He hates that word.
"Cap doesn't mind being in the middle," Commander says, and when Steve looks, he's got a gloved hand wrapped around his dick and he's stroking, slow. "We can flip for it."
"I'm not flipping for anything." He's pretty damn close to hitting something, though. Someone. A couple of them. He's pretty sure that won't get them out of this, but it would feel good.
Cap produces a coin from one of his pockets. He holds it up so it catches the light, and with a smirk, he asks, "You want heads or tails?"
That familiar twisting clench inside him is moving down. He hates that he can't seem to stop watching Commander touching himself. Clearly, whatever is going on, he has to get through this to get to the end of it. It's not ideal. Again, he considers punching them both. They'd fight back. They're all pretty evenly matched, so it wouldn't be a fast fight, and in the end, he might need them to fight their way out of this.
Fine.
"Heads." If he has to do this, he'll do it easy. He'll keep his dignity intact.
Cap flips the coin.
He wasn't calling it, damn it. "I mean I want heads."
Cap wraps his hand around the coin and grins at him. "I just wanted you to say it."
Commander snickers.
Steve glares at both of them and reconsiders his "punch them" plan.
Cap moves in front of him and drops to his knees. He reaches up, sets his hands at Steve's belt, and Steve reflexively jerks away. Cap smirks up at him and yanks him close again.
"Just close your eyes and think of Rita Hayworth," Cap says.
Steve frowns at him.
Commander chuckles and moves behind Cap, sinks slowly to his knees behind him. He runs his gloved hands down Cap's back and shoves his pants all the way to his knees. From one of Cap's pockets, he produces a bottle.
Steve frowns harder. "You just carry that with you?"
Cap spreads his pants open and holds his hips. "Some of the ladies need a little help," he says.
"Some of the ladies like to help you," Commander counters.
Cap's got his mouth open to say something smart, but Commander shifts his arm and Cap gasps.
"Yeah."
Steve closes his eyes.
Cap is no Rita Hayworth. His mouth is nice and wet and hot, sure, but his hands are too strong and callused, his lips aren't anywhere near soft enough, and he won't shut the hell up. It's all moans and grunts and gasps. And that's even before he starts moving. Moving in time with those grunts and gasps.
Steve fists his hands at his thighs and waits for it to end. It's the single most unsatisfying suckjob he's ever had in his life, and he hasn't had nearly enough of them to forget this one easily.
Finally, it's over. Almost as soon as Cap pulls off, he's pushing his hands out of the way and fixing his pants himself.
He's wondering if that did it, and he is not looking at the other two smiling at each other like they got away with something, when the door behind him swings open and another version of himself--bottom-heavy and absurdly cartoonish--pokes his head into the room.
"What's going on in here, fellas? The party's in the ballroom."
***
Everything is sticky. Steve opens his eyes and makes a face as he peels the wet sheet off of himself. That's just fucking great.
He rolls out of bed and shoves off his shorts. He's not getting back to sleep, not yet. Not until he gets the memory of that nightmare out of his head. Why couldn't it be something simple? Simpson waxing poetic about heroism and sacrifice. Gail burning up if that rocket had made it to New York. Kleiser.
Anything would be better than what he got.
He pulls on workout pants and a t-shirt and shoves his feet into sneakers. It's late, or early, but he guesses his chances are pretty good that McDick is still in the ready room. The bot had mentioned that Thor had left behind some Asgardian liquor "in case of emergency."
Steve thinks this counts.