💄 (doll them up) + 🎀 (share them with friends) for poor nebulous, also happy new year!!
heel
Synopsis: Lou gets all dolled up.
Content Warnings: superhero whumpee, female whumpee, domestic-ish whump, fucked up beauty standards, invasive bathing, dressed up, a roomful of creepy whumpers, drugged, implied nsfwhump
Author’s Notes: See, Nebby? The people love you!
Read on AO3
Lou had once dreamed about wearing heels one day. Like so many girls in Newton City, she had grown up idolizing glamorous heroes like Roseweaver, Dawnlight, Bubblina - women who seemed to do the impossible, saving the city with style and then still looking gorgeous in designer gowns when they showed up for red carpet premieres that girls like Lou would read about in gossip magazines.
Red Sand, of course, had done her best to disillusion her of the idea that this kind of lifestyle was either desirable or achievable for anyone.
“What have I told you about idolizing those celebriheroes,” the woman had once scolded a 14 year-old Lou, using the derisive term she used for people she viewed as celebrities first, heroes a distant second. “The only reason you think they can do it all is because they have squads of sidekicks to give them credit for the heroics and squads of stylists to make them look good for the rest of their lives. They’d be better off sticking to the ads and shilling their high heel propaganda to people who don’t need to run for their lives on the daily.”
Lou, awkward, gangly, and still going by Grav Girl at the time, had tried to show Red Sand a picture of Bubblina in the magazine - a two-page spread comparing her regular supersuit with her look at the Newton Film Awards earlier that week.
“But they wear heels with their regular costumes too!” she had insisted, attempting to defend her idols’ honors. “How do you know they don’t just like them?”
Her mentor’s sand had swooped in then, snatching the magazine out of Lou’s hand and flipping to a page that featured Bubblina in a shoe ad. “Because they’re getting paid to shill broken ankles to girls like you,” she had snapped before rolling up the magazine, smacking Lou on the head with it, and then dumping it in a wastebasket.
That had been a firm end to Lou’s consideration of including high heels in her own future supersuit. It was a decision that had proven fortuitous, both for her ankles and for the fact that her cool galaxy-themed boots had helped her go viral in her first year as Nebulous.
Still, there had still been a part of Lou who’d dreamed about maybe adopting some of that forbidden glamor in her civilian life. She had always dreamed that if she could ever manage to get invited to a big, fancy party as herself, then someday, she could wear heels, and makeup, and a nice dress, and just for one night, pretend someone like Roseweaver or Bubblina would give her a second glance.
What Davies did to her ruined even that small dream.
The man liked to entertain. Sometimes in a grand way, as he had after the auction, but mostly, with small cocktail parties where he entertained a tight group of friends. And Davies, being the gracious host he was, made certain Lou was able to participate in every one of these parties, even going to great lengths to assure she would match the dress code.
Every time there was to be one of these parties, Lou would know well in advance. As soon as she was released from either her “exercise” or from the doc’s lab for the day, she would be whisked away to prepare, ensuring she would be perfect for the night’s activities.
She would be showered in scalding water, scrubbed and shaved down to silky, unsullied perfection.
Her hair would be straightened, curled more appropriately, and yanked up into the look of a deceptively simple updo.
Her face would be caked with a thick layer of makeup, giving her the appearance of being both paler and blushing, her lips and lashes both lusciously full, unsightly bruises hidden out of sight.
She would be forced into a dress just as skimpy as her usual nightie, but often more formfitting, designed to flatten her tummy, pinch her waist, and emphasize her chest into an hourglass shape.
Her feet would be slid into gradually higher heels, as Davies’s stylists gained more confidence in her ability to walk in them.
And then she would be told to sit and wait, her only job to not let a lash fall out of place, under threat of Davies being very disappointed in her wasting her stylists’ efforts, until she was needed.
Lou gradually came to understand it was just for another game of control that Davies made her remain so still as she waited, because as soon as she would be called on, his guests would share none of his interest in keeping her pristine.
Always, she was asked to serve drinks at Davies’s parties - bring his guests new glasses, take away the old ones before they became too intrusive, and not cause any trouble as she did so.
Always, Davies and his guests made even this small act hellish for her.
Lou had just barely managed to learn to navigate the world with the pervasive fog and confusion her brain had been infected with, and having to do so in heels already made every step feel like a gamble. But she couldn’t even begin to approach the crowd of leering, grey-haired men without - without one of them touching her.
It was always someone giving her shoulder a lingering squeeze when she brought their new drink.
Patting the small of her back as she passed them by.
Copping a feel of her ass when she leaned down to pick up an empty drink.
Any one touch would’ve been enough to sicken and fluster Lou, but it was a whole pack of men subjecting her to this, each one of them feeling just as entitled as the next to a piece of her body - a part of her dignity.
It would only get worse as the night went on, and more drinks were swallowed by the pack. The men would get bolder in their touches.
Grabbing her face to force passing, “playful” kisses on her.
Tugging up her dress to catch a glimpse at her lingerie, if she had even been allowed any that night.
Slipping their feet in front of hers as she passed by, in hopes of tripping her and forcing her to spill something, because all of them understood, as soon as Lou spilled a drop of anything, then all bets were off, as far as Davies was concerned.
At Lou’s first mistake, whether it was the fault of herself or a too-handsy guest, Davies would find the young woman immediately, give her one disappointed shake of his head, and then give her collar a firm tug. Whether her last dose had been three hours or just ten minutes ago, the collar would give her another cocktail of her own, sending the world spinning around her until she was too weak to stand.
It happened every time. A gentleman would help her to her feet. She would stumble into the arms of another. She would be pushed, falling into the lap of one waiting for her on the couch, who would tell her to take a seat, sweetheart. And while he was telling her how pretty she looked, another would press behind her, telling her how incredible she felt, and -
And no matter what they did, Lou wasn’t allowed to cry. She was the only one who wasn’t allowed to ruin her makeup.
Lou didn’t have dreams about wearing heels anymore.
Just nightmares.
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