sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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When left to it's own devices Mollys hair can grow extremely long. Record making long, if she cared about such things.

During college and med school and all that she didn't have time for the upkeep and so kept it at a responsible length. But after she helped Sherlock fake his death she figures why not let it grow, all she has to do is go to sleep a little earlier so she can wake a little earlier to pin it back for work.

When (character of choice) finally sees her hair down for the first time it has an effect that no one could have anticipated.

Maybe Moriarty even decides to kidnap her, and keep her as his very own Repunzel.

She struggled once, Molly thinks blearily, closing her eyes as the shower pours down around her, her hair thick and heavy against her skin. Hiding her, as if she could make a curtain from it and pull it shut, conceal her from the world. Jim never lets her wear it like that, but she can dream, here in her own head, the last place she can still have to herself even a little.

“Now, now, Princess. No hiding from me behind that lovely hair of yours.” Jim’s voice is lilting and gentle, but she flinches anyway. Maybe she can’t hide even in her mind. She can feel reality shifting around her like sand pouring through an hourglass, and she wonders sometimes if Jim really can do magic: read her mind, disguise himself, keep anyone from finding her.

She shivers at his hands on her hair, working the conditioner through it, murmuring endearments about how beautiful it is, how beautiful she is. She hates it, wishes she could shave it off, cut off the massive weight and be free, free to run, to escape.

She knows it will never happen.

When he’s finished washing her hair, he washes her, soapy hands invading her skin, rubbing her everywhere, greedy and possessing. In the disguise of the hot shower, a few tears slip out; he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He shuts off the water and pulls her to her feet, steadying her as she sways slightly, unable to keep her balance. He pulls her out and wraps her hair in a long towel before he puts her panties on her and fastens the corset around her torso. She doesn’t struggle now when he cuffs her wrists to the bar in the bathroom and starts pulling, too hard and too fast.

He doesn’t stop until her waist has been forced into an absurd hourglass shape, her breath shallow and fast as she tries to adjust to the familiar pain and restriction in her torso. Then, he uncuffs her and dresses her, a frilly dress she’d have hated even as a girl—too many ribbons and rosettes and lace, itchy and uncomfortable and hot. And as much as she hates it, this, her daily ritual of being bathed (not even allowed to bathe herself now) is better than what comes after.

He takes her into the other room, the sitting room. The Chair is there, The Chair that defines her life now. She considers trying to run, but where could she go? The doors are all locked, and he’s stronger than her, even without the corset stealing her air and the drugs stealing her coordination and focus. He’s cleverer and stronger and she’s never getting out. And so, she walks to it and sits, head down as she puts her hands behind her, letting him tie her wrists to it with silk rope, her ankles to the chair legs, dropping her head, the weight of her wet, tangled hair heavy, so very heavy.

He’ll dry and brush it—he loves brushing her hair, he can get off from that alone, or perhaps from that and her helplessness. Over and over, for hours at a time, brushing until it’s smooth around her feet. His own private Rapunzel, he calls her sometimes.

Trapped in a tower she can’t escape.

Later, he’ll feed her, soup she knows is laced with more drugs, more sedatives to keep her weak and unfocused and helpless. But she won’t fight because he’ll just inject them if she doesn’t eat, and then she’ll be drugged and hungry. Or maybe because she’s weak and stupid and on some level, she wants this and always wanted it. Maybe Jim just saw something in her and that’s why she’s here now.

Maybe she never should have grown her hair out to begin with. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted her then.

He always touches her before he leaves for the night. He’s always gentle, and somehow that seems worse than anything else, that he isn’t even rough as he violates her most private places (body and mind are his now), calling her his princess, his beautiful princess.

Eventually, he leaves, leaving her in the dark, tied in The Chair for the night, leaving her alone for a few precious hours.

She wants to cry when he leaves but she never does now. Numb by then, and sleep comes soon—maybe something to thank the drugs for.

At least in sleep she can escape for a while, even if she never will in reality.

“Wake up, Princess.”

She opens her eyes to the cruel sunlight coming in the window and the day starts again.

That was awesome, thank you so much!

Prompting Part XXXIV

Molly/Moriarty or Molly/Sherlock, Warnings: hair kink, possible kidnapping

TW: Rape/non-con, kidnapping, dark, creepiness ahoy

Re: TW: Rape/non-con, kidnapping, dark, creepiness ahoy