Delivery
Finding Safety masterlist
Taglist: @littlespacecastle @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump
Letitia is delivered to Sandy as a Christmas present from xier parents.
2.7k
CWs: BBU, pet whump, accidental misgendering, threats, gifting a person, dehumanisation, starvation, dehydration, fainting, restraints (zip-ties, ribbon), collar, cutting off of circulation, brief mentions of caning and sexual harassment
025602 sits in her box, wrists and ankles zip-tied, listening to Christmas music that doesn't seem to have stopped since she left the facility.
Only a few minutes after she was loaded onto the delivery van (which she didn't see, but her handler explained the process to her), music started and someone rapped on the top of her box hard enough to make her flinch.
"Hey, pet. You like Christmas music?"
"It can't answer you, dumbass. And be careful back there. Premium wrap, remember? It's not just the box that's wrapped."
That much she does know. Ribbon tied in a bow is wrapped around her collar, and her zip-ties, and artfully (tightly) crossed over her body into another bow, winding over her torso, arms, and legs, trussing her up.
Where does the word 'trussing' come from? She doesn't know. But it means she can't move an inch. Even her fingers... there's a tiny box held there, wrapped in paper and an elaborate bow. She doesn't know what it is. She can't bear to drop it, to disobey before she even gets to her new owner.
All she can move are her toes and head. Her toes hurt and tingle, she thinks the circulation's going, and she's scared to move her head.
She's allowed to be scared, here, between the facility and her new owner. She doesn't know if her new owner will let her.
She doesn't know whether she likes Christmas music, either. She doesn't know whether she's supposed to.
Now, in the present, she's been set down somewhere that still has Christmas music playing. The sticky bow on her forehead itches, and the ribbon itches, and her clothes itch, and she wishes she could soothe herself. But that's not allowed, and not possible.
In the dark and the heat and the endless sound, she allows herself to imagine what her new owner might be like. Short? Tall? Lenient? Kind? Strict? How will they punish her? What will she be used for? Will she be allowed outside? Bedding or not? Maybe she'll sleep in her box.
Despite herself, she hopes not. It's getting so sticky in here.
The music stops. She hears footsteps and her heart beats faster but they're heading away, which she supposes might be better.
No. No it isn't. How could she think that?
Although she's not allowed this either, she hopes that the scary woman who directed the delivery men earlier isn't actually her new owner. She sounded... prone to punishment. She's already threatened her once.
As nothing else comes, she allows herself to drift into an uneasy sleep that never lasts. She hears snatches of music and laughter as a door opens periodically, pushing into a dream of her attendance at the handlers' Christmas party. While they celebrated, she knelt in the corner of the room, face to the wall, and if she didn't keep perfectly still and perfectly perfect she'd be punished.
Sometimes they provoked her just to punish her. She knows it was deliberate provocation, despite what she was told. She also knows, now, that canes don't scar easily.
She has vague snatches of memories of celebrating, sometimes, but they just confuse her. As her handler said, pets don't celebrate. Why would they?
Her mouth is dry and her stomach cramps, and she cannot see a thing. But it's okay. She was prepared for that. What she wasn't prepared for was the sticky heat and how long she'd spend like this. And the uneasiness of the isolated noises that she can't quite pinpoint.
In between disorientating dreams, she wonders what's in the little box.
Eventually, the music starts up again, and she breathes a sigh of relief despite the slamming on her eardrums, grown used to the quiet.
Slow footsteps make their way down the stairs. Two pairs.
"Oh, it looks perfect under the tree. I can't wait to see how it's wrapped inside."
That's the woman from last night (025602 can't allow herself to think of her as scary anymore). A man (she thinks it's a man) hums in agreement.
"Sandy honey!" the woman calls. "It's present time!"
"Coming, coming," says a younger, groggy, less enthusiastic voice. 602 can almost hear the dragging of feet down the stairs, and then a much closer, "Why do we always have to do this so early?"
"You wouldn't think it was so early if you didn't stay up half the night," admonishes the man (her father?).
"I was talking to a friend." There's a thump on carpet. "So, who's first?"
"You are, honey. These two go together. Open the small one first. Your cousin chose it."
There's the sound of ripping paper, and tape and cardboard, and then a silence only interrupted by the jingling of bells.
"What..." says the younger one, sounding baffled. "I don't even have a pet."
There's quiet.
"No. No, you didn't."
602 can't tell if it's dread or excitement or disapproval or what in her voice, and she tries not to worry. The paper directly above her is ripped off, and the box lid removed, and 602 tilts her head back and smiles up at her new owner.
Unfortunately, it's more of a grimace, as the light hits her after probably nearly 24 hours in the dark and the pain shoots through her head.
A woman in her late 20s is looking down at her with an expression of shock or horror. She has shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes, vitiligo dotting her pale face. Her glasses are round and golden and it's all far, far too bright.
"Oh, hun, how long have you been in there? Let's get you out, let me help you. I'm just going to reach in, okay? I'm Sandy."
Without waiting for an answer 602's not sure she's capable of giving, Mistress Sandy hooks her hands under 602's shoulders and lifts her out.
"Christ. Did you order her this trussed up?"
"It's the premium holiday wrapping," replies her mum primly.
"Well, thank you, both of you. I'm unwrapping her." She lowers her voice. "I'm going to take that box off you, okay? And then we can get to your wrists and ankles, and everything else. Bet you're uncomfortable as hell."
That might be a statement 602 should answer, but her mouth is too dry. She can't move her fingers to help as Mistress Sandy prises the box out of them. Mistress Sandy looks at her... worriedly? Maybe? She'd like to believe that over the other expressions it could be.
Mistress Sandy picks up a small pair of scissors and cuts the zip ties on her wrists and ankles. She breathes in sharply as the blood flow begins to painfully return fully. Mistress Sandy snips the ribbon too.
"There you go, honey. Can you move now? Try to stand."
602 tries, but as soon as she attempts to straighten her leg she falls flat on her face, her vision spotting and tunneling and her hearing muting until all she can hear is the rapid beat of her heart.
She's moved, but she's not really conscious of it.
When she can see and hear again, she notices she's lying on the oh so soft carpet, her legs on a cushion.
"Welcome back. I was worried there. How do you feel? Honestly."
Mistress Sandy's voice sounds tighter than earlier, angry, and 602's heartbeat speeds up. She opens her mouth to answer but only a rasp comes out, and she coughs.
"Oh. You need something to drink. How long was she in there for?"
That must be directed at her parents, and out of the corner of her eye 602 sees her mother shrug. "She was delivered last night."
"So that's what? At least twelve hours? And that's not including packing or transport. No wonder she nearly passed out. I'll get you something, hang on."
Mistress Sandy rushes out of the room. As soon as she's gone, her mother fixes 602 with a piercing stare.
"Right. You listen up. I do *not* want you making a scene again. I don't care what happens, you're here to help our daughter, not hinder her and become the centre of attention when you shouldn't be. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And stop that rasping. Speak properly."
"Yes, ma'am."
Mistress Sandy runs back into the room with a cup of orange squash and one of soup, both with straws. Her eyes flick between her mother and 602, and her jaw hardens.
"Mom, don't scare her. Here you go, honey, sit up against the wall. I'll help you." 602 pushes herself backwards, and Sandy lifts her up and against more cushions. She helps 602 curl her tingly fingers around the cup.
"Orange squash, with extra sugar to get your levels up. It's strong and sweet, but drink as much as you can."
602 obediently drinks the whole cup. It is very sweet, and has a lot of taste to it, far more than anything at the facility ever had.
"That's better, honey. Drink this soup as well. Chicken, no stars until you're better enough to use a spoon. Let's get some nutrients in you. Easy does it, honey."
602 sips at the soup. That's tasty too.
"There you go hun. You sit here while we open the rest of the presents."
602 obeys, watching as Mistress Sandy and her parents open presents, conversation a little stilted. She thinks that might be her fault. It makes her a little sad, a little emptier, to watch this, a sense of aching familiarity, like she had something similar, once. But she doesn't know it.
Mistress Sandy claps her hands together. "Okay. Mom, dad, if we're finished here I'm going to take my new... pet upstairs. Tidy her up a bit."
"Right you are, honey. Make sure you're down in time for lunch."
"We will be."
"Just you. Not the pet."
"Right," says Mistress Sandy through gritted teeth, before turning to 602. "I'll help you upstairs. Can you stand enough to lean against me?"
602 tries, holding determinedly to the wall, and just about makes it upright before collapsing onto Mistress Sandy with wobbly legs.
"It's okay. I've got you. Let's go nice and slow, easy now."
602 doesn't think she could walk fast right now, even if she was ordered to. Mistress Sandy is supporting most of her weight, which she shouldn't be, 602 is a bad pet for making her owner do so much for her. Finally, they reach a room. Mistress Sandy leads her inside and shuts the door behind them, and 602 breathes in relief at the cutting off of the Christmas music. It's quiet, just the sounds of her and Mistress Sandy. That makes her nervous but she has quiet when she can see and that more than makes up for it.
"Let's sit down on the bed, okay? I want to talk to you, and I bet you need to get your bearings."
"Yes, ma'am."
Mistress Sandy winces and sets them both down. This is soft and bouncy and *weird*.
"Firstly, my pronouns are xie/xiem, and I'd like you to refer to me as Sandy, or Mx Sandy if you need a title. Although only in front of my cousin Jason, I'll introduce you to him tomorrow. No-one else knows."
"Yes, mx. Sorry, mx." Her stomach feels like butterflies are taking flight in it. Less than 24 hours and she's already screwed up.
"Hey. Wasn't your fault. It's not like I told you, and no-one's omniscient. Now. Do you want to get clean? That box must've been horrible. I have a shower and a bath, you can use either, and any of the soaps in there. There's also a shower cap, if you want to protect your hair until we can get you to a hairdresser. Would you like that? Private wash. Don't worry about the cost of the hot water, my parents are rich and won't check the bills."
602 nods. A wash that isn't a cold, pounding communal shower with handlers staring and not-so-subtly eyeing her up. They don't even remember that.
"Thank you, mx."
"It's the least I can do. I'll leave some clean clothes outside the door, and start thinking about your name while you're in there, yeah?"
"Yes, mx," replies 602, confused. Isn't Mx Sandy supposed to choose her name? That's what she was taught.
602 is slowly but steadily recovering her strength, and she makes her way unsteadily to the bathroom. There's no time for a bath, she doesn't know what her owner will do if she takes too long, so she warms up the shower water, strips and puts on the shower cap. Then she steps inside.
Even a few seconds in there makes her feel so much better. The warm, pounding water hits her screaming muscles, softening them, helping them. She scrubs the sticky sweat and stink off herself, using soaps that bubble and smell so good.
There's a knock at the door. "I've left some clean clothes outside when you're ready, honey, and I'm going to fetch you some food for later. Take your time."
602 does, but not too much, just in case. Mx Sandy has left her a baggy t-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, and a sweatshirt. She still has the plastic collar, and that's never been comfortable, but it's better without so much sweat.
She wishes her owner was here to allow her to wash under it properly. But the clothes are comfortable, at least.
Mx Sandy bursts through the door and 602 jumps, straightening to attention, heart pounding at the dark look on xier face.
"Sorry hun, didn't mean to scare you. My parents just gave me the small present you were holding, and it's a newly-developed tracker implant. There is *no way* I am injecting that shit into you."
"Thank you, mx."
"Again, bare minimum. You can take your collar off when you're in this room if you like." 602 tilts her head back to allow her owner access, and Mx Sandy unbuckles it carefully.
"Oof, that rubbing must be painful. We can buy a better collar and clothes that fit tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, mx."
"It's not a problem. None of it is." Xie hold up a full plastic bag. "My parents have confirmed you won't be allowed to attend our Christmas dinner or even eat any of the leftovers later, which is totally unfair but there's nothing I can do about it. So I've brought you some food, both snacks and proper food, and some bottles of drink. Please try to eat and drink as much as you can, we need to get your sugar levels back up. You can sit on the bed, entertain yourself however you like, etc, just don't come downstairs. Okay?"
"Yes, mx."
"Great. Did you manage to make a start on names?"
602 swallows. Yes, yes she did.
"I want whichever name you want, mx."
Mx Sandy sighs. "That wasn't what I– okay. Okay. How about this. I would like you to choose a name you'd like to be called. That would make me happy. Can you do that?"
"Y- yes, mx." She's confused, but she can do it. Possibly.
"I can read out a list of baby names, if you need suggestions. Unless you can read?"
"No, mx. That would be helpful, mx."
"Right." Xie pull out xier phone and type something in. "Here's a list. I'll read more if you don't like these. Serena, Aria, Elise, Evelyn, Letitia, Mila, Adelaide, Estella. Fancy any of them?"
602 hesitates, rolling the sounds around in her head. She pretends to herself that she's still trying to make a decision, even though she's already found one she's drawn to.
"Letitia, mx. I like Letitia, if– if that would be acceptable."
Mx Sandy smiles. "If you like it, and you're not just trying to please me."
"Yes, mx."
"Excellent. May I call you Tish for short, sometimes? You're allowed to refuse."
Tish. Tish. She likes that. Sounds a bit like fish.
Why is that a good thing, again?
"Yes, mx. I like it, mx."
Letitia. Tish. Letitia, Letitia, Letitia, Tish. She has a name now. She's owned, and she belongs, and Mx Sandy is happy with her.
Now all she has to do is ensure the situation stays that way.
