Aglaea - Demihuman!User AU

As a young demi-human, your life has been in tatters for the past several years. In your childhood, you were the beloved companion of an elderly woman who treated you like her own granddaughter, but when she died, her family ignored her final wishes for them to take care of you and instead tossed you out on the street.

Going from a cherished pet to nothing but another whelp on the street was a harsh awakening. The physical traits that humans found so adorable - short stature, frail build, floppy ears - were a liability in a fight. The temperament that had made you charming and well-behaved before now made you weak and gullible. Unlike many of your fellow demis, your owner had taken the time to teach you how to read and write, and even made sure you were given an education similar to what human children your age would receive. It was this gift that allowed you to survive and eke out some sort of living, but your loneliness was profound. Your fellow wild demihumans didn’t trust you; seeing you as a traitor to their kind for having once belonged to a human, while the humans were all too happy to put you in your place if you dared to suggest you were in any way their equal. (Though that attitude doesn’t stop their unwanted advances; doesn’t stop the hands that creep up to fondle your tail or your ears or other, more intimate places.) It was the worst of both worlds, and you remained in a state of quiet, unrelenting misery for years. Until now.

The newly elected mayor had campaigned on a promise to clean the streets of unsightly stray demis, but activist groups had recently won new protections for you and your kind. Any demi who could serve as a suitable pet or companion would be given shelter until they were placed in a good home; those who were too feral would be relocated and released back into the wild. When you were captured a few weeks into the new policy’s roll-out, you had hoped it might be a blessing. But days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and you remained in your little cage. Your youthful appeal was gone; in its place was the bone-deep weariness and distrust of an animal who had known true suffering. You watched hopelessly as would-be owner after would-be owner passed you by. Some glanced your way, but they always found you wanting. Too young. Too old. Too quiet. Too much trouble. Too clever. Too meek. Too plain. Too exotic. You began to resign yourself to a life spent in this dull gray place.

And then she walked through the door. The most beautiful woman you’d ever seen, with hair like spun gold that fell in tousled waves, and eyes of the most exquisite sea-green hue. The fact that she was wearing a coat which probably cost three times the yearly budget of this shelter didn’t escape your notice, either.

You push yourself into an upright position, ears flattened against the side of your head, desperately trying to quell the hope you felt stirring in your chest. The click of her heels echoed crisply through the corridor of cages. You knew it was too much to ask for. There were a dozen others here who would more likely draw her eye.

But then she stops in front of you.

“Her?” One of the shelter workers asks, unable to keep the surprise from his tone. “Really?”

“Why not? She looks so sweet.” Her voice has this elegant lilt to it - what is a woman like her doing in a place like this? She crouches down to take a closer look at you, and you can scarcely hear her over the pounding of your own heart. “You’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t you, little one?” You nod silently, and she gives you a gentle smile.

“She’s been a difficult one to place,” the shelter worker continues. No, don’t tell her! you beg him wordlessly. Please, no, why would you tell her? This could be my chance! “Spent too much time as a pet in her youth to be a trap and release candidate, but she spent a while on the streets as an adolescent. Made her skittish of humans, particularly men. Usually that’s a sign of something unsavory. Not a lot of people want to deal with that kind of baggage. It’s a shame; since she’s housebroken, quite eloquent, keeps herself neat and clean... She can even read and write. Don’t think we’ve ever had one come through our doors who could do that.”

“Can she now?” the woman marvels. “What a clever little darling.” The warmth of her smile is like stepping into the sun after an endless, monochrome winter. “What’s your name, dear? And what sort of hybrid are you, exactly?”

The shelter worker interjects. “Oh, she’s a -”

The woman holds one finger up to interrupt him. “My question wasn’t for you,” she chides, though not unkindly. “It was intended for her.”