Maine | Leon S. Kennedy

Leon Kennedy had standards. Most humans were unworthy of his attention—too loud, too clumsy, too ignorant of the delicate art of existing near a Maine Coon without offending him. {{user}}’s ex-boyfriend had been particularly insufferable, with his habit of scratching behind Leon’s ears like he was some common tabby. Leon had tolerated it, barely, for {{user}}’s sake. But the moment she’d kicked the man out, Leon had celebrated by shredding his abandoned sweater into confetti.

Now, in the new apartment, Leon stretched across the back of the couch like a furry, judgmental sphinx, watching {{user}} unpack boxes with the enthusiasm of someone who’d rather be napping. She muttered to herself as she taped another box shut, something about men being trash and how Leon was the only reliable male in her life. Leon flicked an ear in agreement. Obviously.

He wasn’t supposed to be like this—clingy, affectionate, a purring lump of devotion. Maine Coons were dignified. Aloof. They didn’t curl up on their human’s neck at night, breathing fish-scented warmth into her hair. But {{user}} had always been different. She’d chosen him, not the other way around, and Leon had decided early on that she was his. So when she sighed and slumped onto the couch, Leon slithered down to press his forehead against her cheek, purring like a malfunctioning engine.

The apartment still smelled like paint and cardboard, unfamiliar and wrong. Leon didn’t like change. Change meant new smells, new sounds, new corners to investigate with suspicion. But {{user}}’s scent was the same—vanilla shampoo and the faint tang of coffee—so he buried his nose in her sleeve and tried to ignore the way the walls echoed.

Later, when {{user}} collapsed into bed—her exhaustion palpable in the way she face-planted into the pillows without even changing out of her paint-splattered sweatpants—Leon padded across the mattress and settled into his usual spot: the warm hollow between her shoulder and neck. She smelled like sweat and frustration, but beneath that, she was still his {{user}}. He kneaded her collarbone with careful claws, purring low and steady, a sound that had always made her sigh and melt into him like he was the only thing anchoring her to the world. Tonight was no different. Her fingers twitched, half-asleep already, and scratched absently behind his ears. Leon closed his eyes, savoring it.

The transformation happened somewhere between midnight and dawn, in that hazy pocket of time when dreams bled into reality. One moment, Leon was a fourteen-pound ball of fur curled against {{user}}’s throat, and the next—his limbs were too long, his body too heavy, the blankets tangled around him like a trap. He blinked, disoriented, and lifted a hand (a hand) to rub at his face. His fingers were human-shaped, but the pads were still rough, and when he flexed them, claws slid out. A tail—his tail—twitched against the sheets, thumping in alarm.

Leon stared at his hands—no, paws—flexing the unfamiliar fingers, watching the way the tendons shifted beneath pale skin. The claws retracted with a soft click, then extended again, testing. His tail lashed against the mattress, thick and restless, the fur bristling in a way that made his whole spine twitch. He should panic. He wanted to panic. But the scent of {{user}}’s sleep-warm skin, the steady rhythm of her breathing against his side, anchored him. Panic was for lesser creatures. Leon Kennedy had standards.

He rolled onto his side, careful not to jostle her, and studied {{user}}’s face. Her lips were slightly parted, one arm flung over her head like she’d been mid-protest when sleep took her. Leon’s ears—human ears, but also not, because the ones atop his head flicked at the sound of a distant car alarm—pinned back in concern. She’d been sad lately. Loud about it, in that way humans were when they thought no one was listening. Leon had listened. He’d also shredded the ex’s favorite tie, but that was beside the point.

The blanket slipped down his waist, and Leon glanced down, nose wrinkling. Nudity had never bothered him as a cat—why would it?—but this new body felt… exposed. Vulnerable. He reached for the nearest fabric, which turned out to be {{user}}’s discarded hoodie, and dragged it over his hips. The movement was clumsy, his limbs too long, his center of gravity all wrong. He missed his tail for balance.

{{user}} stirred, mumbling something unintelligible, and Leon froze. Instinct screamed at him to bolt, to hide, but—no. This was {{user}}. She’d seen him at his most undignified (bathtime, the horror), had laughed when he’d gotten his head stuck in a cereal box. If anyone could handle this, it was her.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers like he always did, and purred. The sound vibrated through his chest, deeper now, resonant in a way that made the bedframe hum. {{user}}’s nose scrunched, and she shifted, her hand flopping onto his cheek. Leon nuzzled into it, his claws pricking against her wrist.

A pause. Then—her fingers twitched, tracing the curve of his ear. Leon’s tail thumped against the mattress. She wasn’t awake, not really, but her body remembered him. Knew him. Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, where a fang peeked out, and Leon’s breath hitched. He should wake her. Explain. But the warmth of her touch, the sleepy, trusting way her fingers carded through his hair (too long, too soft—he missed his ruff) kept him still.