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How old are you IRL? 

22.

What character are you applying for? 

Nepeta Leijon.

Why are you interested in this character?

I’ve been into Nepeta’s rowdy cat ass since Hussie introduced her.  She’s that perfect mixture of sincere and sassy, in my opinion.  And she’s a stubborn cat baby who is beans at listening to orders.  Why wouldn’t I be interested in her?

What is your personal interpretation of this character? How would you describe their personality?

Nepeta’s more invested in her friend’s relationships than she is her own; that is, you’ll find her tossing date initiatives and gift ideas to her pals before she so much as considers winking flirtatiously in the direction of her own crush.  No, that would be horrible and dumb and shut up, let’s talk about your crush, instead.  She’s a relationship master without needing to actively be in a relationship, okay?  She’s just that good.  Trust her.

But really, Nepeta is committed to her friends over all else.  That doesn’t mean she won’t be a little shit to them—she will, time and time again, because she’s sassy and digs her heels in when she thinks she’s right—but it does mean that she’ll go out of her way to offer a helping hand.  Your car’s tire is blasted to Team Rocket levels, and you need a set of capable hands?  Sure, she was just starting an essay due in three hours, but she is on that shit.  You just royally fucked up with your partner, and need a pint of Butter Pecan and advice?  She’s there, but if the situation is your fault because you’re a fuck up, she’s probably going to tell you so.

The important detail here is that she’s committed to friends.  Are you a creep?  A jerk?  Someone who yanked her chain too much? Nepeta will not hesitate to shove you out of the way to barrel on.  Her violent tendencies are usually confined to hunting seasons, organized sports, and the gym, but if you love pushing the envelope you’ll at least be picked up and jostled for your efforts.  She’s generous, but not a saint. (More of a little shit.  A smiley, Amazonian shit that could have shaken change from your pockets, in middle school.)

Despie her size and physical presence, Nepeta’s as playful as an eager puppy, or an ornery kitten that has just discovered the disembodied light that likes to zip around its paws.  It’s kind of adorable, if you’re into women who look like they belong in 300, zooming around and giggling while pretending to be some kind of warrior, on good weekends.  She has an imagination that exceeds her muscles, and loves to exercise both to burn off energy—she’s just as likely to be caught roleplaying on Gaia as she is to be playing rugby, or working on some particularly saucy shipping manifestos (because she is an adult).  Move over, Destiel, because she’s talking about Ruby 1.0.

What would be your character’s major or occupation? It’s fine to be undecided, and you can change it later if you like!

Nepeta is a personal trainer at the campus gym, and working on her social work track with a human sexuality minor.

Give a physical description of your character:

In a word, Nepeta is a beefcake.  A Hispanic beefcake that stands at about 5’10 (thanks, dad, you gargantuan Simba).  She’s built from blocks of muscle with a tight, rectangular shape.  All of her minor curvature comes from her muscles—thick, cut thighs, round shoulders and arms, an abdomen that you wouldn’t mind an excuse to touch, when she flexes and the ripples appear like magic.  It’s like seeing a whale on your fancy, overpriced cruise:  majestic and incredible with how much you’re over-inflating the moment.  But you will tell everyone about it, anyway.

The overall effect gives her a tied-up masculinity that doesn’t suit the soft, full line of her mouth, or her round face.  It definitely doesn’t match the thunderhead of hair that licks her cheeks—her curls are wild, (dyed) red, and starving for every inch of her face that they can reach from the shelf of her undercut.  Sometimes she likes to break out the eyeliner and slap catty wingtips on, make the hazel of her eyes pop.  She doesn’t have piercings, but she has tracks of paw print tattoos from the neck down.  There are twelve, total, all done up in black ink—one at the nape of her neck, one stamped over each breast (pec, they’re pecs, get it right), one high on the left shoulder and low on the right, four trickling down her ribs on the right, two on the inside of her left thigh, and one on the inside of her right ankle.  Plenty of them, in short, but she’s been talking up sleeves and more prints, with time.

Clothing-wise, Nepeta has a hard time finding pants that don’t cling to the bulk of her thighs.  She favors sweatpants and zip-up jackets as much as she does audaciously-colored tights paired with loud skirts or dresses.  It’s easy enough to tell what she wears most often—her dark skin clashes hard with paler, tank top strap lines and high slices of thigh.  She’s a brick house that likes to slog around in sunshine, and doesn’t believe in burns.  (She also doesn’t talk about her first full-body lobsterfication.  No one should.  She’s brown, damnit.)

Give an example post of your character in this AU:

Extra cozy pajama bottoms?  Check.  More blankets than she knew she owned?  Check.  Tactfully placed cats to deter thoughts of standing up?  Check and check.  It was date night, and by date night, Nepeta meant “if you don’t have a date let’s hang out and binge on ice cream and mediocre moves” night.  Everyone deserved a good date night, and she was more than willing to provide!

She was, after all, probably the best date ever.  Not just any date would be down for a night of straight-up cuddling, no strings attached.  And she showered right after rugby practice, so she didn’t smell like pain and suffering (but she did still smell like victory, because not even three kicks to the ribs could keep her from owning on the field.  She also looked like a walking bruise, but walking bruises were tough shit—this was a bonus for everyone involved). 

Nepeta dug the dirt from beneath her nails with her teeth, sprawled out on the couch with two cats anchoring her down.  Field dirt, shockingly, tasted like dirt.  The chipped Meow Mix clock over her television swung its orange tail, ticking down to ten minutes before the hour.  7:50PM.  She’d have to get up to answer the door, soon, which put her somewhere between “hell yeah, date night” and “no, don’t make me get up.”  Of course, she’d stick with “hell yeah, date night” until she breathed too deeply.