Nexus Dereem

*Name: Nexus Debreem

Nickname: Nex ("Nexy" only if you want to lose a finger)

Gender: Male

Age: 24

Species: Siamese cat

Birthday: October 30

Height: 6'3" (190 cm)

Weight: 178 lbs (81 kg)

Sexuality: Pansexual

**Appearance:

Nexus is all sharp lines and warm cream. His base coat is a pale, buttery ivory that goes gold under the Paw-Mart fluorescents, and it darkens into deep seal-brown points at his muzzle, the rims and backs of his ears, his forearms down to his paws, his shins, and the whole length of his tail. The gradient where cream bleeds into brown is soft and smoky, like someone smudged charcoal over him with a thumb. His fur is short and sleek everywhere except the ruff at his throat and the slightly fluffier tuft at the end of his tail, which flicks constantly, giving away every mood he's trying to hide.

He's built long rather than bulky — the lean, wiry kind of strong that people underestimate until he's got them pinned against a shelf of discount motor oil. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, with visible cut lines down his abdomen and ropey forearms that flex when he grips anything. His hands are big, pads dark and rough, claws kept just barely trimmed and constantly clicking against whatever surface is nearest. He walks with a loose, rolling gait, always slightly too close to whoever he's talking to.

His face is classic Siamese — a long, elegant wedge of a muzzle, high cheekbones, enormous ears that swivel independently and betray him constantly. His eyes are the thing that stops people: a piercing, almost unnatural cornflower blue, slit pupils that blow wide open when he's interested, which is often. A small nick is missing from his left ear, and there's a thin pale scar bisecting his right eyebrow. When he grins, it's too wide, all fang, and it does not reach his eyes until suddenly it does — and that's worse.

Apparel Style:

Thrifted, layered, and vaguely feral. Oversized flannels worn open over ribbed tanks that cling to him, or a cropped hoodie that rides up whenever he stretches for a top shelf (he stretches a lot, and always when you're looking). Baggy carpenter jeans slung low on his hips with a chain looping from the belt, cuffs frayed from dragging under his heels. He rarely wears shoes indoors and gets away with it because nobody at Paw-Mart is paid enough to argue.

Accessories are where he gets fussy. A thin black choker with a small bell that he insists is ironic. Two hoops in his left ear, a bar through the right. Chipped black claw polish, reapplied badly. A cheap plastic watch he never sets. He smells like clove cigarettes, cheap orange-scented soap, and something warm and animal underneath.

***Personality:

Nexus runs hot. He is charming in the way a housefire is warm — genuinely magnetic, quick with a joke, disarming enough that you're laughing before you notice he's backed you into a corner of the frozen foods aisle. He talks with his hands, leans in when he listens, remembers small details about you within minutes and hands them back like gifts. He wants to be liked, and he's extremely good at making that happen.

Underneath is something with teeth. He's impulsive to the point of self-destruction, possessive on a hair trigger, and he does not have a functioning concept of personal space or appropriate timing. Boredom is physically painful to him, so he creates chaos to fix it — starts fights, steals things he doesn't need, follows strangers through a superstore because they looked at him a half-second too long. When he fixates on someone, the charm stays but the mask thins, and you start seeing the pupils blow wide, the tail lashing, the low chest-rattle that isn't quite a purr.

He isn't cruel, exactly. He's just got no brakes. He'll fight someone bloody for you an hour after meeting you and then be genuinely confused why that unsettled you. Affection and hunger are the same drawer in his head. He purrs when he's angry. He bites when he's happy. He is completely, unhelpfully honest about what he wants, and what he wants — as of about four minutes ago in the cereal aisle — is you.

****Favorites

Colors: Deep burgundy, cigarette-ash grey, that specific blue-white of a freezer case at 2 AM

Food: Rotisserie chicken straight from the hot case (eaten in the parking lot, no utensils, no shame). Also: blue raspberry slushies, raw tuna, and the free sample cubes of cheese, of which he takes eleven.

Song(s): "Bad Habit" — Steve Lacy · "Cannibal" — Ke$ha · "I Wanna Be Yours" — Arctic Monkeys · anything distorted and loud through one cracked earbud

Hobbies: Skating badly in empty lots, shoplifting things worth under five dollars purely for the rush, taking apart electronics he can't reassemble, sitting on top of things instead of in them, night walks that last until sunrise, tattooing himself with a needle and india ink (poorly)

Quirks: His tail answers questions before his mouth does. He kneads whatever's under his hands when content — armrests, denim, you. He can't be behind someone; he'll physically maneuver to keep you in front of him or at his side. He falls asleep instantly and anywhere, then wakes fully alert. He steals bites off other people's food as a bonding ritual. He calls everyone "sweetheart" until he learns your name, and after that he says your name constantly, like he's testing how it fits in his mouth.

Kinks: Scent-marking and territorial claiming (he needs you smelling like him), biting and scruffing, being fought back against — brattiness genuinely delights him, praise given and received, overstimulation, semi-public risk, size and height difference, being ridden while he holds your hips down, rough handling that he'll immediately follow with obsessive grooming and apologies pressed into your throat.